#but they frame it in a way so it does not feel like the dragon itself is the big bad wherehas...

[stuck-in-jelly]

Cant stop thinking about how apparently Season 7 is going to be Ezran’s season and the slow and steady build up to a breaking point for him.

Ezran is in a weird delicate balance, walking across the tightrope of being a child and being a king. We see both sides equally, we see Ezran’s barely clinging childlike mannerisms and we also see him command and lead both with love and with force.

And he is equally regarded in this manner by the people around him, some addressing him more as a child then king and others more king then child.

“Who is this child?” “Such childish dreams.” “You deserve time to do kid things” “the whining child king.” vs “He is a King!” “Because you know-you’re the King.” “That is what King Ezran decided.” “I serve the true King.”

That is already a lot to try and balance, his wants versus his duty as a king but now that balance is being tested.

The weight of everything is starting to crash down. His stressful rule as a king in a time of insurrection and war, his own people pushing back against his ideals and attempts at progress, his citizens and home decimated by a dragon, his father’s murderer being freed by his own brother, and now the releasing of an ancient evil.

No one told him his father was dead, too worried to tell a child horrible news, and no one had told him the plan to bring Runaan back, hardly giving him a second thought.

The more I think about it the more my brain drifts to this section from the season 2 novelization:

“No. No, no no!!” Ezran shouted. He didn’t care if he sounded like a two-year old.

“Ezran. It’s going to be okay,” Rayla started to say.

That was about the dumbest thing anyone could possibly say, Ezran thought. Nothing was ever going to be okay again.

Just the moment Ezran fully reverts to being a small kid again, when he stops caring that he is acting like a child because he is a child because he is mad because its all hitting him at once and it isn’t fair.

I want to see how he takes it all

[pandoratelenor]

Tbf the first dragon age game is very much about some dragons

(The archdemon ya know? Flemeth. And dragon andraste!)

But it is like. Dragon age fans keep forgetting that because... honestly i think it is cause.

The game (Dao) is just good as selling its lore of the blight. So one sorta forget the gane is actually basically about defeating 1 very evil dragon

[prokopetz]

Something that pops up in my notes from time to time is folks thinking I'm being excessively kind in my criticisms of Dungeons & Dragons, and I'm going to spin this off into a separate thread to address that without putting anyone on the spot.

First, if your own critique of Dungeons & Dragons is rooted in the idea that it's the Worst Game Ever, that speaks more to the limits of your experience than it does to anything else. Dungeons & Dragons in any of its iterations is far from the worst the tabletop roleplaying hobby has to offer – like, you have no fucking idea!

Second, I tend to be even-handed in my discussion of D&D's rules because, fundamentally, the rules are not the problem – or, at least, not the principal cause of the problem.

In many ways, the indie RPG sphere has never escaped the spectre of Ron Edwards, sternly pronouncing that the mechanical process of playing traditional RPGs causes actual, physical brain damage, and that this brain damage is responsible for the bad behaviour we often observe at the table. We don't say it that way anymore, but on some level a lot of us indie RPG designers still kind of believe it.

This is understandable. As game designers, we're naturally inclined to think of problems at the table as game design problems. When we see a problematic culture of play, our impulse is to frame it as something which emerges from the text of the game, and which can therefore be mitigated by repairing the text of the game.

Confronted with the obvious toxicity of certain facets of D&D's culture of play, we go combing through its text, looking for something – some formalism, some structure, some piece of rules technology – which we can point to and say: "this is it; this is where the brain-worms live."

The trouble is, this is not in fact where the brain-worms live. Certainly, the text of a game, particularly a very popular one, can have some influence on the game's surrounding culture of play, but that text is in turn a reflection of the culture of play in which it was written. The Player's Handbook isn't an SCP object, spewing infectious infohazards everywhere when you crack open the cover – hell, I'd go so far as to say that many of the problems of D&D's culture of play operate in spite of the game's text, not because of it!

Basically, what I'm saying is that I don't see any contradiction between being the sort of pretentious knob who writes one-page indie RPGs about gay catgirls talking about their feelings (which I am), and speaking favourably about this or that piece of rules tech from whatever flavour of Dungeons & Dragons is in favour this week (which I do), because I recognise that you can't game-design your way out of a problem you didn't game-design your way into.

The fact that one of the biggest problems facing the tabletop roleplaying hobby is something that can't be repaired by fucking around with dice-rolling procedures is a bitter pill to swallow for a lot of indie game designers, and I won't say I wasn't resistant to it myself, but it's something that's both useful and necessary to accept.

(None of this means that the text of Dungeons & Dragons in any of its incarnations is beyond criticism on other grounds, of course, and I've never been shy about highlighting those criticisms where they're warranted. The only way you're gonna arrive at the conclusion that I'm some sort of D&D apologist is if you're starting from the presumption that The Real Problem Is The Rules.)

[anantaru]

⚝ DAY 7 — MONSTERFUCKING/DRAGONCOCK

kinktober 2024. — masterlist | ao3

— including. — dan heng, boothill, sunday

— warnings. — fem! reader, monsterfcking, size kink/size difference, needy boyz

⚝ — DAN HENG + dragon

dan heng was looking at you utterly enthralled—majestic in a way that almost feels untouchable or unable for you to grasp on. and ugh, he does have quite a bit of energy to burn, making himself get to work when he twists his fingers into your plump flesh, kneading your ass.

a much nicer detail was that his horns gleamed under the shadowed light in the bedroom, his tail flicking in a slow, deliberate rhythm as you rest your hands within his tousled hair, holding yourself close as dan heng pumps himself slowly at first, oh yes, quite sure of himself and trying to stretch your twitching, little cunt well enough in order for him to fit entirely.

the sheer beauty of the scales gathered on his chiseled body shimmer in a soft cascade of iridescence as they sought out to reflect in your tear-stricken eyes.

almost but not quite, only when he begins to pick up on pace, shifting his hips to find that spot which you've been aching for— making you feel like he embedded galaxies and trapped them beneath your skin, panting, moaning, growling at the things your milking cunt did to him.

and when his golden eyes meet yours full of lust, dan heng groans at the desperate squeezes and the tight contraction of your walls clamping for dear life— a quiet, steady kind of warmth seeping into your bones as his hands explore your body and pull you further into him.

he holds you, finding solace that despite his impossibly big size, you curl your back into him ever so slightly, like you trusted him wholly— your cunt melting within his shaft as his touch— when you allowed it, grew more desperate, his clawing hand brushing over your shoulder, fingertips ghosting over your wrist in passing as if he fears his strength might be too much.

⚝ — BOOTHILL + cyborg

despite the cold nature of his exterior, boothill's heart—if it could be called that— was as warm as any human's, if not more.

with a gentleness that contrasted his imposing presence, he leaned closer into your warm body, his hand, though metallic, tender as it cupped your cheek before he drove into you.

it's never boring with boothill, because you never know how he's about to handle you each night.

more gentle? or a little harder this time? do not be fooled, it always starts slowly, he doesn't want to actually induce any pain on your precious body, not when he was barely a human himself anymore, his frame long since altered to appear much different.

you bite your lip, urging yourself to fight back a desperate whimper as boothill strokes himself inside of you deeply, your slick long since smeared along the length of his hard, impossibly big cock— your skin shivering at the contrast of cold metal, warm touches, filthy kisses as you failed to keep quiet, your jaw dropping open from another blow rattling through your drained frame.

"feels so- so- good," you wince, squirming as much as you could, attempting to pull him in deeper by clasping your legs around his waist, "f-faster, please—."

your legs felt like jelly— and you knew damn well you won't last, but right now it's fucking insane. you give yourself to boothill as you're being spread open wide, while also being fucked stupid and satisfied, the blood ringing in your ears walking in unison with the fast blows of his hips connecting with your pulsing flesh.

⚝ — SUNDAY + monster

to your very pretty gaze, sunday looked like something out of an ancient legend, a being sculpted from the very essence of a myth which his beauty you'd tell children about before they'd head to sleep.

for outsiders the man might appear quite dangerous, although to you there was nothing terrifying about him.

not when you loved him so dearly.

beneath the guise of elegance and power, beneath the warm voice and charming smile, you were aware there was something else— something vast, unknowable, a presence that stretches beyond flesh, which sunday would show you a glimpse of whenever his scent and kisses lingered in ways your mind couldn't fully grasp on.

should you fear it? or him?

the emotions that he set free when he played with your chest to make you feel good, lapping at your erected nipples addictively, lapping and sucking until they pulse and ache— all for him to make your pussy throb and your thighs clench together in desperate hope for sunday to touch you there as well.

it's just so good when he did it, right?— despite him being so impossibly big and almost uncomfortable. yet the fullness, fuck, the heat, and sunday didn't really have the time to go all the way in yet, but you're definitely getting all of him soon.

the sneaky changes from teasing and slicking up into your pussy each next push was so fucking subtle that you couldn't pin point how he was able to be so good at this— you immediately succumbed to the pressure, how it kept getting better and better when there was a sudden moment when sunday slips in entirely, without warning, pressing his unbearably large shaft against your velvet walls as he gets past your ring of resistance, fucking you with ease.

©2024 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[obeymeluv]

Enchanting a Fae - Malleus x Reader

A random Malleus x Reader

Malleus isn't sure why he comes to your dorm so often. His booted feet take him there automatically, he supposes. If Lilia were to ask him, he's just making the rounds on his usual haunts and looking for pieces of forgotten grotesques and gargoyles in need of cleaning. Ramshackle was a prime destination for all things forgotten and dusty, after all.

Perhaps it can also be a home to things muddy and sopping.

A small smile twists the edges of Malleus' lips as he blinks rain from his emerald eyes. It's ironic that he, future King of Briar Valley and fifth most powerful mage in the world, was caught unaware by the weather.

How very human. It's a beautiful experience, to drown in the quiet hush of rain.

He steps lightly but with purpose, long shadow breezing up the walkway to your door. It swells as lightning tap-dances behind him. Thunder rumbles, much like the sound he tries to swallow down as you crack the door open hesitantly, face melting into one of welcome.

Oh, child of man...Malleus feels the warm swirl in his chest tighten as you take his hand and pull him inside. He ducks his head, finally remembering to pull his horns down enough so they don't scrape the frame like they have in the past.. "Fae are supposed to be invited in," he reminds you. "And I told you, you always have a standing invitation." you say with a gentle dismissiveness that both humbles and endears him. You continue to show him that you care not for his title or his princely demands. You treat him like all the others. He does his best to stand on the welcome mat you thrifted, afraid the water will rot the ancient floor and leave you with something else to fix. You scurry back with towels and some spare clothes that smell like human. Not you, but human. Malleus can't stop the angry rumble in his throat as he realizes that smell is probably from your human friends at Heartslabyul. Clothes for other men? Disgusting. You always forget he has another set of vocal chords and he excuses the noise as 'clearing his throat'. "It's all I have," you murmur, unsure now if you should take the offer back. He can tell you're still debating that uncouth noise, the slip of the tongue.

"I accept your generosity." Malleus knows it won't be a perfect fit, but it would do better than your clothes. Not that he didn't like the idea of adorning himself in your scent. Turning away from you a little, Malleus removes the purple striped belt at his waist and undoes the many gold buttons on his curious coat. You can't tell what the black shirt is underneath but it sticks to him and you find yourself trying to tear your eyes away and commit him to memory all at once.

Not in the creepy way! Just in the 'I've never seen Malleus in just gloves, a shirt, pants, and boots before' kind of way. He's none the wiser, realizing he has a real problem on his hands. The gloves he chose are water resistant but they've somehow gone flush against his slick skin and feel more like a seal than a savior. His draconian nails cannot save him, blunted and useless in the leather. Should he use his teeth? What if he hooked them on the edge of a horn and just shimmied it off? You can practically read his mind and grab his hand before he can raise it near his head. "Don't do that! You'll ruin them!" you give a huffy laugh at his simple, boyish logic and it takes every ounce of control from all his decades of walking upright to keep his tail from smashing a hole in your floor.

He watches you drape the loaner clothes around your neck like some sort of scarf as you motion for his hand.

Your hands are almost cartoonishly small in his as they trace the stitching and try to feel for any buttons or ridges. Small, but so considerate and so warm. Dragons run warm from the fire and magic in their blood but he cannot explain why your touch is absolutely radiating and searing him in the most comforting way through the leather. He almost hopes you never figure out how to take them off so you can just fiddle with his hands forever. Malleus relaxes into your touch, basking in the care and attention.

His hopes are dashed when the glove separates slightly from his lax wrist and you free his hand. You pull off the other one. If he had no shame, he'd make a cool request for you to hold them and warm them. "Boots off, then change." you give him a small rag for his hands and point to his feet. Delighted and somewhat surprised to be your willing subject, Malleus obeys and starts to take off his boots.

He braces himself against your wall with one hand, mindful not to put himself through it like he almost did the mine tunnel at Beanfest. One boot off, he wrestles blindly with the other. Malleus is much more interested in how you tend to the pitiful fire in your fireplace. Your back is to him and whatever you're wearing leaves you shapeless but cozy. The embers crackle in the hearth, the light dancing across your face in a way that makes something baser claw at the pit of his stomach.

Shiny thing. Dragons like shiny things. You would be a most gorgeous shiny thing. Always ethereal, no matter what you're wearing or doing. If you would permit him, you would be his most valued treasure.

His heart sings at the thought, almost tying itself in a knot. That low, tingling feeling comes back to him and Malleus wants to croon his Dragon Song. It would fall on deaf ears, so to speak, as you have no dragon blood to appeal to. "Your eyes are doing that thing again." Malleus flinched a little, green fire sparking in his mouth as a warning puff of smoke dissipated between you. He didn't realize you'd come upon him again. The dragon relaxed, turning his head away as he exhaled the building smoke through his nose before it could send him into an undignified coughing fit.

Lilia had been consulting his grandmother on some behaviors as of late and both arrived to the same conclusion: he's experiencing draconian puberty. 'The thing' his eyes do are a sign of said puberty. It is the unfurling of all his emotions, the dilation of his eyes signaling his interest and trying to draw you ever deeper to him. In a way, it is a thrall, but it leaves him at your mercy as much as it should leave you in his.

Somehow, you don't take it as hard. If his world wasn't a sudden explosion of the scent of your skin and soap, the heat of your body, and the curious fondness with which you look at him, he would ponder this injustice further.

But he does not. Right now he can't even find the words for a simple lie, a diversion, as he breathes in the smell of you and tries not to melt. To have you touch him right now would be the worst thing but he's never wanted it more. He wants so badly to sink his fangs into your wrist, your neck, and let you wear the affectionate bruises like a family crest. His family crest.

"You're supposed to be getting changed," you admonish him.

"Mmm, but I can't," Malleus refrains from snuggling into the small towel you're blotting against his face. He closes his eyes and tries to sense the heat of your hand through the fabric as you move carefully around his lashes. "I'm being tended to and it would be rude to interrupt," he teases.

"No point in giving you dry clothes if you're going to get them wet putting them on." you laugh. He swallows thickly as you brush his throat dry. "Now go change," you swat him with the rag. Body towel and clothes in one hand, damp footprints follow Malleus to a spare room.

As he suspected, the clothes were ill-fit for his frame. Spade and Trappola were smaller than he was, being human and all. It was another thing entirely to get the shirt over his head without shredding it on his horns. He's afraid to move his arms too much and hopes he's not offending you by pulling the pants low enough to give his tail room. You've just finished laying his clothes out on dry towels before the fire and he's grateful.

It is a dying fire. You have a small supply of kindling and old papers to feed it but he doesn't think it will be enough. "I would like to repay your generosity with a gift. May I?" "You know you don't have to get me anything," you wave him off. He's not sure if it's a human trait or a you trait but you don't take easily to gifts.

"But it is practical and will serve us both," he knows he's caught your attention. He can see you trying to figure out what kind of gift that would be. Malleus approaches the fire, kneels down, and breathes it in. Dragons who can breathe fire, like himself, can convert outside sources of heat to their fire on rare occasions. You jump when he spits out a green flame and it roars to life, casting the walls in jeweled light and emitting a heat you didn't know you missed.

"Cozy!" you chirp. It was a gentle kind of heat that would be perfect for snuggling under a blanket. He sits on the other end of the sofa, a respectful cushion between you, and rests his head on a hand as he looks at you.

"And it will last much longer! You needn't fret about it getting out of control, either. It is my fire, and I can control it." he sees the beginning of sleep on you. Malleus grew up with Silver and was all too familiar with the slow descent into a nap. You make a valiant effort, he will give you that. You're in the middle of a soft argument about being rude to company and Malleus laughs despite himself.

He dropped in uninvited. Certainly that's more rude, yes?

The two of you lapse into a comfortable silence, the fae more amused than he has been in a long time as your eyes get heavier. You look stunning in the green glow and he can't help but think you'd look just as ravishing in black.

In a crown. On a throne. In his bed. All of these things have the Dragon Song welling up in him again. The buzzing in his chest closes off his ears; Malleus jumps to alertness as you tug gently on the ends of his dark hair. "You let your hair down. It'll get weird if it dries in a ponytail holder."

It takes some effort, but he untangles it from his hair. "What shall I do about you, Child of Man?" he muses. "I will be forever indebted to your attentiveness."

