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spider-stark · 5 months ago

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LADY STRONG

Benjicot Blackwood x Velaryon/Strong!Reader

Summary - Stuck in the Riverland's on a marriage tour, you pretend to be Lady Strong when Benjicot Blackwood doesn't recognize you as the Princess of the Seven Kingdoms

Warnings - none except not edited!!

Word Count - 3.1k

!MINORS DNI!

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

As if the prospect of a marriage tour was not horrid enough, your first stop was proving to be positively dreadful.

You had imagined the lands surrounding the Trident to be beautiful. A lush, verdant landscape—filled with fragrant herbs and bright, blooming flowers, painting the Riverlands in rich, colorful hues. You pictured babbling streams and plush grass, stunning castles and, perhaps, some equally as stunning men.

What you hadn’t imagined, however, was the weather.

Even from within the confines of Riverrun—the ancestral castle of House Tully—you still feel the effects of the merciless heat beating down upon the sandstone walls.

Your handmaids had tried to dress you accordingly, stuffing you into your thinnest—and, consequently, your least regal—gown, in hopes that it might prevent sunstroke. Yet still, even as three of Lord Tully’s own servants try fanning you while you sulk in the dining hall, you feel as though every inch of your body is drenched in sticky sweat.

“This is miserable,” you groan to Ser Lorent, the Kingsguard who had been assigned to your tour. Flanking your right, you spare the knight a pitiful, sidelong glance. “I believe I would sooner die a spinster than be forced to live in this sweltering purgatory!”

The servants, haphazardly positioned around the table, remain utterly stone-faced, not letting on if they found your comment about their homelands to be humorous or offensive.

Ser Lorent merely laughs. “The Riverlands are known for their humid summers, princess.” With a wink, he adds, “If you ever bothered with your studies, you would know this.”

“I study!”

“With the blade, perhaps,” Ser Lorent muses, his teal eyes twinkling with lighthearted mockery. “But certainly not with books, princess.

Rolling your eyes, you slump further into your chair, your body practically melting into the upholstery. “Leave the geography lessons to Jace,” you tell him, waving an idle hand. “After all, he's the heir to the Iron Throne. I am merely the prized broodmare—” focusing on your plate, and the half-eaten lunch upon it, you try swallowing the bitter tang now filling your mouth—“a royal womb to be sold off to the highest bidder.”

And, at times, you aren’t even sure if that is considered an honest truth… You’ve certainly never felt royal.

Like your brothers, you were born extraordinarily plain-featured. With no silver hair or lilac eyes, you appear more