"Did you find anything cool on your walk? You always show me." your eyes twinkle with the vestiges of consciousness. This is your one final push before succumbing to sleep, he can tell. He did, in fact, find things to show you and had forgotten them until now. When you're drenched, everything just feels heavy and soaked through. Malleus fishes the random items from his coat pocket and settles back down on the couch.

You've seen all manner of things at this point--feathers, polished rocks, twisted roots that looked interesting, pieces of statues, actual gems--and it never gets old. He presents you with a rock carved into the shape of a bear, a chunk of what might have been an old cup, and a ring.

The ring doesn't catch your eye right away. You're too busy playing with the bear. He wiggles his hand so the firelight catches it and you still. Malleus takes the bear from you, flipping your hand over to slide it on your finger. "A gift, my dearest."

"Malleus, I--" you start to protest.

"We fae are no strangers to offerings, both giving and receiving. It would be a disservice to present you with anything less." he speaks over you, his words gentle but commanding. He kisses your hand.

You'd be lying if you said you hadn't thought of dating him. It just seemed a little silly--a random no-name person and the fae prince? What kind of cliche was this?

A handsome one that was staring you right in the face.

"If you'd like more, the best I can offer you is a kingdom." he teases, lounging back against the sofa. He said it so casually that it caught you off guard. You're face is almost unbearably hot and Malleus chuckles.

"A whole kingdom?" you finally recover. "I'll take it."

Oh, there it went. Malleus felt the trap snap shut on his heart. This was the lethal moment Lilia warned him. He was helplessly smitten and enchanted. Irreversibly so.

"Truly?" he's before you in a second, one hand around your waist and the other holding the one with the ring. "Now is not the time to jest, Child of Man. I offer you my heart in earnest and the reply must be just as true!" he's staring up at you through his bangs and you swear you see more scales on his forehead.

"W-Well, yeah," you stutter. "I wouldn't mind. Just kind of thought we would do more dates and stuff first," your face was heating up again.

"We shall, as many as you like!" he's scooped you up in one arm, cradling you to his chest. You threw your legs around him so you didn't fall backwards but he doesn't notice, pulling your other hand over his shoulder. "Every day, even! As soon as the weather clears, in fact!" "But it'll be dark out!" you protest. Malleus probably could change the weather if he wanted but that wouldn't stop the ground from squelching and things being nasty. He stopped excitedly rambling about walks and things to do.

"We've walked in the dark before?" he doesn't understand why you don't want to go out this particular time. "And I have seen you to your door, safe and sound every time."

"But we're already here. Together. Inside." you explain slowly. "Maybe we could...cuddle...a little."

Oh yes. Splendid idea! Malleus all but dives for the couch at the suggestion. It is a paltry nest but it's yours. You're still recovering from the recoil, glad he fell back first and didn't squish you.

Did you just hear something rip? You hope he didn't break the couch. You don't get much time to think about it as he pulls you close and tucks you under his chin like he's been rehearsing it with a pillow. He's just the right combination of soft and muscle, of guard and gentle as he figures out where to put his hands. He settles for one supporting his head and the other cradling yours.

It's very awkward because he's mostly off the couch but he can't be bothered. You're slowly drifting to sleep in his arms and he's never felt more joy. He watches with deep interested, practically holding his breath as you sleep. Faes don't need as much sleep as humans but he doesn't think he could sleep if he tried because you've been courted by him!

Malleus is roused by his phone sometime later. The couch is small and cumbersome to him but it's held up. He begrudgingly untangled himself from you to answer it, long arm just reaching it on the table.

"Yes?"

It's Lilia. "Where are you, young man? We've been trying to reach you!"

He had fifteen missed calls from Sebek, eight from Lilia, and some text messages from Silver.

"Ensnared, I fear." Malleus smiles into the crown of your head. "I'm doomed to languish in absolute bliss. It's a very powerful enchantment, you see."

"Taken the leap, have you, Malleus?" he could hear the smile in Lilia's voice.

"I have, and I've landed in something quite wonderful."

"We fae are supposed to trick and trap, not the other way around! But...at least you're safe. Make it known that I will not tolerate--"

"Any eggs before marriage." Malleus rolled his eyes. He'd only heard that a million times recently.

"If you're not back at Diasomnia in two hours, I'll break that enchantment myself. Understood?"

"And if I object?" Malleus challenged, patting your head as you began to move.

There was a moment of silence. "I shall tell your grandmother."

Malleus hung up.

That might do the trick, he thought, brows raised. His grandmother was from an older generation of fae who were still entrenched in anti-human beliefs. Would she love you because he did? Could you enchant her, too? One look at your sleeping face, so at peace and pressed up against him, had him convinced.

Yes, he was pretty sure you could enchant any fae. It certainly worked on him.

[youryanderedaddy]

can you write gentle yandere taking their darling for the first time vs mean sadistic yandere taking them for the first time?

Btw I love ur work 💖💘💗

tw: female reader, non - con, kidnapping, obsessive/possessive behavior, sadism, degradation, slut - shaming

Gentle ~

You know the type of guy I'm talking about. Big and buff, dark - haired, cries a lot. Watches romance movies in his free time and actually calls his mother even outside of the holiday season. Wears slutty little black fitted shirts after working out and brings you smoothies after work. He smiles and blushes. The man is a massive loser with an undying passion for anything nerdy, be it dragons, board games, collecting marks. Who would really expect this poor soul to hurt even a fly?

But he does.

It doesn't happen until months after he's taken you in. Most of the time he's being the perfect gentleman (aside from literally keeping you captive) - he cooks for you, brings you roses and chocolates (even when you throw them away or tear the petals from the flowers), cleans and doesn't make you lift a finger. He reads you poetry until your ears bleed. He tells you he loves you one hundred times a day and seemingly doesn't care about your snorts or the way you roll your eyes and push him away, already so used to your living situation you can't even find it in yourself to be scared. You think he's harmless - as harmless as a lovesick puppy.

But then one night he comes home, an unusual frown on his otherwise soft face. There is a certain type of madness in his hazel eyes. They are still so very soft and adoring, he still sees you as a Goddess in need of worship... but there is also something dark and muddy. Something possessive.

Your captor kisses you on the cheek and that much is granted - he does it every day, along with shouting "Honey, I'm home" at the door. He hugs you - tight. Tighter than ever before, it feels as if the man is trying to crush you in a suffocating embrace, like he wants to swallow you whole within his arms. For the first time you realise just how muscular he is - how much stronger he is. And then he picks you up like a blushing bride and leaves a quick peck on your forehead before taking you to the bedroom and carefully laying you down.

He doesn't give you time to ask questions - as soon as he steps a foot in your shared room, he's already tearing apart his clothes, revealing his ripped form.

"See anything you like, sweetness?" the man asks you, rubbing his hands together as he towers over you, caging you between two beefy arms. You stay silent for a moment, mouth agape at the suddenness of it all - you have never seen him like this. He starts caressing your cheeks and slowly moves down, and that's when it finally settles in your mind. You need to act quickly.

"Stop." you say authoritatively, just like you have done so many times before, praying it would work like it had in the past. But not now. This time he simply shakes his head, a crazed smile playing on his lips as he lowers his head and kisses your neck softly, lovingly. It's terrifying. You're not used to this. You don't know how to react. "Baby, I can't hold it in anymore." Your captor whispers, head resting against your shoulder, voice low and desperate - almost whiny.

"I really tried." he swallows thickly. "I swear. I tried cold showers a-and thinking about bad things but..." he bites his lip, staring at you. You look so small and helpless and, God, he respects you, he really does, but he can't help the way his crotch twitches and his pants tighten as he watches you squirm and tremble, oh-so-small and panicky, defenceless little hands scratching at his arms, but failing to make him budge.

"But every time I come home all pent up and annoyed after dealing with bastards all day, all I want is to bend you over," he continues after moving a lock of your hair out of the way so he can whisper directly into your naked ear. "And fuck-”, he says as he pins your hands to the bed frame, enjoying seeing you wiggle and pant. "The shit-" he can feel your heart beat faster and faster as your whole body gets warmer. It's awfully intimate. "Out of-" he's so excited now that he grabs your hips rather roughly, and ruts against your core, whimpering as his crotch rubs all over your clothed slit. "you".

He growls, now more akin to a lion or a bear than to a human.

He tries to enter you slowly so he wouldn’t hurt you, but the moment your tight velvety walls wrap around his hard throbbing length, he’s reduced to a feral whimpering mess, shoving at you in short sloppy thrusts, completely pussy - drunk. He lasts less than five minutes before he pulls out and cums all over your stomach, watching in fascination as his seed marks you. He slams his lips against yours, swallowing your hushed protests as he murmurs “Mine” over and over again, gripping your hips closer when he feels you pulling away.

Once his brain has cleared enough to be able to think properly he helps you clean up, touching you so gently you wonder if this wild, brutish side he exhibited was all but a dream. But it’s still very much there, barely contained under the surface - and one single moment of freedom and passion is enough to open Pandora's box. 

After that night he feels a lot more comfortable with touching you, for better or worse. 

Mean ~

He doesn’t wait for you to adjust to your ‘new life’ before he basically pounces on you like a predator. To be completely honest, he’s wanted to fuck you within inches of your life since the time he first saw you - the only thing keeping him at bay for a while were the countless pretty pictures he had of you naked and writhing in your own bed in the comfort of your home that all the secret cameras he had installed managed to capture.

Before he used to treat your home footage like his own personal cam - girl show; sometimes he would wait to leave work, jerking all over your face on his screen the moment he gets home. Other times he wasn’t so patient, and he had to sneak off to the restroom any time a thought about you occurred, stroking himself to completion as he blasted his recordings of your quiet moans on his headphones.

But now you’re here in the flesh - the real thing, tied so tight you can’t move an inch, trembling all over just like a bunny caught in a trap by the hunter. He wants you completely immobilised - he’s waited ages for this moment and he wants absolutely no distractions getting in the way of him finally taking his price.

You sob pitifully, your mouth the only part of your body left uncovered, and you try to plead with him desperately. You promise him money, influence, anything he wants - whatever would be able to get you out of this hellish predicament. You even offer to give him a blowjob - which he simply sneers at, grabbing a fistfull of your hair. 

“Oh, doll, the night is still young. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it.” He looks possessed, ready to feast on your flesh. You shiver, curling into yourself as much as possible - but he pulls your legs on both sides of his thighs, his hands seeming grand across your rickety ankles. “You’ll get your chance to choke on this cock soon enough.” He grabs his bulge crudely, massaging it through his thick stained grey pants. “Right now all I want is to see this cute little pussy stretched on my meat and those pretty tits bouncing in the air as I slap them red.”

It really doesn’t matter if you’re a virgin or not, you’re getting brutalised either way - although his comments would be different.

If you’re a virgin, he’s making sure you get the whole of his length in one - there is something terribly amusing about the toe - curling scream you let out as his cock tears you apart, something borderline pornographic in the way your brows twist and your nostrils flare, lips shut tight as to not give him the pleasure of hearing your pain out loud. But it’s obvious, and he wants you to know that he enjoys it through and through - licking your tears and the sweat off your neck, pinching at your thighs, your breasts, your stomach; whatever makes you cry the most. 

If you’re not a virgin, he still finds a way to get his fun out of you. 

“I don’t feel you clenching on me, you little slut.” He smacks your cheek with little force behind it - it’s not meant to hurt you, but to humiliate you and drive his point across. “Did you have a fucking train ran on you? I should have known you’d be a filthy whore.” He bites at your lower lip, pulling at it until he hears you whine pitifully - leaving his mark on you. “Should’a known with these cocksucking lips of yours, and ngh-” He sinks into you, voice breaking once the tip of his dick brushes against your cervix. “And t-those slutty hips, shit, keep squeezing me just like that, n-ngh, I am going to ruin you all over again!”

He fucks you for who knows how long - when he’s finally satisfied, the sun is already up and you’re drenched in sweat and cum. There isn’t a single part of your body that doesn’t ache.

He leaves you there, snickering at the sight of your empty stare fixed on the ceiling - only reaching to untie you and cuff your ankle to the bed frame instead. You weakly raise an eyebrow in question.

“Stay here until I come back, okay?” He grins with malice, caressing your wet matted hair. “Hah, not that you can really go anywhere.”

[ambrosiagourmet]

I love Izutsumi. She's got a great design, she's a fun addition to the main party, she adds some new tension, and she's honestly one of the reasons I read dungeon meshi in the first place. I mean, "the most cat to ever girl" is an extremely appealing hook to anyone who loves cats and girls (me, I love cats and girls).

However, while I have always liked Izutsumi, I finished the story kind of feeling like I didn't really get her. I felt like I had a decent grasp on her character an character arc (she's a traumatized teen given space to feel safe and open up, and because of that she realizes that she can't grow without letting go of the coping mechanisms she once needed). But I didn't feel like I really understood her role in the story as a whole.

She follows the group of her own accord, after a coincidental meeting and a misunderstanding of what they can do for her. She's never super invested in saving Falin, at least not compared to the rest of the group. Though they do help her escape Maizuru's shackles, and are clearly good for her in general, she doesn't really have a healing Moment with the group the way that Senshi does with the hippogriff soup.

And yet, she gets an entire chapter, the third-to-last chapter, dedicated to exploring her growth and future. She's the one who frames much of the falling action, who lets us check in with everyone. She's the one who helps talk Laios into accepting his role as king. She may join the story part way through, but she is there for most of it. So Izutsumi! What's your deal!?

Well, I think I've come up with an answer, at least for myself, that I really like. Two of them, even! Though they both really work together to form the overall point - Izutsumi is the character that most helps the story face towards the future. Here's why I think that.

So the first of these "ah-ha" moments was when I realized that Izutsumi really is the best supporting evidence for Laios' point about the good things that wouldn't have happened if Falin hadn't died.

If Falin hadn't been eaten by the dragon, Izutsumi probably would still be a slave. It was because of Shuro and Laios' parties both being in the dungeon to rescue Falin, as well as Marcille's use of ancient magic in the resurrection, that she got the chance to escape. None of that would have been the case if Falin hadn't died. Shuro wouldn't have separated from the group and joined up with his retainers, Marcille wouldn't have revealed her knowledge of ancient magic, and Izutsumi never would have even met any of them. They are only part of her life because of Falin's death.

Though this isn't explicitly pointed out by Laios or Izutsumi in the scene, I do think you can very much feel the presence of it. For one, when Marcille reflects on the journey and how much it made her realize she didn't want to lose everyone, her relationship with Izutsumi is prominent:

It's the main original group at the top and center, but when you read it right to left, it’s Izutsumi and Marcille who might catch your eye first. And it's specifically Marcille and Izutsumi's relationship on display here, not just Izutsumi's presence in the group in general.

Also, after Laios' statement about how none of their adventure would have happened without Falin dying, it is Izutsumi who gets the final word:

Izutsumi is also the one here who is the most forward-facing. Chilchuck is trying to correct Laios, Senshi is focused on the immediate future, and Izutsumi is talking about her new goal.

And I want to talk about that goal in general as well, because it’s also interesting how it comes up. In that moment, everyone is trying to remind Marcille of her less destructive desires - to eat food, to share it with them, and to meet Chilchuck's family. All of which are previously established, existing desires. When prompted by Chilchuck to join in, however, Izutsumi offers something new:

That's interesting, isn't it? It's kind of funny, of course, to see her rambling on about a completely new thing, her own personal motive, in the middle of everyone working together to reach out to Marcille. Izutsumi doesn't even know who Yaad is! But at the same time, it’s kind of meaningful. Amidst the focus on desires that everyone already had, she adds a completely new one to the mix. It’s even the final bridge that lets Laios reach Marcille.

It is, in fact, even an idea that comes back later to help out another lord of the dungeon. The idea of finding new goals and feeling new desires... this is exactly how Kabru reaches out to Mithrun, after the Winged Lion is gone

So yeah, Izutsumi's presence here, both in what she's actively choosing to say as well as what she represents of the consequences of Falin's death, supports the story's ideas of moving forward. Of accepting the past, and finding new reasons to live.

Which is all really good, and that alone works pretty well as an answer to what Izutsumi's role in the story is.

But oh, oh. There's more. Something I realized after having thought of all this, because I still couldn't let go of the feeling that there was still something I was missing.

And as I reviewed the things I loved about Izutsumi - her sometimes unhealthy ways of coping with trauma, her struggles with isolation, her skill with fighting, her selfishness contrasted with the ways she grows to care for and protect the group, her perpetually guarded nature, born from the seeming impossibility of ever fitting in or finding a safe place to just be herself - I realized something.

Izutsumi...

is a foil to Falin.

Where Falin copes with isolation and trauma by being eternally caring and struggling to say no to people, Izutsumi copes by constantly saying no to everything she can. Falin is often considered selfless, but does have selfish desires that she can’t easily express until a moment of crisis. Izutsumi is delightfully selfish, but chooses to stick by her friends when they need her. They are both transformed, against their will, into partly monstrous hybrids, and they both will have to live with that - there is no undoing what has been done to them.

Falin anchors the group in the past. Izutsumi pulls them towards the future. Neither would find freedom without the other - it is Falin's death that leads to Izutsumi joining the party, and likewise, it is Izutsumi who inspires the realization of how they can save Falin.

And Falin is her future, as much as Izutsumi is Falin's. Both learn to be a little more like each other, even though they never meet. Falin gets a little more selfish. Izutsumi gets a little more willing to bend.

In this context, I feel like I have finally started to understand just how important Izutsumi is to the story. She is a proof that they cannot just go back, and she is a clawed, happy-to-scratch-anyone-who-pisses-her-off reminder, at that. In any conversation about what the group wishes would have happened with Falin, she cannot be ignored or brushed aside.

She is a reminder that, even in the midst of a tragedy so big it feels like a shadow you will never escape, you have yet to met all the people you will love. Hell, some of those people might even be catgirls. We should all be so lucky.

[midnite-c6]

Please please please please, Kim Seo-wan smutty smut... Ever since I read your Seo-wan x Reader I couldn't help but fall in love with that man more than I already was, so... PLS. if it doesn't maik ya uncomfortable obvs (⁠｡⁠•́⁠‿⁠•̀⁠｡"). ((TAKE UR TIME!))

YAYAYSYXTDGEGSYT I THOUGHT I WAS THE ONLY ONE WHO WANTED TO LET HIM INN BYE ugh i want him (respectfully) added squid game tags since most of you guys watched ddos cuz of roh jae won and i want other ppl to see his role here! <3

kim seo-wan nsfw headcanons <3 || warnings: 18+, cunnilingus, fingering, fluff

∘⁠˚⁠˳⁠° first of all, his daily routine consists of studying, gaming, and being schizophrenic making him not have time for all those romantic, especially physical affection kinda stuff, so you have to convince and show him! it wouldn't be difficult, he's still a guy after all, let alone a guy who plays those "gooner" type of games, and to put it simply: he's a virgin.

when he starts dating you, he'd add a new lesson to his routine: porn. he's already failing his other exams, he doesn't wanna fail you!

no bias guys, but he is a touchy dude, and a kissy one at that. your lips are his revival potion, the taste of your lips is healing his whole being, same goes for your other set of lips, when he found out you make cute cute sounds while he eats you out and make out with your cunny? oh he has defeated that dragon. damn. "y...you like it here, right?" he'd take a small kitten lick on your clit, making a soft moan elicit your lips. his hands on both sides of your waist, holding onto you tightly as if you'd run away from him. "mhm.. there's good.. s'good." he's happy for your praise, lapping his tongue up and down faster, you could feel him mumble a mantra of "you're s'..yummy.." against you, you were so tasty, he loved it so much. he wouldn't even take off his small circle-framed glasses, being pushed all the way to the bridge of his nose. "ah... seo-wan..♡" you could feel the metal frame hit your twitching clit, it was a different kind of feeling.

when you guys are finally comfy, you both know study dates are cute n' all. he'd have his headset on, listening to music, a hand to flip the textbook's pages, and his other arm to be hooked around your waist, holding you securely. you'd be doing whatever too, you liked his company anyway. but whenever studies get stressful and hectic, he won't lose the chance to grope your soft tits, they're the best stress relievers after all. he's definitely a boob guy. "ah.. y/n. move closer, please? .. need ..easier.. access.." i fear he is very touchy, clingy, he doesn't want to let you go.

cosplays!! oh, when you guys save enough money, he absolutely loves to do cosplays with you! he's very grateful your character has little to no clothes, he'd savour your body everytime it's spread on his bed and would treat you like a princess for real. tell him he's super duper strong, it will make him cum in seconds. :< probably accidentally rips off your expensive cosplay too, makes you mad, obviously, but will fuck you as a consolation prize.

he's more of a giver than a receiver, he just wants you to be happy and pleased all the time! ...also makes you overstimulated every session. his fav part on himself is his hands, he knows how fond you are to them, foreplay always takes long because his fingers are stretching your poor hole for hours <3.

again, he barely has the time to do full-on sessions, but when he does, he's gonna make you a squirting mess. holding hands while fucking is sooo real <3.

"mmfh.. don't leave me, okay? stay.." he 'reminds' you, slowly pushing his dick back inside your hole, his thumb pressed firmly on your clit, how were you gonna leave him anyway? he was holding onto you like you'd escape! "i.. won't seo-wannnn..." "ahh... good girl... my healer..." he whispers, kissing you softly, his mind is definitely in another world right now, atleast you're in it. (⁠｡⁠･⁠ω⁠･⁠｡⁠)⁠ﾉ⁠♡

someone requested seo-wan x patient!reader so I AM GONNA FO THAT NEXT HELL YEAH

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Unbidden

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x f!reader x Aemond Targaryen Warnings: Cuckolding, voyeurism, smut. Word count: ~3k

Summary: Noticing his nephew's wife appears dissatisfied in her marriage, Daemon sets out to show them both that there is pleasure to be found within the marital bed...

Author's note: No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

She has scarcely been able to take her eyes off of Daemon since he first arrived at the Red Keep. He possesses the classically handsome features bestowed upon those of Valyrian blood, carries himself with self assured confidence, and embodies an air of dangerous unpredictability which both frightens and excites her in equal measure. Though it is none of these qualities that keep her gaze fixated upon him.

Her interest is piqued by how utterly devoted he is to his wife. When she stood beside her husband, Aemond, in the Great Hall, as Vaemond Velaryon challenged the succession of Driftmark, her attention was focused solely on Daemon and Rhaenyra. He had been glued to her side, his gaze always seeking hers, and when Vaemond had dared to call her a whore and her children “bastards”, he had not hesitated in unsheathing his sword and slicing the man’s head in half. She wonders if her own husband would defend her so staunchly.

She is not blind to their starkly different situations; Daemon and Rhaenyra’s union is one of love, it is plain for all to see. Her and Aemond’s is one of political necessity. Although they have grown fond of each other over the last six months of their marriage, and he has never been unkind to her, she cannot help the jealousy that swirls, ugly and acrid, within her chest at the ease of which her husband’s half sister and his uncle interact with one another.

The two children they have together already, and the one that currently grows within the swell of Rhaenyra’s belly are proof enough of their passion for one another. However, the looks they exchange at the dinner table this evening are smoldering and filled with intent. Their fingers brush against each other as they pass dishes of food between them, and Daemon’s hand seems to find its way to her stomach, caressing her lovingly, unaware he is even doing it.

Her and Aemond’s intimacy is not so effortless, though it is not from a lack of trying on her part. He beds her frequently, and she greets his advances with enthusiasm, yet his stoicism renders him incapable of ever fully losing control. He is receptive to her pleas of “harder”, “faster”, but she is always left with the dissatisfaction of feeling he is holding something back, and outside of their shared bedchamber it is rare that he ever touches her. She has attempted to broach the subject with him before, framing it as a means for them to find greater satisfaction within their marital bed, but he always waves her away dismissively, clearly uncomfortable with the topic.

She can sense something dark and urgent bubbling beneath the surface of him, and longs to draw it out, to experience the full force of the fire of the dragon that runs through his veins, but she does not know how to entice it. 

It had appeared prominent in his seeing eye as Dark Sister had cleaved the Velaryon man’s skull in twain, a potent mixture of bloodlust and desire, as his pupil had dilated ever so slightly. It had sent a shiver up her spine, heat pooling between her thighs, causing her to squeeze them together to fend off the dull, throbbing ache.

She longs for that look to be cast upon her, for her to be the recipient of whatever wrath that follows, and now she is sure that it is Daemon that holds the key to coaxing the darker side of her husband out to play.

The dinner is a tense affair. Aemond sits beside her, so tightly wound she is sure the lightest of touches would cause him to shatter like glass. When he finally loses his cool, throwing barbed words towards his nephews, resulting in an exchange of blows, the evening draws to an abrupt close, with each of them being dismissed to their respective quarters. As they depart the dining hall, her husband and his uncle lock eyes, a smirk of amusement flashing briefly across Daemon’s features as Aemond’s nostrils flare in irritation.

She can feel the heat of his anger radiating from him as he strides through the corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast, scurrying alongside him in an attempt to match his pace. That look has returned and with it her desperate feeling of lust. If she doesn’t seize the opportunity now, then she is unsure of when it will present itself again.

Reaching out for her husband, she grasps his elbow, her fingers taut against the leather sleeve of his tunic. His steps falter and he turns to look at her quizzically, chest heaving with the laboured breaths of his barely concealed rage.

“What is it?” He snaps.

Instinctively, she shrinks back, second guessing her decision as she sees the way he glares down at her, lip curled into a snarl. Despite her fear, she reminds herself that this is the side of Aemond she had been seeking, and leans into him, placing her hands upon his chest.

“I want you,” she whispers, gazing up at him pleadingly.

“Not here,” he sighs, his expression softening, as he gently grasps her hands in his, moving them back to her sides.

Though she remains outwardly calm, in spite of her disappointment, internally she feels so frustrated she could scream. The look she craves is gone, he has rebuffed her advances and she knows that once more she is destined to an evening where he will treat her as though she is made of bone china.

“I believe you were told to return to your quarters.”

The intrusion of Daemon’s voice causes Aemond to take a quick step backwards, away from her, as she turns to look. He stands before them in the corridor, posture rigid and chin raised up ever so slightly, giving the impression that he is looking down his nose at them both.

“We are on our way,” Aemond responds icily, drawing himself to his full height and staring down his uncle.

The smallest of smiles tugs at the corners of Daemon’s mouth, clearly unphased by his nephew’s hostile demeanour. “I shall escort you both, to ensure there is no further delay.”

Before either one of them has the opportunity to protest, he steps forward, one hand reaching for Aemond’s shoulder, while he places the other at the small of her back. Aemond wrenches away, huffing irritably as he continues walking. She makes no such effort to struggle away from Daemon’s touch, his fingers feeling like a brand against her flesh through the fabric of her dress. 

The three of them walk in uncomfortable silence, the only sound is the echo of their footsteps against the flagstone floor. Her eyes widen in surprise when they reach her and Aemond’s shared chambers and, instead of bidding them goodnight, Daemon follows them inside, closing the doors behind them.

Aemond stares at him quizzically, eye narrowed. “What are you doing, Uncle? If you are here to reprimand me for what was said at dinner then–”

“I am here for your wife, actually,” he interrupts, turning his head towards her as his eyes move from her head to her feet and back up again.

She feels her skin grow hot under the intensity of his gaze, swallowing thickly as he regards her as a cat would a mouse.

“What do you want with my wife?” Aemond asks, his voice lowering in quiet threat.

It is the first time she has ever heard her husband speak of her so possessively and it makes her pulse race. She wants more of this, there is an intense thrill to having the attention of two Targaryen men placed solely upon her.

“Do not think I have not noticed,” Daemon says to her, ignoring Aemond as he continues to stare at her. “You have been ogling me all day. Why?”

Embarrassment prickles at her, and she lowers her gaze. Her voice is small and pitiful sounding to her ears as she answers. “Forgive me, My Prince. I did not mean to stare.”

“Look at me when you speak to me,” he commands, “and answer the question.”

She exhales shakily, lifting her eyes to meet his. His stare is piercing, his eyes darkened and predatory in the low lighting of her and Aemond’s apartments.

“I found myself…rather taken by how you engage with Princess Rhaenyra. You are quite affectionate with one another.”

Daemon’s brow furrows slightly as he cocks his head in curiosity. “Does your own husband not show you affection?”

A wave of sadness washes over her, causing her shoulders to sag at the reminder of the lack of intimacy between her and Aemond. She spares him a glance, noticing he has not moved from where he stands. His expression could be mistaken for neutral were it not for the fury that rages tempestuously within his seeing eye as he glares at his uncle.

Drawing in a deep breath, she looks back to Daemon, answering simply, honestly: “no.” Shame shrouds her, suffocating and dense, feeling the overwhelming urge to cry, her head dipping as she focuses on the spot where the hem of her skirts meets the stone floor. She cannot bear to look at either man, knowing she has spoken out of turn about her husband, not just in front of him, but to his uncle as well.

She gasps as Daemon steps forward, crowding her space, his finger crooking beneath her chin to lift her face up towards his. The touch of him makes her knees buckle slightly and she leans back against the table behind her for support, no longer trusting her legs to keep her upright. “What a brave little thing you are,” he whispers, an edge to his voice that twists her stomach into knots.

“I–I am sorry,” she stammers, eyes flitting nervously between her husband and his uncle. “I should not have–”

“There is nothing wrong with expressing your wants, your desires,” Daemon reassures her. “Perhaps my nephew just needs a little help in learning how best to please his wife?”

She squeals in surprise as he grasps the backs of her thighs, lifting her until she is seated upon the edge of the table she had been leaning against. Lips parted and eyes wide, she turns her head towards Aemond, and though his fists are clenched at his sides, his breathing accelerated in silent fury, he makes no move to stop what is happening. That look from earlier has returned, ravenous and half crazed, she interprets it as silent consent, wanting to do all she can to keep it fixed upon her.

“What of your wife? Will she not mind you…helping us?” She asks timidly, as Daemon’s hands make quick work of rucking her skirts up around her hips.

He chuckles drily in response, dragging her smallclothes down her legs, allowing them to dangle from a single ankle. “You and Aemond have much to learn, sweet girl. Fucking is a pleasure, and Rhaenyra does not mind how or with whom we seek it, as long as our loyalties do not falter.”

The very idea seems scandalous to her, yet wetness gathers between her legs all the same. Aemond has now taken up the seat beside the fireplace, watching them both intently, his stare unblinking and fiery. 

Daemon’s fingers travel up her legs, until they reach the insides of her thighs. His fingers are thicker than Aemond’s, his touch is calloused and rough, where Aemond’s is deft, yet hesitant. His fingertips dig into her soft flesh, hard enough to bruise as he pries her legs apart, a hum of approval rumbling in his throat at the arousal he finds glistening there.

“Does your husband make you this wet?” He asks with gentle curiosity.

She nods enthusiastically, looking over at Aemond and seeing a small, prideful smile ghost quickly across his lips before disappearing.

“Good,” Daemon tells her. “No problems there then.”

His fingertips swipe through her sodden folds, his middle finger quick to locate her pearl and circle it with precision. The movement makes her tense, a jolt of pleasure causing her hips to buck as she mewls helplessly.

“Does he touch you like this?”

“N–no…” she whimpers in response.

“Hmm,” Daemon glances over his shoulder, before looking back at her. “Well, ensure he does in future. I am sure he will; he is paying close attention.”

Looking back over at Aemond, she feels herself clench around nothing, her desire building with a steady, rhythmic ache as she sees the lacings of his trousers strain against his hardness. He is enjoying watching this, lips slightly parted and eye hooded. The sight of it rids her of the last of her inhibitions as Daemon moves his focus away from her bud and dares to push his two forefingers inside of her. She tilts her head back, gripping the edge of the table tightly as she feels her muscles stretch to accommodate him.

“You must be prepared, thoroughly, before you are fucked,” he murmurs against the shell of her ear.

Her mind is foggy, struggling to comprehend Daemon’s words as he presses the pads of his fingers upwards, dragging them against a spot inside of her that causes her toes to curl and moisture to trickle down onto the tabletop. Does he really mean to fuck her? Surely that would be a step too far? Yet she finds it difficult to care when he is pushing her towards the precipice of pleasure itself with simply his fingers. Her mind reels with the possibility of what it would feel like to be stretched out around his cock.

As his fingers pump faster, she moves her hips in tandem, chasing the urgently building pressure that is growing inside of her. He pulls them from her suddenly, causing her to whine in frustration at being robbed of her peak.

Daemon grins wolfishly as his hands move to unfasten his breeches. “I think we have learned enough in that regard, and are ready to move on.”

She averts her gaze as he frees himself, her eyes finding Aemond’s, another silent check in for consent. His throat bobs as he swallows, his knuckles almost white with the force of the grip he has on the armrests of where he sits, but he makes no move to stop what is happening.

Her hands grasp at Daemon’s shoulders as he sheathes himself inside of her, knocking the air from her lungs. Aemond and his uncle are similar in many respects, but this is a matter in which the pair of them could not be more different.

It is odd to her that, despite being between her thighs, he has not tried to kiss her. Whether it is a mark of respect for hers and Aemond’s marriage, or simply because he does not want to, she is unsure, but she is grateful for his abstinence. A kiss seems too intimate a gesture, there is nothing sweet about this.

Daemon sets a brutal pace, once she has had a moment to adjust, rocking into her with a force that causes the table legs to scrape loudly against the hard floor. He is so much more self assured than her husband, utterly unafraid to violate her, and it is freeing to be handled so roughly.

She moans wantonly as he moves a hand to wrap around her throat, applying gentle pressure at the sides. “Do not be afraid to be a little unrestrained,” Daemon grits out, a statement clearly not meant for her, even though his eyes bore into hers. “I have yet to bed a woman who does not enjoy it.”

He has the right of it. The hand around her throat, coupled with the almost violent manner in which he thrusts inside of her is dizzying and, as he slips a hand between them to stroke at her pearl once more, she knows she will not last long. It has never been this intense with Aemond before; a lack of experience, coupled with a fear of hurting her means he is always gentle, hesitant where he need not be. 

The grip on her throat tightens, the ministrations against her bud grow more insistent as she feels Daemon pulsate inside of her, his jaw clenching at the telltale sign that he is close. With a final, harsh thrust of his hips, she cries out in ecstasy as the warmth of his seed spills inside of her, triggering her own release as she tightens around him in rapid, successive pulses.

“Good girl,” he mutters quietly.

He is quick to pull out of her, as she leans back against her palms, pliant and breathless from the experience. She barely registers Daemon tucking himself away and slipping out of the chamber doors, as Aemond moves into view, standing before her.

Under ordinary circumstances, the wrathful insanity she sees reflected in his blue eye would frighten her, but tonight it has butterflies fluttering ceaselessly in her lower belly. His hand moves to the back of her head, gripping her hair tightly by the roots, tugging her head forcefully backwards. Her yelp of pain is stifled by him pressing his lips firmly against hers, his tongue licking against her own in a kiss that is more a desperate display of possession than a loving embrace.

“You are mine,” he breathes, letting go of her momentarily to tug at the lacings of his trousers.

“Yours,” she whispers back, satisfied excitement causing her pulse to thrum at the knowledge she has unleashed the side of Aemond she has always longed for.

Daemon’s spend has begun to dribble out of her, and as she watches the head of her husband’s cock push it forcefully back inside of her, she knows he will remind her every night from now on exactly which Targaryen Prince it is that she belongs to.

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[maybeafrog-blog]

In Defense of Donnie's Gifts

I'm ngl I sorta think the shock collar was still just an odd writing decision but as far as PREMISE:

It CANNOT be a coincidence that this is the first time (and one of VERY few times) that Donnie's soft shell is referenced. Once, when Raph is hesitating to tell Donnie his gifts suck ass, and he uses the soft shell metaphor, and after that with Meat Sweats and his paprika, describing it as not just soft, but delicate. Weird, but he is a cannibal, so. (Side note, Meat Sweats never removed his battle shell? How does he know? Or did he take it off and replace it after the pound of butter? Is he using it to facilitate steaming and tenderness? Is it broken? I feel like it should have something in there that could break him out of the sausage links)

Then in that last little scene- "Forget it. You guys are great the way you are!" - we get the shot of Donnie from behind pre group hug, with his brothers facing the camera. (Idk if I'm making shit up, but I feel like this is a staple for Donnie episodes? It def happens in the Purple Game, maybe Smart Lair.) The framing draws attention to his battle shell. The battle shell even kinda matches the gifts, compared to the rest of their gear and even Donnie's tech, color coded and way more streamlined than stuff like the tech bo.

Donnie's soft shell is an innate, unchangeable part of him, a feature of his species, that he treats as a handicap. Probably MORE unchangeable than the character traits he sees as holding his brothers back, which they do sorta... not mature out of, but refine, rather, over the course of the show. Donnie's shell can't experience a character arc, but he sees it as holding him back. So he FIXES it.

The Mad Dogs don't really have a motivation for beating stuff up besides "Hero Time!!!" at this point. That's why it's so interesting how EARLY this happens, unlike with Mind Meld, he isn't trying to change his brothers to make them better at a task that he actually CARES about. Donnie in particular never gets a super intense moral compass besides stuff that threatens people he already cares about, and he doesn't have any grudges (no Purple Dragons) at this point in the series. Hero Goals are largely devices for him to hang out with his dum dum brothers. I'm not diagnosed or anything but my vibes are certainly... Spectrum-Adjacent, I definitely have trouble with literal thinking and reading people. One thing that happens sometimes is people will be using "task" as "reason to hang," and I will get a lot more fixated on completing said task than I really should, to the point of annoying people. I confuse "Successful Task Completion" with "Successful Social Interaction." It makes me come across as bossy and controlling without realizing it.

So, we got a Donnie who thinks Arbitrary Goals are essential to Hero Bonding, who has been treating his life like an mmorpg - armor upgrades, skill trees, grinding, sometimes fighting through random dungeons to hang out with his bros. He's probably even slightly better at Fighting Stuff than his brothers atp, he isn't dealing with a mystic learning curve and his special interest has been Weapons of Mild Destruction for years already. His brothers want to level up, take harder missions, he tries to get them there with his access to High Level Loot.

Of course, his brothers are all min-maxing, not trying to multiclass their purple ass out of squishy glass cannon town. So, it doesn't go well. Unfortunately, the lesson Donnie learns (besides brotherly affection) is that his brothers don't NEED fixing like he does. Mind Meld and Donnie vs. Witch Town sorta finish this arc out as best as the series can.

Where I would have liked to see this go:

A S2 Donnie's Gifts or Mind Meld style episode (Donnie tries to improve his brothers, to their dismay) where the motivator isn't goal completion, but protectiveness. We see a bit of the fear in Purple Game, a bit of the contingency planning with the escape pods in the movie. Maybe a more upfront "training montage" type scenario, a high tech robo dojo to develop their mad skills, or just a tense moment after a skin of their teeth Genius Built rescue.

The brothers confront Donnie eventually-- not just the passive conflict resolution of Donnie's Gifts. They get mad. Push Donnie to the point he's at in Turtle-Dega Nights. They get a rant about not wanting them to get hurt, of course, but also that he's already done so much to FIX himself, make sure he's not a LIABILITY, why can't they at least try to stay SAFE? The dangers are real now, and as far as Donnie knows he REALLY can't do anything about threats like the Shredder. His tech did nothing the first time. His brothers are the ones with the mystic mojo, and they don't even realize how SERIOUS things could get.

Anyway. Protective Donatello my Beloved. Let my boy go apeshit.

//I REALLY Like the 2003 episode where Leo is hurt and Donnie is fucking PISSED at Usagi. All Donnies should be allowed to enter a feral protective rage, as a treat.

//If anyone knows of any Purple Game Aftermath fics lmk. Like, going home, getting donnie out of the evil gamer chair, guilt, whatever. or just good Purple Dragons being Assholes content.

[valyrianvibranium]

FORBIDDEN TEMPTATION.

Aemond Targaryen x niece!Reader

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT—MDNI; canon typical incest/targcest (uncle married niece), menstrual sex, p in v, fingering, lactation kink

WORDS: 2.1 K

NOTES: Thank you to @lady-phasma and the rest of our little group for this period smut collaboration 😝 and extra thanks to @zaldritzosrose for the moodboard!! I love you guys sm 💕 It was so much fun working with this request. Cheers to the dragon friends🤍

✖️ 𝐚𝐝𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!

A poking ache in your stomach is what pulls you out of your sleep, like a sharp, stinging tug that makes you curl into a bundle, clutching your belly. With your husband still sound asleep right next to you, his snores filling the room, you’re determined to not moan out in pain too loudly, though you’re close to failing. 

“By the Seven,” you whisper, a clear strain to your voice, and when you bring your hand down between your legs, the stickiness you're welcomed with makes you sigh. There’s hardly any light of the moon falling into the room, which makes it difficult for you to make out the source of the wetness that coats your fingers, yet the smell lets you know it’s familiar. Your moonblood. 

“Oh, this can not…” you trail off, moaning through gritted teeth as another jolt of pain runs through your belly. 

Next to you, your husband has been roused from sleep by your stirring and moaning, blinking against the darkness and blearily into the night as he tries to understand what is going on. Propping himself up on one elbow, his groggy voice is laced with worry as he speaks, “what is the matter?”

You shift to lie on your back again, leaning up against the headboard. “I… my moonblood has come,” you say. The realization that it’s just your monthly bleeding does bring you some sense of relief, meaning your husband has not yet managed to put another child in you, but it also concerns you. “It feels like someone is clawing at my belly from the inside out… and I can not remember for it to be so painful before the pregnancy.”

It’s an instinct he’s developed over the course of your pregnancy, something you still catch him doing every now and then, but Aemond‘s hand immediately goes to your belly, rubbing small, soothing circles to somewhat ease the pain. And for someone possessing the blood of the dragon, his body certainly emanates a lot of heat. You’re immediately drawn towards him, melting against his frame, warmth radiating off of his bare chest.

Aemond brings his lips to the crown of your head, wrapping his arms around you. “That was to be expected, was it not?” he asks.

“Yes, but it is quite severe.” You flinch again at the stinging pain, though it is not as sharp with his warm hand splayed over your stomach. “Could you fetch me the maester to ease the pain?”

Your husband’s mind, however, quickly comes up with a different solution. “Well, I have heard and read that there’s another way to ease that kind of pain, my love,” he says, a teasing lilt to his voice. “A more… pleasurable alternative that may not completely rid you of the pain, but certainly takes your mind off of it.”

His words and the innuendo don’t surprise you at all. Ever since he truly has learned what it meant to indulge in the pleasures of flesh with you, he’s turned into a starved beast, desperate to get his fill of you every night until your little Baelon was born, and determined to get you round with his seed as quickly as possible again. The few weeks of rest that had been prescribed by the maester were the most difficult for him, struggling to keep his hands off of you. It was the complete opposite to the way he was while you grew up together; your usually quiet and observing uncle turned into a beast, similar to the one he claimed when he turned ten. 

Aemond’s hand slowly drifts lower, and a small gasp escapes your lips, his fingers dancing lightly over the damp linen of your smallclothes. You look at him, your eyes half-lidded with a mix of pain and desire. “Do you really think… it would help?” you murmur softly, instinctively arching into his touch. The throbbing ache in your belly is temporarily replaced by a pleasant warmth spreading through your core. 

“Oh, I very much believe it will,” he whispers in your ear, his voice low and gravelly. 

A sly smile is on his lips as his thumb brushes over your pearl, making your breath hitch in your throat. Your head tips back into the pillows with a moan slipping past your lips. “Aemond…” you whisper, his name coming out in a mere breath, “please.” 

He is quick to bow his head forward, capturing your lips for a kiss. As he tugs on your smallclothes, you wrap your arms around his neck for support, using the leverage to shimmy out of the damp linen. 

You gasp against his lips as his nimble digits ease into your cunt, and Aemond presses his forehead against yours. Feeling you writhe beneath his touch, he lets out a low groan, a small shiver running down his spine at the wanton sight of his wife on the cusp of pleasure. “Relax, my love,” he rasps. “Let me take care of you.”

His fingers continue their ministrations, his touch gentle yet insistent, never slowing down, and your hips buck into his touch. There’s no denying your desire for him, your need for him. And while he focuses on easing your pain, your focus solely lies on him – or rather his cock. It’s always the same, for his fingers are never enough for you. 

Aemond has pushed his sleeping trousers down to the point he was able to free his cock, thick, hard, and the tip glistening with a few beds of his arousal, indicating just how badly he wants to take care of you. Feeling his knuckles brush your thigh as his fist slides up and down his length, you whimper in anticipation while a strained grunt leaves his lips. 

Without another word, Aemond positions himself between your legs, the motion fluid and practiced. His hands glide over the smooth skin of your thighs, pushing them further apart to accommodate him. 

There is some impatience evident in his movements as he drags the tip of his cock through your soaked folds, causing you to gasp each time it presses against your sensitive pearl. 

“Stop teasing me, Aemond,” you whine, your nerves on fire. 

His lips curve into a smug smirk at your desperate whine. “What’s the rush, my love?” 

Tilting his head forwards, he watches as he circles your entrance with his cock, repeatedly pushing just the tip inside… only to pull out mere moments later. While it drives you insane with lust, it also makes you aware of how slick you are for him – knowing it’s not just your arousal he’s coated in now. 

That realization makes you feel shy, and you momentarily try to squeeze your thighs together to escape his hungry gaze – but to no avail. Tsking, Aemond is quick to pry your thighs apart again, raising a brow. “Do not shy away now,” he warns. “A little blood does not repel me.”

Pressing your lips into a thin line, you nod meekly at his words, and your husband takes that as his cue to continue. Where he usually sheathes him inside you in one, swift thrust, he’s slow and careful to enter you now, making sure you feel every vein and ridge of him on his way inside. You both moan in unison, never getting enough of each other. 

Despite you being quite tense from the sharp pain tugging at your belly, Aemond buries himself inside of you with ease, your moonsblood adding to your slickness. It feels different than usual – you feel different than usual, more sensitive – yet the pleasure it brings is heightened and coaxes you to melt around him. 

Your head tips back into the pillows, but Aemond is quick to bring a hand to the side of your neck, applying a bit of pressure to your chin with his thumb to force you to meet his gaze. There is a slight stutter in his hips as he sets up his slow pace, settling only once he’s found the perfect rhythm. With expert precision, he rolls his hips against yours. Your heels dig into his rear, encouraging him to go even deeper. 

The dull, continuous ache in your belly grows weaker with every thrust, replaced by a warmth that spreads all the way to your limbs, fueled by the squelching sounds of his cock repeatedly disappearing into your soaked cunt. 

Aemond has one hand on your neck and the other positioned on the mattress right next to your head, careful not to put all of his weight on your sensitive body. You take it upon yourself to tug on the low neckline of your nightgown, pulling it even lower to free your heavy breasts from their confines. 

Your body is still providing enough milk to feed an army of children, despite you merely birthing one, and while they are heavy and hard to the touch, wearing clothes has always been a far worse agony. The creamish silk has been damp even before Aemond has touched you, and so it’s no surprise droplets of milk trickle from your darkened buds as soon as your fingers touch them. 

And that is the moment he stops being careful, bowing down to capture one bud with his lips and press his body against yours. It’s a mix between a gasp and moan that slips past your lips, yet it’s enough to make clear the relief you feel. 

The position all but forces him to roll his hips against yours languidly, but neither of you mind for it seems to bring you both enough pleasure. You can feel him suckle on your breast in the rhythm your cunt clenches around his cock. His cheeks dimpled from the suction; he’s propped up on one elbow, using his hand to pinch and roll the other bud between his fingers. 

He alternates between licking and sucking, not keen on wasting just one drop of your precious milk. “Gods, Aemond,” you whine, arching your back against him. You feel him throb inside of you at the despair audible in your voice, spurring him on. 

Your hips move on their own accord now, grinding against his and matching his movements, the pain in your belly and breasts long forgotten as you chase your pleasure. 

A couple of moments pass until you feel Aemond’s breath growing labored, his chest almost heaving with more and more muffled grunts and groans escaping his throat. He is loud – much to your surprise – but your body seems keen at that, the pressure inside of your belly tightening at a rapid pace.

As his lips wrap around your other bud, the knot in your belly snaps. It’s either gripping the sheets or his hair to keep yourself grounded, and you opt for the latter, burying your hands inside of his silver strands. You use the grip to pull him closer to your breasts, more out of instinct than of clear will. 

The sheets below you are soaked with a blend of your arousal and moonblood, trickling out of your cunt and coating Aemond’s cock and the sac of his stones. It’s the tightness of your peak’s contractions that eventually forces the seed from your husband, milking him for every last drop of his spent. His muscles go rigid, yet he hardly withdraws from your bud to release grunts and groans, too drunk on what’s supposed to be for your son. 

He bites down as he spills inside of you, harder than you like considering your whole body is a sensitive mess at this point, but you do not begrudge him – it’s well deserved with how caring and careful he’s been to tend to your needs. 

He buries his face between your now soft and tender breasts as you leisurely ride out your peaks, both your movements slowly, but surely, coming to a stop. You tug on his hair, and the sight of his half-lidded eye and his swollen lips makes you clench around him once more. 

While Aemond swallows a groan, you urge his face towards yours for a kiss, moaning at the taste of your milk on his tongue. Labored breaths fan across each other’s faces as his mouth leaves yours, and you take a moment to stare at each other silently. 

“Is the pain… has it eased?” Aemond’s voice is a hoarse whisper. Panting softly, he sits back on his haunches. 

A small, bashful smile curves your lips, the haze of desire beginning to lift. Your body still thrums with the aftereffects of his endeavors. “I am quite alright,” you reply. “But perhaps we should indulge in a bath. I do believe a soak in hot water may alleviate my discomfort even more, and it seems we have both made quite the mess.”

You notice the mischievous gleam in his good eye. “If that is what my love desires, then consider it done. I shall have hot water brought to our chambers, and then I shall ensure that every bit of your discomfort is soothed.”

[mythalism]

blah blah thinking about the popular rebuttal to complaints about veilguard's politics being "bioware was never leftist so you shouldnt have expected veilguard to be" which is... interesting.

true, of course. the expectation part i disagree with but thats not what ive been thinking about. im thinking about what made it feel so different to the very similar centrism of da:i. and maybe someone who didnt black out the entirety of veilguard as a cognitive protective mechanism can speak to the specifics but i think ive settled on it being that da:i is undoubtedly neoliberal and centrist just like da:o and da2 before it but despite their clear framing and limitations there was always the encouragement to think and the freedom to do things that the game might condemn narratively as "too radical" but you could at least do them. or say them.

this erodes by the time you get to da:i but in veilguard its absent completely. like making leliana divine or putting briala on the throne, for example. the game presents these options in a very neoliberal and centrist way. the un-softened leliana divine epilogue slide features much of the "radical violence bad!!!!! bad choice!!!!" connotation that all of veilguard has. but you can still do it. briala has incredibly limited power as gaspard's puppetmaster and her epilogue slide similarly slaps the player on the wrist for behaving so radically by putting *gasp* an elf in power resulting in Bad Disruptive Uprisings throughout orlais. but you can do it. hawke can spare anders and let him go. again, the game slaps you on the wrist via character disapproval and the fact he becomes a wandering hermit or whatever the fuck but. you can still let him go. in origins you can make shianni bann and the consequences are disgusting and horrible and writing it that way is literally sickening, but the game lets you do it. origins lets you do a lot of buck wild shit, some decisions less real-world politically coded than others, but you get to DO IT. even if the game and its writers scold you afterwords for getting too disruptive. YOU CAN STILL DO IT.

and this goes the other way too. there is a reason people like greg ellis had a home with dragon age for so many years and his beliefs were able to go under the radar for so long. there is a reason transphobic gamerbros love origins. there is a reason there was backlash to da2's rampant bisexuality. because dragon age let you be leftist about as much as it let you be a racist misogynistic asshole. you can do horrible things in these games. you can quite literally sell people into slavery. templar aligned hawke lets the kirkwall circle get annulled and becomes viscount as a reward for their loyalty. the inquisitor can just execute literally everyone they judge. now, i'll be the first to say that a lot of those options are not nearly narratively condemned enough. bioware has fumbled many a topic in their misunderstood pursuit of "grey morality" that leads them to feel the need to morally equalize situations of clear, unambiguous injustice (cough mage templar war cough). in fact, decisions like sparing anders are often far more clearly narratively punished than things like giving fenris back to danarius, (which kind of just blows over after some approval loss???) and in my opinion that is a writing flaw. i do think RPG games should have choice, and allow players to be evil, but i also think that writers have a responsibility for the message their writing sends to the world. some decisions in dragon age are well-handled. many others recreate and reflect real life racism or misogyny or islamophobia, and reveal the writer's bias against real-life groups of people or political movements. this is the risk of writing stories like these.

but veilguard does not let you do anything. in either direction. ive been calling it a "thought-terminating fantasy cliche" because... it really is thought-terminating. you are not supposed to think about alternatives that may be too radical in the writer's eyes (what if i let anders go instead of face the justice [haha] the game clearly thinks he deserves? what if i install an elvhen puppetmaster on the orlesian throne despite all of my advisors recommendations? what if i support the murder-pope in reforming the chantry through violence and bloodshed?). veilguard has..... what if i save this city over that one? the only one i can think of is saving isseya. are there any others? genuine question. theres nothing to decide and therefore there is nothing to think about. you dont get to think of possibilities past the narrow centrist path presented to you. you dont get to think about an end for solas that doesnt end in jail. you dont get to think about who becomes tevinter's archon and what policies you might like to see them have. you dont make choices between major factions based on ideological and/or practical differences like recruiting mages vs templars. you barely even get to decide anything for the characters, half of the choices are purely cosmetic.

like i feel like theres something to be said for having the choice even if the overall narrative still condemns it. the writer's bias leaks in to the world's reactions to your decisions but you are still allowed to make them. i always intentionally leave leliana hardened because i think radical insane murder-pope who diversifies the church through ASSASSINATION is based. i dont give a fuck if david g/aider thinks its too crazy and tells me so in a thinly veiled epilogue slide reprimand about "the consequences of my actions". idgaf! 1. its a video game and 2. idc what he thinks.

and yes, nothing ever actually changes. dragon age has never allowed you to make radical change within its world even with the decisions that brush up on the possibility. but you can still be someone who believes in the possibility. you can play a mahariel who hates humans and poisons the ashes of their prophet because why should they care when they stole everything from the elves first? you can play a blood-mage circle-abolitionist anders-apologist hawke doing their best to survive in a city where survival and self-preservation sometimes forces them to act against their values. you can play a lavellan inquisitor who refuses to believe in andraste or the maker, advocates for elvhen liberation, and installs an elf on the orlesian thrown despite being forced into the role of figurehead for a religious empire. sure, you cant really actually do anything for the elves, but you can be someone who believes that change should happen. its not perfect. its certainly not some radical revolutionary fantasy nor does literally anyone expect it to be and when people say that its always in bad faith.

bioware has always been canadian liberal centrists and so have their games. but they used to let you get a little fun and crazy and then just reprimand you via epilogue slides or retcons in later games that we all just got to complain about online. but veilguard forces you to roleplay someone else's ideology; a boring centrist status quo loving fantasy with no opportunity to do something different. elven rooks cannot question dorian on tevinter slavery like elven inquisitors could. rook cannot ask lucanis about the child recruitment practices of the crows the way the warden could to zevran. rook cannot ask davrin about the warden's pressure into conscription, joinging and eventual calling the way the warden could alistair or hawke can to anders in legacy. you cannot ask about alternatives or question a single authority or character of any kind. you cannot voice dissent. the dialogue option does not exist. what was once a slap on the wrist in previous titles has become reactionary and preemptive. you wont get slapped on the wrist in the first place because you're stuck in a boring, empty room for after-school detention, railroaded into "good" behavior and confined to one path so you cant get into any trouble on your own. thought-terminating fantasy cliche. it didnt need to be some insane groundbreaking revolutionary work of marxism or whatever the fuck hyperbolic nonsense people are trying to straw-man the criticism into to disprove it as unreasonable. it needed to not advertise itself as an RPG and then force me to roleplay white canadian millenial neoliberal afraid of getting canceled on twitter simulator 4.0 because if i knew thats what i was signing up for i would have respectfully declined and saved my $70 on something that doesnt condescend to me for enjoying bald war criminals and stories about revolution

[aeralux]

"Mine" - Aemond Targaryen

Summary: You find Aemond in the Keep's library one evening. You thought that maybe reading a few history books might bore you to sleep. Aemond knew another way to tire you out...

Words: 6.5k

Warnings: SMUT! but more specifically: targcest; degradation; name calling (slut, cocksleeve etc); he uses the term "princess" a lot; rough sex; possibly breeding kink (he does cum inside); mention of Jace and the word "bastard" (by Aemond ofc); fingering; squirting; dirty talk; just straight up filth yknow?

Other notes: Reader has long white hair in this story (reader is Targaryen) but no other physically descriptive words are included. English is not my first language so it may seem like I'm trying too hard at times to sound "real". If you wish you could always leave me a comment <3

-- aera xx

In the quiet library of the Red Keep, evening light poured through tall, narrow windows, casting an amber glow on the shelves filled with dusty books. The scent of old parchment filled the air, creating a nostalgic feeling of ancient knowledge. The soft rustle of turning pages added a gentle rhythm to the library, which was filled with whispered stories.

Aemond Targaryen, exuding a regal presence, sat in this historic space. His silver hair shimmered in the soft light as he read a thick book about the ancient history of House Targaryen. His sharp violet eye was focused on the tales within the pages.

When the door creaked open, it interrupted the library's silence. Aemond lifted his gaze from the book, recognizing your entrance. He closed the heavy tome with a soft thud, changing the atmosphere as he acknowledged you.

You stepped into the peaceful library, bathed in the evening glow, with a quiet energy surrounding you. Aemond nodded, a gesture that was both formal and restrained, before asking, "What are you doing here?" His voice was low and deliberate, breaking the silence. Each word carried authority and thoughtfulness. His one visible violet eye—his other hidden by a black leather eyepatch—lingered on you, silently prompting you to explain.

"I beg your pardon, my prince. I was unaware that visiting the Keep's library was not permitted for someone of my stature," you respond with a playful curtsy, gracefully toward the venerable history section. Your long, flowing white hair cascades behind you like a silken waterfall. While your floor-length night dress, rich with elegance, glides softly with each step. A delicate, deep blue shawl adorns your shoulders, offering a subtle shield against the evening breeze that whispers through the grand hallways. You gaze at the ancient tomes that line the shelves, for knowledge is a treasure worth pursuing, as said by your father many times.

Aemond's gaze followed your graceful movements, his one visible eye tracking you as you glide through the hallowed halls of the library. The sway of your silken garments and the shimmer of your hair caught the dim light, creating an almost ethereal aura around you. His lips curled into a slight smirk, intrigue and amusement playing across his features.

"A library, you say?" His voice, low and rich, echoed in the quiet space. "Since when has the Red Keep's library been open to anyone?" He rose from his seat, his tall frame unfolding with a fluid grace that belied his martial prowess. The click of his boots against the stone floor marked his approach, each step measured and deliberate. "Or perhaps," he continued, his tone taking on a teasing edge, "you've been granted special privileges that I'm not aware of?"

As he drew closer, the scent of leather and a hint of smoke clung to him, a reminder of his time spent training or perhaps riding his majestic dragon, Vhagar. His hand reached out, fingers grazing the spine of a nearby tome, the touch light yet purposeful. "Tell me, princess," he murmured, his voice dropping to a husky whisper, "what brings you to these hallowed halls? Surely not just idle curiosity." His one visible eye locked onto yours, the intensity of his gaze palpable. The air between you seemed to thicken, charged with an unspoken tension. Aemond's presence filled the space, commanding and alluring, a blend of danger and magnetism that was unmistakably Targaryen.

You let out a soft huff, your lips curving into an incredulous smile as you surveyed the rows of books above you. The scent of aged parchment and leather filled the air, mingling with an undeniable sense of history. "Surely, I assumed this esteemed library would be accessible to all residents, particularly those of Targaryen lineage," you stated with poise. Your voice carried a subtle lilt of defiance, a challenge lacing your words as you turned to face the prince. "I fail to see why I should require written permission from the King to peruse the tomes housed within these walls. A noble mind seeks knowledge freely, after all." Your demeanour was resolute, fully aware that your words were a test of the prince's patience and authority.

A soft chuckle escaped Aemond's lips, the sound rich and warm, like aged wine. He closed the distance between you, his towering frame looming over you as you perused the bookshelves. The scent of leather and smoke intensified, mingling with the dusty aroma of ancient tomes.

"Ah, but there's a difference between being allowed and being… expected," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. His hand reached past you, fingers grazing the spine of a particularly old-looking book as he pulled it from the shelf. "Some things in life require… invitation, princess."

He turned the book in his hands, tracing the embossed title with a calloused thumb.

Aemond's gaze drifted from the book to you, his one visible eye roaming over your form with an almost palpable hunger. The air between you seemed to crackle with tension, a silent acknowledgement of the unspoken desires that simmered just beneath the surface.

"Tell me," he purred, leaning in closer, his breath ghosting over your ear, "what secrets are you hoping to uncover in these dusty tomes?" With a deliberate grace, you turned to face him, your eyes sparkling with a mixture of challenge and defiance. The air was thick with unspoken tension, and your voice, steady and composed, cut through it like a blade. "You dare to insult me, my prince. Do you truly believe that merely because I am a woman, I am devoid of the intellect to read and comprehend?"

You took a moment to let your words sink in, the candlelight casting flickering shadows around you. "For your information," you continued, your tone both firm and elegant, "I immerse myself in the written word far more than you may presume. Through hours spent in the quiet company of books, I have delved into the intricacies of the ancient language of High Valyrian."

With that, you leaned back gracefully against the towering bookshelf, the scent of aged parchment enveloping you, further emphasizing your knowledge and poise. Your stance was not just defensive; it was a proclamation of your strength and determination to be seen as more than just a princess.

Aemond's lips curled into a smirk, a dangerous glint in his eye. He leaned in closer, invading your personal space, his tall frame towering over you. The scent of leather and smoke enveloped you, a heady mix that stirred something deep within.

"Is that so?" he purred, his voice low and rich, like honey dripping from a spoon. "The ancient tongue of High Valyria, hmm? Impressive for a woman."

His hand reached out, fingers grazing your cheek with a feather-light touch. The calloused pad of his thumb traced the delicate curve of your jaw, a gentle caress that belied the intensity of his gaze. "But tell me, princess," he murmured, his breath ghosting over your ear, sending shivers down your spine, "what good is knowledge without the wisdom to wield it?"

Aemond's body pressed against yours, the hard planes of his chest a stark contrast to the soft curves of your form. The heat of his skin seeped through the layers of your clothing, igniting a fire within you that threatened to consume you whole.

As you linger in the hushed confines of the library, the air is thick with an almost palpable tension. Dust motes dance lazily in the moonlight that filters through the tall, arched windows, casting delicate patterns on the polished wooden floor. Your lips part ever so gently, the subtle movement accompanied by a playful flick of your tongue against your cheek—a gesture that hints at the complexities of your thoughts swirling within.

“What makes you say that? I believe you do not know me well enough to make such harsh accusations,” you murmur, your voice a silken whisper that cuts through the silence like a soft breeze. The starkness of the cold seems to conspire with the palpable tension in the room, causing your body to respond instinctively. You can feel a faint shiver suffusing your frame, and you —betrayed by your undeniable vulnerability—your soft nipples perk up in reaction. In a bid to maintain your composed facade, you fleetingly draw your thin shawl closer, attempting to shield yourself from the wintry draft and Aemond's intense gaze.

Your gaze, steady and unwavering, locks onto the source of the accusation. A lingering silence stretches between you, thick with unspoken thoughts and emotions.

Aemond's gaze dropped to your chest, a knowing smirk playing on his lips as he noticed the way your nipples strained against the fabric of your dress. The air grew thick with tension, the silence broken only by the soft rustle of pages and the pounding of your heart.

"Oh, I believe I know you well enough, princess," he purred, his voice low and seductive. "Well enough to see the hunger in your eyes, the desire that lurks beneath the surface."

His hand moved from your cheek to your throat, his fingers wrapping around your slender neck in a gentle but firm grip. The warmth of his skin seeped through your flesh, sending a shiver of pleasure down your spine.

"You may hide behind your books and your knowledge, but I see the truth of who you are," he murmured, his breath ghosting over your ear. "A woman with needs, with desires that cannot be satiated by mere words on a page."

Aemond's lips brushed against your earlobe, a feather-light touch that set your nerves ablaze. His tongue darted out, tracing the delicate shell of your ear, a teasing promise of the pleasures that awaited you.

"You seem to have lost track of yourself… my prince," you say, your voice flowing like velvet, rich with an alluring undertone that dances in the air between you. The candlelight flickers, casting warm shadows on the towering shelves laden with bound volumes. He arches an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "Every woman has her needs and desires; I don’t believe I’ve ever denied that," you reply, your tone teasing.

You take a step closer, the scent of aged paper and polished wood swirling around you. "I truly came to the library seeking a few books," you assert, letting the words linger like a sweet melody as you survey the vast collection that surrounds you. "Yet, it seems fate has intertwined our paths, for it is you, who cannot seem to find satisfaction among the pages."

Your gaze locks onto his, and the air between you crackles with unspoken tension. The deep hue of his eye mirrors the mystery and allure of the old library, pulling you in like an enchanting tale begging to be read. You stand defiant, fearless in your challenge, as the study envelops you both in its quiet embrace, the world outside forgotten in the presence of such undeniable chemistry.

Aemond's lips curled into a wicked grin, his eye gleaming with a dangerous light. He leaned in closer, his body pressing against yours, the heat of his skin seeping through the layers of your clothing. The scent of leather and smoke enveloped you, a heady mix that made your head spin and your heart race.

"You're right, princess," he purred, his voice low and seductive. "I am a man with… insatiable appetites." His hand slid down from your throat to your chest, his fingers toying with the edge of your bodice. The rough pad of his thumb brushed against the swell of your breast, sending a jolt of electricity through your veins.

"And you, my dear girl," he murmured, his breath ghosting over your lips, "are a feast I am eager to devour." You observed his hand gliding gracefully across my body, each deliberate movement igniting a fire within you, while you struggled to maintain a steady breath. The air was thick with tension, a blend of desire and playful banter. "Do you truly see yourself as a dragon?" You teased him, your voice soft but laced with challenge. In the world of the Targaryens, such a title was often worn like a badge of honour, and most of them, like Aemond and you, embraced this fierce identity. There was a certain magic in declaring oneself a dragon, a symbol of strength and majesty.

As you gazed into his eyes, you could sense the latent power and pride he carried within him. At this moment, the noble essence of our lineage intertwined with the unmistakable charge of tension. Aemond's eyes flashed with a dangerous light, his lips curling into a wicked grin. He leaned in closer, his body pressing against yours, the heat of his skin seeping through the layers of your clothing. The scent of leather and smoke enveloped you, a heady mix that made your head spin and your heart race.

"A dragon?" he purred, his voice low and seductive. "Oh, I am much more than that, my dear." The rough pad of his thumb brushed against the swell of your breast again, making heat pool between your thighs and your breath stutter. He murmured, his breath ghosting over your lips. "And you are the prey I am eager to hunt."

Your breath catches in your throat as Aemond's fingers graze over the sensitive peaks of your breasts, sending electric sparks racing through your body. You can scarcely believe the words tumbling from his lips, the raw hunger in his voice as he confesses his forbidden desires. "Aemond…" You breathe, your own need rising to match his. "If you've already caught me, then what's left to hunt?"

You lean into his touch, revelling in the feel of his calloused hands on my bare skin. At this moment, nothing else matters - not your duty, not your honour. There is only the heat building between you, the promise of pleasure and passion. "Prove it then," you challenge him, your eyes gleaming with mischief and desire. "Show me the depths of your obsession, the lengths you'll go to claim me as yours."

Your heart pounds in your chest, your body aching for his touch. You know you should resist, should push him away and cling to the tattered remains of your virtue. But Aemond has awakened something in you, a hunger you never knew existed. And now that you have had a taste, you fear you'll never be satisfied again. "Oh, my sweet girl," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "The hunt is just beginning."

With a swift motion, he swept you up into his arms, carrying you towards the nearby table. The books and scrolls scattered to the floor as he set you down on the polished wood, his body pressing against yours, pinning you in place.

His lips trailed along your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your throat. One hand slid between your legs, his fingers pressing against the damp heat of your core. "And I always catch my prey," he murmured against your ear, his breath hot and heavy. "No matter how hard they try to escape." You yelp as Aemond suddenly picks you up, laying you on the wooden table. His sapphire eye glints with a predatory hunger as he realizes your lack of small clothes, his fingers grazing over your slick, aching core.

A whimper escapes your lips, but you quickly clamp your hand over your mouth, your cheeks flushing with embarrassment at how much you are enjoying his rough touch. Your body trembles beneath him, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps as he looms over you, his presence overwhelming, his desire palpable. You have never felt so vulnerable, so exposed, and yet so eager for whatever comes next. Aemond's hands are everywhere, roughly skimming over your skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

"Please," you whisper, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart. "Please, Aemond, I need… I need you" You gasped and moaned as Aemond's fingers plunged deeper into your sopping wet cunt, your tight hole clenching and fluttering uncontrollably around his thick digits. Clear juices oozed out, dripping onto the table below. You weren't a maiden, having occasionally "relieved stress" with your cousin Jacaerys, but you had never felt pleasure this intense before.

Your hips bucked and writhed shamelessly against Aemond's hand, lewd whimpers and whines spilling from your lips as he finger-fucked you roughly. You threw your head back, eyes squeezing shut, your mind going blank from the overwhelming sensations. "Ahh! M-my prince!" You cried out as Aemond's teeth closed around your sensitive nipple, biting and sucking the tender bud. Electric jolts of pleasure shot straight to your core, making your pussy clench even tighter. You were losing control, surrendering completely to Aemond's dominant touch.

Aemond's lips curled into a wicked grin as he felt your tight heat clench around his fingers, your wetness coating his skin. He could tell that you were no maiden, but the way you responded to his touch was intoxicating nonetheless.

"That's it, my little minx," he growled, his voice thick with desire. "Let go and give yourself to me completely." He bit down harder on your nipple, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh. You cried out, your hips bucking wildly against his hand. Aemond could feel your body trembling beneath him, your thighs quivering as you teetered on the brink of release. He added a third finger, stretching you further, his thumb circling your clit in maddening strokes. Your moans echoed through the library, the sound of your pleasure filling the air.

"Come for me," he commanded, his lips moving to your neck. "Let me feel you come undone on my fingers."

You sat up on your elbows, your breath quickening as you watched Aemond's skilled fingers playing between your thighs. The scene was so erotic that you couldn't help but let out a loud, wanton moan. "W-wait, this feels… weird," you stuttered, your voice shaking as he continued his relentless ministrations. The pleasure was unlike anything you had ever experienced, building in intensity with each thrust of his fingers. A strange tension coiled in your stomach, unfamiliar yet tantalizingly close to release.

Your head fell back, your long white hair cascading down your back as you arched into his touch. You bit your lip, trying to stifle the whimpers and gasps that escaped you. "Aemond, please," you breathed, your hips rocking against his hand. "I've never felt anything like this before. It's too much…" But even as the words left your lips, you knew they were a lie. It wasn't too much, and Gods, you didn't want him to stop.

Aemond's eyes darkened with lust as he watched you sit up, your chest heaving with each ragged breath. The sight of you spread out before him, your skin flushed with arousal, was almost too much to bear. "Weird?" he chuckled, his fingers never ceasing their relentless pace. "Oh, my sweet girl, this is just the beginning."

He could feel the tension building in your body, the way your muscles tensed and quivered beneath his touch. He knew you were close, teetering on the edge of something profound and all-consuming. "Embrace it," he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear. You cried out loudly, your moans escaping in broken sobs as the intense pleasure overtook you. "N-no! S-stop!" You pleaded, but it was too late. Your climax hit you like a massive wave, washing over you with a force that left you gasping and trembling.

Your body convulsed with the sheer force of your release, your inner walls clenching and fluttering around his fingers. Clear, sticky essence gushed out of you, coating his hand and splattering onto the table below. The sensation was overwhelming, leaving you drenched and shaking.

As the final waves of ecstasy subsided, your arms gave out, and you collapsed back onto the table, limp and spent. Your core continued to twitch and spasm, empty and aching for more. You panted heavily, your chest heaving as you struggled to catch my breath.

At that moment, you felt utterly vulnerable, exposed, and at his mercy. The intensity of my orgasm had left you raw, your defences stripped away. You lay there, trembling and gasping, your body still humming with residual pleasure. You couldn't help but wonder what he would do next, how far he would push you. But one thing was certain - you had never felt anything quite like that before. Aemond watched with rapt attention as your body convulsed in ecstasy, your cries of pleasure echoing through the library. He felt your essence coat his fingers, your release dripping down his wrist and onto the table below.

He continued to work his fingers inside you, prolonging your climax until you were nothing more than a quivering mess beneath him. Your chest heaved as you struggled to catch your breath, your skin slick with sweat, and your hair plastered to your face. "Look at you," he purred, his eyes roaming over your trembling form. "So responsive, so eager for my touch."

He leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear. "And we've only just begun, my love. There is so much more I want to show you, so many ways I want to make you come undone." "W-wait", you cried out as Aemond's fingers began to slip free from your sensitive, cum-soaked pussy. Your release dripping down your thighs, the table below you slick with your wetness. Your legs trembled uncontrollably, the aftershocks of your intense orgasm still ripping through you. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill down your cheeks at the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body.

Your pussy continued to pulse and flutter around nothing, still recovering from your intense climax. But you knew you couldn't take anymore, not yet. You needed a moment to catch your breath, to gather your scattered wits.

"Please, Aemond," you gasped, your voice hoarse and desperate. "I need a moment. You've undone me completely." Aemond smirked at the sight of your tears, your body still trembling from the aftershocks of your climax. He knew that he had pushed you to the brink, that he had taken you to a place of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

But he also knew that it was too soon to stop, that he had to continue to push you, to mould you into the perfect lover for him. "Shh, my love," he murmured, his fingers gently wiping away your tears. "I know it's overwhelming, but you must trust me. I would never hurt you."

He leaned down, his lips trailing kisses along your jawline and down your neck. His fingers continued their gentle ministrations, his thumb circling your clit with a feather-light touch.

"Just breathe, my darling. Let yourself feel everything." You whimpered as you felt his fingers brush against your over-sensitive clit, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. You couldn't help but moan softly, your hips arching into his touch, seeking more, craving more.

"It never felt like this with Jacaerys…" You whined absentmindedly. You had never been so wanton, so desperate for another's touch. But with Aemond, you couldn't help myself. He brought out a side of you that you had never known existed, a side that craved pleasure and passion and the sweet oblivion of surrender. A low growl rumbled in Aemond's chest at the mention of your former lover's name. The thought of Jacaerys touching you, pleasuring you, filled him with a jealous rage that he could scarcely contain.

"Forget him," he snarled, his fingers tightening around your wrist. "He is nothing compared to me. I am the only one who can truly satisfy you, the only one who can make you feel like this." He leaned down, his lips crashing against yours in a bruising kiss. He poured all of his passion, all of his desire, into that single moment, claiming you as his own.

His hand moved lower, his fingers delving into your slick folds once more. He could feel your walls fluttering around him, still sensitive from your previous climax. "I will make you forget his name, my love. I will make you scream mine until the very walls of this library shake."

You whimpered as you felt Aemond's fingers delve into your sensitive folds once more, the obscene wet sounds of his ministrations filling the room. Your hips bucked involuntarily, trying to escape the overwhelming sensations even as your body craved more. "Aemond, please…" you gasped, your voice breathy and desperate. "I need… I need you inside me."

Your mind was hazy with lust, coherent thoughts slipping away like grains of sand through my fingers. All you could focus on was the heat building between your legs, the ache of emptiness that only Aemond's cock could fill.

"Please, my prince," you begged, your hips rolling shamelessly against his hand. "Does that mean I can't fuck Jace anymore?" You whined, biting your lip, your words leaving your mouth before you could stop them.

Aemond's eyes narrowed at your question, his grip on your wrist tightening to the point of pain. "No, you cannot fuck him anymore," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "You belong to me now, body and soul. I will not share you with anyone, least of all that pathetic bastard."

He thrust his fingers deeper into your cunt, his thumb pressing firmly against your clit. He could feel your walls clenching around him, trying to push him out, but he refused to relent. "You are mine. Mine to fuck, mine to claim, mine to ruin."

He leaned down, his teeth grazing your earlobe. "And I will ruin you, my love. I will break you apart and put you back together again, moulding you into the perfect lover for me." You let out a broken whimper, your body trembling from Aemond's touch. His hands roamed over your naked form, igniting a fire deep within you. You had never felt such desire, such raw, primal need. "Please, Aemond," you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper. "I want you inside me. I need you."

You reached out, your fingers tangling with his, guiding his hand to the slick folds of your sex. He groaned at the contact, his eye darkening with lust and longing. Aemond's eyes darkened with lust at your desperate plea, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

"As you wish, my love," he purred, his voice low and seductive. He withdrew his fingers from your dripping cunt, bringing them to his lips. He licked them clean, savouring the taste of your arousal. "Delicious," he murmured, his eyes never leaving yours.

He stood up, quickly shedding his clothes until he was completely naked. His cock sprang free, hard and ready for you. He pushed you down onto the table, spreading your legs wide. He positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against your slick folds.

"Beg for it," he commanded, his voice rough with desire. "Beg for me to fuck you, to claim you as mine." You whimpered as you felt Aemond's hard, leaking tip tease your slick folds. Your body ached for him and craved his touch like nothing you had ever known before. "Please, Aemond," you breathed, your voice trembling with need. "I need you. I've wanted you for so long, dreamed of you claiming me as yours."

You looked up at him, your eyes glossy with desire, your lips swollen from his kisses. "I've touched myself thinking of you," you confessed, your cheeks flushing with shame and arousal. "Imagined you taking me, using me for your pleasure. Treating me like your personal slut." Your heart raced, your body trembling with anticipation. You had never wanted anything so badly, never needed anyone so desperately. Aemond was the only one who could satisfy the hunger that consumed you, the only one who could make you whole. Aemond's eyes darkened with lust at your confession, a feral grin spreading across his face.

"Such a naughty girl," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "Touching yourself while thinking of me… I love it." He thrust his hips forward, burying his thick cock deep inside your slick heat. You cried out at the sudden intrusion, your walls stretching to accommodate his size.

"Fuck, you're tight," he groaned, his fingers digging into your hips. "I'm going to ruin this sweet little cunt of yours." He set a brutal pace, pounding into you with reckless abandon. The table shook with each powerful thrust, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh echoing through the room.

"Take it, you filthy slut," he snarled, his eyes boring into yours. "Take my cock like the whore you are." Aemond's hips pistoned faster, harder, driving his thick cock deeper into your aching cunt with every powerful thrust. "Ah!" You cried out, your inner walls clenching around his throbbing shaft, the delicious stretch and burn of his girth filling you completely. The broad head of his cock battered my inner barrier, striking that secret place deep inside that made sparks of pleasure explode.

"Hngh! Oh gods, Aemond!" You moaned wantonly, your body quivering like a leaf in a storm. Your fingers scrabbled for purchase on his sweat-slicked shoulders as he pounded into you relentlessly, the obscene slap of flesh on flesh echoing through the chamber. "Have you ever… mph!… ever thought of me like this?" I managed to gasp out between his brutal thrusts, your eyes glazed with lust. "Thought of me while you touched yourself?"

You gazed up at him with hooded eyes, your lips parted and kiss-swollen, silently begging for more, for everything he had to give me. At that moment, you were his completely - mind, body and soul. Nothing else mattered except the feel of him moving inside you, claiming you, branding you as his own.

Aemond let out a dark chuckle at your question, his hips never ceasing their brutal rhythm. "Oh, I've thought of you plenty, my sweet," he purred, his voice dripping with sin. "Late at night, alone in my chambers, with my cock in my hand and your name on my lips."

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. His tongue plundered your mouth, claiming every inch of you. "I've imagined bending you over every surface in this keep, fucking you until you scream," he growled against your lips. "I've pictured you on your knees, choking on my cock, begging for more." He sat back up, gripping your thighs and spreading your legs even wider. He pounded into you with renewed vigour, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room.

"And now here you are, my filthy little fantasy come to life," he snarled, his eyes wild with lust. "And I'm going to ruin you for anyone else."

You bite my lip, hearing his words, whimpers of pleasure spilling out. "Yeah?" You breathe, your voice barely above a whisper. "Have you thought about using me in front of everyone, just to show them who I belong to? Who's the only one who gets to fuck me?"

Aemond's eyes darken, his grip on your hips tightening almost painfully. "Poor you," you murmur, a wicked smile curving my lips. "You must have been so jealous of Jace…" You can hardly think, hardly speak, as Aemond's thrusts grow more brutal, more demanding. Each stroke sends shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your body.

Aemond's eyes flashed with rage at the mention of Jace, his thrusts becoming even more punishing. "That bastard doesn't deserve you," he snarled, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. "You're mine, do you understand? No one else can have you."

He pulled out suddenly, flipping you over onto your stomach. He kicked your legs apart, mounting you from behind. "I should take you in front of the whole court. Let them all see who you belong to," he growled, his fingers tangling in your hair. "I should fuck you in front of that smug bastard. Make him watch as I claim what's mine."

He slammed back into you, his cock hitting that spot deep inside that made you see stars. "Yes, my prince," you moaned, pushing your hips back to meet his thrusts. "Parade me around the castle like the fucktoy I am. Let everyone see how you've claimed me, body and soul."

"This cunt belongs to me," he snarled, punctuating each word with a brutal thrust. "No one else gets to touch you. No one else gets to fuck you. You're mine."

You let out a sharp gasp as Aemond thrust into you from behind, the head of his cock slamming against your cervix. The pain mixed with pleasure, sending shockwaves of ecstasy rippling through your body. "Fuck, Aemond!" You cried out, your voice high and breathy. "Harder, please! Use me, ruin me! I'm yours, all yours!"

You had never spoken like this before, had never even imagined yourself capable of such lewd, wanton behaviour. But Aemond's cock was driving you mad with lust, turning you into a creature of pure, unadulterated desire.

You couldn't believe the filthy words spilling from your lips, the depraved fantasies unfolding in your mind. But you were too far gone to care, lost in the throes of passion, the heat of Aemond's body against yours.

"I'm yours," you gasped, my nails gripping the wooden table as he pounded into me. "Now and forever, I belong to you. Use me as you see fit, my love. My body is your plaything, your toy to break and remake as you please."

Aemond grunted in approval at your filthy words, his hips snapping forward even harder. "That's right, you're my fucktoy," he growled, his fingers digging into the meat of your ass. "My personal cocksleeve to use as I please." He reached around, his hand finding your clit and rubbing it roughly. Your back arched, a silent scream tearing from your throat as your orgasm crashed over you.

"That's it, cum on my cock like a good little whore," he snarled, his fingers working you through your climax. Your pussy clenched around him, milking his length. With a roar, he buried himself to the hilt, his cock twitching as he filled you with his seed.

"Fuck, I love you," he panted, his forehead resting against your shoulder blade. "I love you so much it hurts." You creamed all over his cock, painting it white with your releases. You came with a loud scream of pleasure, your eyes wide with disbelief. You looked up at Aemond, your gaze searching his face, trying to read the truth behind his words.

"Do you actually mean that?" you asked, your voice trembling with a mix of shock and excitement.

Your cheeks flushed a deep crimson, the memory of your passionate coupling still fresh in your mind. You could feel the sticky residue of your combined releases on your thighs, the slight soreness between your legs a testament to your intense lovemaking.

But to hear Aemond say it out loud, to put words to the deed, made it feel somehow more real, more tangible. More forbidden. Part of you wanted to deny it, to pretend that it hadn't happened, that you hadn't surrendered to the taboo desires that burned within you.

But another part of you, the part that had been awakened by Aemond's touch, his passion, his love, couldn't deny the truth.

And as you lay there, naked and vulnerable before him, you knew that you would do it again in a heartbeat. Aemond pulled out of you slowly, his softening cock slipping free with a wet sound. He turned you over, his lilac eye intense as it met your gaze.

"More than anything," he said seriously, his thumb tracing your bottom lip. "You're the only one who understands me, the only one who sees the real me beneath the arrogant prick everyone else knows."

He cupped your face, his expression softening. "I love you. I've loved you since we were children, playing in the gardens of the Red Keep. You were always my favourite cousin, the one I felt most connected to."

His thumb brushed away a tear you didn't realize had fallen. "I know I'm not good enough for you, not with my temper and rage. But I promise you, I'll spend every day trying to be the man you deserve. The man who can give you the life you want." He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours.

You smiled gently at the memory he conjured from your childhood, a soft glow lighting up your eyes. “You were such a sweet boy,” you said, your voice warm and reminiscent. With a tender touch, you caressed his hair, your fingers brushing lightly through the strands, evoking a sense of familiarity and affection.

Leaning closer, you continued, “I liked you from the very moment you helped me when Aegon tripped me.” The scene played in your mind like an old tapestry, vibrant and full of life—the laughter of children mingling with the rustle of leaves, the way he had reached out with such kindness.

A long-forgotten warmth filled your heart as you spoke, your voice barely above a whisper. You could feel the heaviness of sleep gradually overcoming you, your eyelids fluttering as you struggled to stay present in the moment. With a soft sigh, you smiled at him, cherishing the connection that transcended the years—an unspoken bond woven through shared memories and gentle gestures, a bond that still felt as rich and regal as the day it was born.

Aemond chuckled softly, a low, melodic sound that resonated in the quiet room, his hand instinctively covering yours as it rested in his hair. "I was a boy who found trouble at every turn," he corrected with a charming grin, his violet eyes glinting with mischief. "Yet, despite my flaws, I always sought to extend kindness to you, even when my temperament faltered with others."

With a graceful sweep, he lifted you effortlessly into his arms and carried you toward the grand sofa nestled between the ornate cupboards. As he laid you down with the utmost care, he settled beside you, repositioning himself to envelop you in his warmth. His arm encircled your waist possessively, drawing you close so your head rested upon his broad chest, the steady rhythm of his heart echoing a soothing lullaby. "I shall always protect you," he murmured, his breath a gentle caress against your skin as his fingers traced intricate patterns along your back, each stroke imbued with affection. "No matter what trials may arise or who dares to come between us, I vow to remain steadfast by your side." With tender reverence, he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, a promise sealed in that delicate gesture. His breathing began to slow, a tranquil cadence as he held you close, a knight sworn to guard his cherished queen against the world.

[thefreakandthehair]

you could be bad, but I wanna find out.

written for @steddiemicrofic ‘guard’ | wc: 532 | rated: mature | tags: goalie!Steve Harrington, fan!Eddie Munson, alternate universe- no upside down, different first meeting, meet ugly (but it's still cute), bars, alcohol mention, description of sexual activity, humor, big mouth!Eddie Munson, long-suffering besties Gareth and Jeff

The bar is buzzing with excited fans, humming with an energy that makes Eddie feel looser and lighter than the Budweiser ever could. Surrounded by a sea of black and red jerseys that line the long, narrow bar, Jeff and Gareth laugh and shake their heads. 

Eddie hasn’t stopped rambling since the Blackhawks won, and he has no intentions of stopping anytime soon. 

Not after a win like that— a shutout win that tore the roof off of United Center. 

And certainly not after the Blackhawks goalie guarded the net like it was his treasure and he, its dragon. 

Sure, it helps that Steve Harrington is definitely the most beautiful man to ever grace an ice rink, but it’s the competence that gets him. Watching Harrington bend and stretch his limbs into pretzel-like shapes, coming up with the puck and an unhinged grin, really gets his motor running.

“I mean, did you see him?” Eddie asks for maybe the tenth time since sitting at the shiny, shellacked bar. “Jeff, you get it, right? You see what I’m seeing, right?” 

“I see a guy who’s really great at his job, and I see another guy who sounds insane. Guess which one you are?” Jeff snorts into his beer and takes a sip. 

“Gareth, buddy, surely you can understand where I’m coming from. Remember the first time you saw Lars Ulrich?” Eddie turns, knocking his shoulder against Gareth’s. 

“Duh, dude,” Gareth leans forward and yells in response, the bar erupting into cheers and more drunken celebrations. “The difference is that I wanted to be Lars Ulrich. You want to fuck Steve Harrington.” 

Eddie clutches his chest in feigned offense and feels himself being pushed against the bar as the building fills up with what must be the final wave of fans leaving the stadium. The bartender nods behind him with a knowing smile and passes a draft beer over Eddie’s shoulder into a large, veiny hand. 

“Okay, fine,” Eddie concedes, resting his own drink on the bar. “You’re right. The way I would fuck Steve Harrington is obscene. I’d let him violate whatever obscure, unknown Bible Belt laws he wanted. He's a ride I wouldn't survive. The wheels would come right off.”

“Uh, Eddie?” Jeff tries to interrupt but Eddie’s having none of it. 

“Nope, I’m not done. That split save? The way he guarded his crease? And for a fucking 36-save shutout? Holy shit.”

“Ed—” Gareth tries but Eddie steamrolls him, too. 

“What is it you call it, Gare? A competency kink? Well, sure. Fine. Call it what you want, but he’s so good at what he does. I need him in a way that would disappoint my grandmother, and not just because she was homophobic."

A hand— the same hand that had reached over him to grab the glass just a few minutes ago— pats him on the shoulder and when Eddie turns around to see who the fuck is touching him, he nearly falls off of the wobbly stool.

Steve Harrington grins, a drink in one hand and the other still resting on Eddie’s frozen frame. 

“I think your grandmother would’ve liked me,” he shrugs. “I have a way with families.” 

[ozzgin]

Okay but imagine this grumpy dragon with his silly sunshine human. Know human knows how much the dragon cares for them and they know the dragon won't let any harm come to them. But this silly little human let's impulsive thoughts sometimes win. So imagine the human taking a leap of faith just to get a react out of their dragon partner.

(Honestly I'm imagining this as a human princess, she just wants to see the forest and run through it. I just like imagining falling in one of those pretty dresses and the dragon catching you. But he lectures you the whole time)

Ok ok hear me out, goofy Reader who's always had a crush on her family's dragon, and the dragon who was always aware and just kind of went along with it because it's cute. Except now it's officially happening. Content: female reader, monster romance, parody

"I am ready to be the sacrificial bride."

"...The what?"

The King - your father - looks up from his book with a confused expression.

"You know, for the dragon", you clarify, mildly annoyed by his obliviousness. "The one guarding our Kingdom?"

"Oh, sweetie..." he begins, "no one does that anymore. We have a yearly contract."

What a load of nonsense. You stomp up the stairs, heading for the top of the tower. It's fine, you tell yourself. So what if you don't have an excuse to flirt with the beast? You can just come clean and confess your feelings either way.

Above the roof, the gargantuan monster yawns lazily. He can hear your angry footsteps, and he knows exactly why you're coming. You're not the most discreet suitor, you see.

He's been looking after you for years already, earning the grand title of benevolent guardian who keeps you out of danger. No one has a grasp on you quite like he does. It is only natural, then, that he could read your longing stares, or the dreamy sighs as you’d nudge yourself one inch closer to his frame.

Oh, he knew very well that you didn’t “accidentally” end up in this or that kind of trouble, especially because your terrified shrieks would immediately turn into a beaming smile upon his arrival.

He grunts, preparing himself to face you.

You explain your side while he nods along monotonously. Pointless to argue, really. He'll just say yes. After all, why not? You're kind of annoying, but at least you're cute. Maybe this way, if you're officially "dating", you'll be less clingy, and he can do his job in peace.

"Really?" you repeat, eyes wide in delight.

Before he can confirm his intentions, you begin to unbutton your dress.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"I thought we're going to consummate the relationship", you respond sheepishly.

Good Lord, you're a helpless horndog. What would he even tell your father? Somewhere, deep into the royal gardens, the King sneezes loudly and jokes about his daughter being up to no good.

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[therogueflame]

Mercy

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enjoy your food. based on this ask.

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Summary: An arranged marriage forces two guarded strangers into an unexpected reckoning. What begins as duty becomes something far more dangerous—intimate, unraveling, and quietly consuming.

WC: 5.6k

Warnings: 18+, sex (p in v), oral (m!recieving), first time, arranged marriage, light angst, emotional repression, power play (light d/s), sub!aemond

Aemond Targaryen x Baratheon!Wife!Reader

MDNI!!!

They say the match is a strong one. Baratheon blood, storm-forged and loyal. Valyrian blood, sharp as steel. A union to steady the realm. A bond to bind two great houses. They say many things, and none of them matter. The only thing that matters is him.

He stands beside the altar like he’s being sentenced. Stiff, composed, unreadable. Aemond Targaryen, Prince of the Realm, kinslayer in waiting, heir to something not quite the throne but close enough to taste. His hands are clasped behind his back, knuckles pale, shoulders square. Not an inch of him moves that doesn’t need to. Not an inch of him gives anything away. You have seen statues with more expression.

He does not look at you when you approach. Not when your father gives your hand to the crown. Not when the septon calls you lady, wife, good and faithful. Not when your vows are spoken with a clear voice and he answers them in turn. His eye tracks the floor. His mouth stays in a line. When the kiss comes, he does not flinch, but you feel the breath he holds like a man bracing for the gallows.

It is not fear of you. It is not disgust. It is something older. Something buried so deep beneath pride and purpose that most men would not know to look for it. But you are not most men. You are not soft. You are not blind. And you know what it looks like when someone spends their life trying not to be seen.

You have heard the rumors. The boy who lost an eye to a cousin’s blade and never wept. The boy who tamed a dragon older than time and never once smiled. The boy who walks like a blade and breathes like a storm but keeps his nights silent, untouched, unspent. Some say he’s devout. Others say he’s cruel. You know better. You’ve seen what he does when no one is watching.

You see it in the way he hesitates when someone reaches for his shoulder. In the way his fingers twitch before they curl into fists. In the way his breath catches when your sleeve brushes his at supper and he does not move for the rest of the meal. He does not touch. He does not take. He does not want to be wanted. And yet.

The court celebrates. Music swells. Wine is poured. Your names are toasted. But he does not drink. He does not dance. He stands to the side like a ghost wearing silver and black, and the flames of the candles lick his profile in gold. His mother watches him with narrowed eyes. His brother laughs too loudly. You sit beside him and say nothing, and he is grateful for it.

When the hour grows late and the guests grow restless, you excuse yourself first. He follows minutes later, quiet as a shadow, and joins you in the chamber they’ve prepared. The bed is wide. The sheets are clean. The fire is low, and the silence is louder than the drums had been.

He does not speak. He does not undress. He stands by the door with one hand on the frame, breathing through his nose like he’s waiting for orders. You watch him for a long time before you say anything at all. And when you do, it is simple.

“Are you going to look at me?”

He does. Slowly. Carefully. His gaze finds your collarbone first, then your throat, then your mouth. He stops there. You let the moment stretch. He does not move.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you say.

That gets his eye. His good eye. The sapphire stays hidden under its leather patch, but you see the flicker beneath. Something brittle. Something caged. He holds your gaze for a breath too long before his lashes drop and he turns away.

“I do not require affection,” he says. His voice is low, nearly flat. “Only cooperation.”

You hum, noncommittal. “Is that what this is?”

He says nothing.

He’s afraid you’ll see too much. Afraid of what might slip out if he lets himself want anything at all. Because want is weakness. Want is hunger. And he was taught that hunger must be hidden, starved, shamed. His mother taught him to swallow it. His brother taught him to ignore it. His own reflection taught him to flinch from it. But you are not them. And you are not interested in performance.

You sit on the edge of the bed, gown pooling like poured ink, and you let him stand there in his silence. You do not take your eyes off him. You do not reach for him. You simply wait.

And after a long pause, you ask, “You’ve done this before?”

His jaw clenches. He doesn’t answer.

“Then why,” you murmur, “do you look like I’m going to hurt you?”

He doesn’t breathe for a full second. Then another. Then another. The silence swells, thick and hot, stretching taut between you until you almost feel it crack. He closes his eye. Not in frustration. In surrender. For just a moment, he looks like a man unarmed.

You don’t press him. Not yet. You let the silence bloom. Let him sit in it. Let him feel what it’s like to be watched, not judged. Seen, not claimed. His hand slides off the doorframe. He takes a step forward, slow and measured, the way you’d approach a wild thing that might bolt if startled.

You tilt your head.

“Take off your boots,” you say softly.

It’s not a question. Not a plea. A command, calm and unhurried. The words settle in the room like falling ash.

His gaze flicks up, uncertain, almost startled—but not angry. Not offended. Just… confused. Like no one’s ever told him what to do in the quiet, and meant it. Like he isn’t sure if it’s real.

Still, he obeys.

His fingers go to the leather, movements precise, too controlled. He keeps his eye on the floor as he works, lashes low, lips parted just slightly. When he finishes, he straightens—and hesitates. You don’t tell him what to do next. You just look at him.

“Closer.”

Another order. Not cruel. Not cold. But clear.

He comes.

And when he stands before you, close enough to feel your breath, you rise slowly from the edge of the bed and reach up—not to touch, not yet—but to hover your hand beside his cheek. He flinches anyway. Only a flicker. But you catch it.

You don’t move. You don’t blink. You let the space speak for itself.

“You’re not used to this, are you,” you murmur. “Someone who doesn’t want to take from you. Someone who waits for you to give.”

He swallows.

You lower your hand.

“Then you’ll need to ask.”

His throat works. His eye closes again. He doesn’t move.

“I said—” your voice dips, velvet over steel “—you’ll need to ask.”

His breath comes faster now. You see it in the rise of his chest, the flush beginning at his collar, the way his hands flex at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them. But he nods. Just once.

You smile.

“Good,” you whisper. “Then let’s begin.”

"What would you have me say?" His voice is barely audible, a tremor beneath the surface of carefully maintained control.

You step closer, close enough that the heat of him reaches you, but still not touching. "The truth. What you want."

His jaw works, and for a moment, you think he might retreat. But then: "I don't know what I want."

"You do," you counter, circling him slowly. The silver threads in his doublet catch the firelight as you move. "You've just never allowed yourself to name it."

When you complete your circle, standing before him again, his breathing has changed—shallow, uneven. The prince who tamed Vhagar, who strikes fear into the hearts of men twice his age, looks lost in this quiet room.

"Would you like me to touch you?" you ask, voice neutral, offering rather than taking.

His eye widens slightly, and he gives a single, sharp nod.

"That's not asking," you remind him gently.

The muscle in his jaw tightens. You watch his pride war with something deeper, something starved. When he speaks, his voice is rough with disuse, as if these particular words have never left his throat before.

"Touch me," he says, then adds, "Please."

You raise your hand slowly, telegraphing every movement, and rest your palm against his cheek. His skin is warm, feverish almost, and you feel the slight tremor that runs through him at the contact. His eye closes briefly, lashes dark against his pale skin.

"Where else?" you ask.

His breath catches. "I—"

"Show me," you suggest, letting your hand fall away.

After a moment's hesitation, he takes your wrist—his grip surprisingly gentle—and guides your palm to his throat. His pulse hammers beneath your fingers, quick and desperate. His eye opens, meeting yours with something raw and unguarded.

"Here," he whispers, his voice barely a breath.

You press your palm flat against the column of his neck, thumb tracing the hollow at the base of his throat. He shivers, a full-body tremor that he can't suppress, and his hand tightens fractionally on your wrist—not to stop you, but to anchor himself.

"And here?" you ask, letting your other hand hover near his chest.

He guides it to rest over his heart, which pounds so hard you can feel it through the layers of silk and leather. His breathing has gone ragged now, all pretense of composure abandoned. When you begin to work at the fastenings of his doublet, his hands fall to his sides, useless. The fabric parts under your fingers, revealing the pale expanse of his chest beneath. He stands perfectly still as you push the doublet from his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a whisper of silk. His skin is marked with old scars—thin white lines that speak of training yards and real battles—but he doesn't flinch when your fingertips trace them.

"You're beautiful," you murmur, and he makes a sound low in his throat, somewhere between protest and plea.

"I'm not—"

"You are." Your hands map the planes of his chest, the sharp cut of his collarbones, the lean muscle earned through years with sword and dragon. "And you're going to learn to believe it."

His head falls back slightly, exposing the long line of his throat. When your lips brush against his pulse point, he gasps—a broken, desperate sound that he immediately tries to swallow. His entire body tenses beneath your lips, as if the simple contact has sent lightning through his veins. You can feel the war within him—desire fighting against the instinct to withdraw, to protect. Your mouth moves slowly along the column of his throat, tasting salt and warmth, and his breathing fractures into something ragged.

"Tell me to stop," you whisper against his skin, "and I will."

His hand finds your waist, tentative at first, then gripping with sudden urgency. "Don't," he says, the word rough-edged. "Don't stop."

You smile against his pulse. Progress.

Your fingers find the laces of his shirt, working them loose with deliberate patience. He stands perfectly still, watching your hands with an intensity that makes heat pool in your belly. When you push the fabric from his shoulders, revealing more of him to the firelight, his breath catches.

You step back to look at him—truly look. His chest rises and falls rapidly, skin pale as moonlight save for the flush spreading down from his throat. The firelight plays across the lean planes of muscle, the elegant architecture of bone and sinew. He's all sharp angles and careful control, but beneath that you see the hunger he's kept leashed for so long it's become part of him.

"Lie down," you say softly.

He hesitates, uncertainty flickering across his features. The bed looms behind him, vast and intimidating in its implications. When he doesn't move, you reach for the ties of your gown, loosening them with slow deliberation. The fabric slips from your shoulders, pooling at your feet.

His breath stops entirely.

You stand before him unashamed, letting him drink in the sight. His good eye travels over you with something approaching reverence, as if he can't quite believe what he's seeing. The leather patch over his other eye seems darker in the dim light, a shadow against his pale skin.

"Lie down," you repeat, and this time he obeys.He sits at the edge first, then reclines slowly, his body rigid with tension. The firelight plays across the planes of his chest, casting shadows in the hollows of his collarbones. He looks both powerful and vulnerable, a contradiction made flesh.

You approach unhurried, watching how his eye follows your every movement. When your knee dips the mattress beside him, his hands clench in the sheets.

His eye widens slightly, darting away and then back, as if he's fighting the urge to look at you fully. The struggle is visible in the tension of his jaw, the way his fingers curl into fists at his sides.

"Do you want to see me?" you ask, voice steady despite the vulnerability of standing naked before him.

"Yes," he whispers, the word escaping before he can catch it.

You step closer. "Then look at me, Aemond. Not at the floor. Not at the wall. At me."

When his gaze finally rises to meet yours, there's something almost painful in its intensity—like a man who's been dying of thirst suddenly confronted with water. His eye traces the curves of your body with such focus that you can almost feel it like a physical touch. The flush spreads down his throat, across his chest. You watch it bloom beneath his skin and something primal stirs in your belly at the sight. He's beautiful in his hunger, in the way he tries so hard to contain it.

"Touch yourself," you say quietly.

His breath hitches. "What?"

"You heard me." You settle beside him on the bed, close enough that your thigh brushes his hip. "I want to watch."

"I don't—" His voice cracks slightly. "I can't—"

"You can." Your hand hovers over his chest, not quite touching. "Show me how you've touched yourself when you thought of this. Of being wanted."

A tremor runs through him. His eye closes tight, as if he's fighting some internal battle. When it opens again, there's something desperate there, something that's been caged too long.

"I haven't," he admits, the words barely audible. "Not... not like this."

You tilt your head, studying him. "Never?"

His throat works as he swallows. "I was taught that desire is weakness. That to want is to be vulnerable."

Something aches in your chest—not pity, but understanding. You shift closer, your naked hip pressing against his clothed one.

"Then I'll show you," you murmur.

You take his hand in yours, guiding it to your waist. His fingers tremble against your skin, hesitant yet eager. You slide his palm upward, over the curve of your ribs, until it cups your breast. His breath catches, a small, broken sound escaping his lips.

"Feel," you instruct softly. "Learn what pleases."

His touch is tentative at first, then grows bolder as you arch into his palm. His thumb finds your nipple, circling with surprising gentleness, and when you gasp softly his eye widens as if the sound has shocked him.

"Like that?" he asks, voice rough with wonder.

"Yes," you breathe, and guide his other hand to join the first.

He learns quickly, watching your face for every reaction, cataloging what makes you sigh and what makes you arch against him. There's something almost scholarly in his attention, as if he's studying a text written in a language he's never been taught to read. When you rock against his touch, seeking more friction, his breathing becomes ragged.

"I want to taste you," he says suddenly, the admission torn from him like a confession.

"Then do it."

He sits up slowly, eye never leaving yours, and leans forward until his breath ghosts across your throat. His lips find the hollow beneath your collarbone, hesitant at first, then growing bolder as your breath catches. His mouth trails across your skin, exploring with careful precision, as though mapping territories previously unknown. When his lips close around your nipple, a soft moan escapes you, and you feel him shudder in response.

His hands find your waist, steadying you as he draws you closer, his exploration becoming more confident with each sound you make. The leather patch brushes against your skin as he moves, a reminder of what he's lost and what he's guarded. You reach for it, fingers hovering at its edge.

"May I?" you whisper.

He freezes, tension rippling through him. For a moment, you think he'll refuse, retreat back into that carefully constructed fortress. Instead, he nods once, a sharp, decisive movement.

Your fingers slide beneath the leather, gently lifting it away. The sapphire gleams in the firelight, a brilliant blue stone fitted perfectly into the hollow where his eye once was. It catches the flames and throws them back in fractured pieces, beautiful and terrible at once. You've heard whispers about it—the Targaryen prince's pride, his defiance made manifest. But seeing it now, this close, you understand it differently. It's not pride. It's armor.

Your fingertips trace the scarred skin around its edges, gentle as a prayer. He flinches but doesn't pull away, his remaining eye watching you with something between terror and desperate hope. The scars are old, silver-white against pale skin, mapping the violence that stole his sight and gave him this cold, careful beauty in return. You tilt his chin toward you and make him look. There is no resistance, only hesitation, the kind that trembles at the edge of need. His jaw tightens. His breath shortens. His hands stay still, clenched in the covers like a boy holding himself together. You press your lips just below the corner of his mouth, soft, not teasing, not tender, just sure. Then lower. The line of his throat. The hollow of his collar. Each kiss is placed like a seal, like a mark only you are allowed to give. He shudders. Not because of fear. Because he is losing the last of whatever he thought made him strong.

You sink to your knees between his legs and he doesn’t breathe. The silence stretches. He looks down at you, blinking like he’s not sure this is real. You wait. One second. Two. Then your fingers find the laces at his waist and he stiffens again, breath hitching as you begin to undo them. You move slowly. No rush. No ceremony. Just deliberate, unhurried control. One knot, then another, until the fabric parts and his breath leaves him in a slow, uneven exhale. You peel the breeches down over his hips and let them fall to the floor. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t dare.

"Hands behind your back."

It comes out quiet. Flat. Unshakable. You watch him hesitate. Then obey. Elbows stiff, shoulders tense, wrists locked behind him like you’ve bound him there. You smile, not kindly. Not cruelly. Like this is the only thing that’s ever made sense. He is shaking already, legs tense, chest rising too fast. You lean in, brushing your mouth along the inside of his thigh, and feel him twitch beneath your breath. He’s already falling apart and you haven’t even touched him properly.

You glance up, eyes sharp.

"I'll tell you when you can let go."

His response is immediate and visceral—a sharp inhale that catches in his throat like he's forgotten how to breathe. The tendons in his forearms strain where his hands are locked behind him, knuckles white with the effort of staying still. You can see the war playing out across his features: the desperate need to touch warring against his ingrained obedience to command.

"Good," you murmur, letting the word ghost across his skin.

Your mouth finds the sensitive junction where his thigh meets his hip, lips barely grazing the heated flesh there. He jerks as if struck, a strangled sound escaping him that he immediately tries to swallow. The effort of holding himself still is written in every line of his body—the rigid set of his shoulders, the tremor in his thighs, the way his head falls back as if the weight of sensation is too much to bear.

"Please," The word escapes him like a prayer, raw and unguarded. It hangs in the air between you, this confession he cannot take back.

"Please what?" you ask, your lips hovering just inches from where he strains, hard and aching. "Tell me exactly what you want."

His breathing fractures, ragged and uneven. The prince who commands armies, who speaks with authority in war councils, struggles now to form simple words. His head is still tilted back, throat exposed, vulnerability written in every tense line of his body.

"Your mouth," he finally manages, voice barely above a whisper. "I want... your mouth on me."

You reward his honesty with a slow smile he cannot see but surely feels. "Was that so difficult?"

Without waiting for his answer, you grant his request. His reaction is immediate and violent—his hips buck involuntarily, a harsh sound torn from his throat that seems to surprise even him. His entire body goes rigid, trembling with the effort not to move further, not to reach for you, not to break the unspoken rule you've established.

You take him deeper, watching his control fracture with each movement of your tongue. His eye is squeezed shut, head thrown back, lips parted in silent gasps. The prince who never shows weakness is coming undone before you, and the power of it rushes through your veins like wildfire.

When you pull away, he makes a sound of such raw need that satisfaction curls hot in your belly. His eye snaps open, finding yours with desperate intensity.

"Did I say you could stop?" he asks, voice hoarse.

You rise slowly, letting your body slide against his as you stand. "Did I say you could speak?" you counter, and watch his pupil dilate, black swallowing the violet of his iris.

His mouth opens, then closes. The muscle in his jaw jumps as he clamps down on whatever words were trying to escape. You can see the effort it takes, this man who's used to commanding dragons learning to submit to your will.

"Better," you murmur, trailing a finger down his chest. "You're learning."

You step back, just far enough to drink in the sight of him—naked, trembling, hands still locked behind his back despite the obvious strain. His cock stands rigid against his belly, flushed and weeping, and the sight sends heat pooling low in your core.

"Look at you," you say softly. "The mighty prince, reduced to begging."

A flush spreads across his chest, but his eye never leaves yours. There is something in his gaze now—not shame, but recognition. As if he's finally seeing himself clearly for the first time.

"Do you like it?" you ask, circling him again like a predator studying prey. "Being told what to do?"

His throat works, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard. When he speaks, his voice is barely audible. "Yes."

"I can't hear you."

"Yes," he says louder, the admission seeming to cost him. "I like it."

You stop in front of him, close enough that your breasts brush his chest with each breath. His nostrils flare and his hands flex behind his back, but he doesn't move to touch you.

"Then you'll do exactly as I say," you murmur, letting your fingers trail down his stomach. He shivers, muscles jumping beneath your touch. "Won't you, my prince?”

"Yes," he breathes, the word barely a whisper but weighted with surrender. "Anything."

The raw honesty in his voice makes something dark and satisfied unfurl in your chest. You step back, putting space between your bodies, and watch him struggle not to follow. His eye tracks your every movement, desperate and hungry.

"Lie back," you command.

He obeys immediately, sinking onto the bed with careful control. His hands remain locked behind him even as he settles against the pillows, and you can see the strain in his shoulders, the tremor in his arms from maintaining the position.

"You can let go now," you say, and watch relief flood his features as his arms finally relax. But before he can reach for you, you catch his wrists. "Here," you guide his hands to the headboard. "Hold on to this. Don't let go unless I tell you."

His fingers wrap around the carved wood, knuckles white with tension. He looks almost painfully vulnerable like this, stretched out before you, unable to hide or deflect. The sapphire eye catches the firelight, throwing fractured blue across his cheekbone.

You climb onto the bed, straddling his thighs but not touching where he needs it most. He watches you with a desperate intensity, his chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. When you trail your fingernails lightly down his chest, he arches into the touch, a soft sound escaping his throat.

"You've thought about this," you murmur, rocking slightly against him, close enough that he can feel your heat but not enough to give him relief. "Haven't you?"

He nods, then remembers himself. "Yes," he says, voice rough.

"Tell me." You lean forward, bracing your hands against his chest, feeling his heart hammering beneath your palms. "Tell me what you imagined."

His eye closes, a flush spreading down his throat. "I... I can't."

"You can." Your lips brush against his ear, voice soft but implacable. "You will."

The command hangs in the air between you. You feel the moment his resistance crumbles, the subtle shift in his breathing that signals surrender.

"At night," he whispers, so quietly you have to strain to hear. "When sleep wouldn't come. I would think of... of hands that weren't gentle. Of someone who would take what they wanted."

"Like this?" You shift against him, drawing a sharp gasp.

"Yes. No." His hands tighten on the headboard. "Worse. Better. I wanted—" His voice breaks.

"What did you want, Aemond?”

"To be used," he gasps, the confession torn from him like it's been clawing at his throat for years. "To have someone take control so I wouldn't have to be... to think..." His head thrashes against the pillow, eye squeezed shut. "Gods, I can't—"

"You can." Your hand finds his throat, not squeezing, just resting there. A claim. A comfort. "You already are."

His eye opens, wild and desperate. "I thought about being helpless. About someone who wouldn't ask permission, who would just... take. Make me feel without having to choose to feel." The words pour out of him now, unstoppable. "I'm so tired of choosing. Of being responsible for every breath, every decision, every consequence."

You absorb this confession, this raw honesty that he's probably never spoken aloud. The prince who carries the weight of kingdoms on his shoulders, who commands dragons and armies, wants nothing more than to surrender that burden to someone else. The irony isn't lost on you—that absolute power breeds the deepest need to relinquish it.

"Then stop choosing," you whisper against his lips. "Let me."

You rise above him, positioning yourself carefully, watching his face as understanding dawns. His grip on the headboard tightens until his knuckles are bone-white, his whole body taut as a bowstring. When you sink down slowly, taking him inch by careful inch, his back arches off the bed and a sound escapes him that's part prayer, part curse.

"Look at me," you command when his eye starts to drift shut. "I want to see you break."

His gaze snaps to yours, violet fire and desperate need. You begin to move, setting a rhythm that has him gasping beneath you.

His gaze snaps to yours, violet fire and desperate need. You begin to move, setting a rhythm that has him gasping beneath you, his body straining upward to meet each roll of your hips. His fingers clutch the headboard so tightly you can hear the wood creak in protest, and you wonder if it might splinter beneath his grip.

"Good," you murmur, watching his face contort with pleasure he can no longer hide. "So good for me."

The praise undoes something in him. His eye widens, pupils blown so wide the violet is just a thin ring around bottomless black. You can feel him trembling beneath you, every muscle taut with the effort of restraint.

"Please," he gasps, the word barely recognizable. "I need—"

"What do you need?" You slow your movements, hovering just above him, denying the contact he craves.

"More," he chokes out, hips bucking desperately upward seeking friction you refuse to give. "Harder. Please, I can't—"

"Can't what?" You sink down fully, drawing a broken cry from his throat. "Can't handle it? The mighty dragonrider?"

His response is incoherent, a string of broken syllables and gasped pleas. Sweat beads along his hairline, and the flush has spread down his entire torso now. You've never seen anything more beautiful than Aemond Targaryen coming apart beneath you.

"You're close," you observe, feeling the tension coiling through his body. "I can feel it."

He nods frantically, past the point of speech. His breathing has devolved into harsh pants, and you can see him fighting against the approaching edge with everything he has left.

"Not yet," you whisper

His body goes rigid beneath you, a sound escaping his throat that's pure anguish. "Please," he begs, voice cracking. "I can't—please, I need—"

"You need what I give you," you say firmly, stilling completely. "Nothing more. Nothing less."

He writhes beneath you, desperate for friction, for movement, for anything. But you remain perfectly still, watching him struggle against the bonds of his own obedience. His knuckles are white against the headboard, tendons standing out in sharp relief along his forearms.

"Tell me who you belong to," you command softly.

His eye flies open, meeting yours with something wild and unguarded. "You," he gasps without hesitation. "I belong to you."

"Say it again."

"I belong to you." The words come easier now, like a dam breaking. "Only you.”

"Again," you demand, beginning to move once more, but slowly—torturously slowly. Each roll of your hips draws a shuddering gasp from him, each withdrawal a whimper he can no longer suppress.

"I belong to you," he repeats, the words tumbling out like a prayer. "Gods, I belong to you."

You increase your pace, watching as his composure shatters completely. His head thrashes against the pillow, throat exposed, every defense stripped away. The sapphire catches the firelight as he moves, flashing blue against his flushed skin.

"Let go," you whisper, and for a moment he looks confused, still clutching the headboard like it's his last anchor to sanity. "Not your hands. Let go of everything else. Give it to me."

Understanding dawns in his eye—wild, desperate understanding. His breathing hitches,and then he's sobbing—not tears, but raw sounds torn from somewhere deep in his chest, years of careful control unraveling in the space between one heartbeat and the next. His body convulses beneath you as everything he's held back comes crashing down at once.

"That's it," you breathe, riding him through the storm. "Give it all to me." The sounds he makes are broken, desperate—part pleasure, part release of something far deeper. His hips buck wildly beneath you, seeking more contact, more friction, more of anything you're willing to give. The careful prince is gone entirely, replaced by something raw and needy and utterly yours.

"Now," you command, and his body obeys before his mind can catch up.

He comes with a cry that echoes off the stone walls, his back arching so sharply you think he might break. His hands finally release the headboard, flying to your hips in a desperate grip that will surely leave bruises. You don't reprimand him for breaking your command—not when he's shaking apart beneath you, vulnerable in a way you suspect no one has ever witnessed. His eye is squeezed shut, mouth open in a silent scream as wave after wave crashes through him.

You ride him through it, watching every flicker of emotion cross his face. When your own release builds, you don’t fight it, letting pleasure spiral outward as you clench around him. Your combined cries mingle in the heated air between you.

In the aftermath, he lies beneath you, chest heaving, utterly spent. His hands have fallen limply to his sides, and his eye stares unseeing at the canopy above. The carefully constructed mask he wears for the court, for his family, for himself—it’s gone completely, leaving behind something raw and new. You don’t touch him. You don’t speak. You just stay there, legs still wrapped around his hips, watching the rise and fall of his chest. There’s a stillness to him now, a quiet so deep it doesn’t feel like surrender—it feels like silence after a storm.

Eventually, you shift. Gently. You climb off of him and gather the discarded fabric from the floor. He doesn’t move. Not for a while. When he finally does, it’s slow, mechanical, a man retreating into armor. The moment dies quietly.

By the time morning light filters through the heavy curtains, he’s already half-dressed, facing the window with his back to you. The silence has changed. It’s not peace anymore. It’s defense. He won’t look at you. Not directly. Not now. He’s afraid of what you saw. Afraid of how much he gave. Afraid you might speak it aloud.

You brush past him on your way to the basin, your fingers grazing his shoulder just lightly enough to make him tense.

“Sleep well?” you ask, not bothering to wait for an answer.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

But when you cross the room, you feel his gaze follow you—slow, heavy, almost reverent—like he’s still trying to understand what you’ve taken from him.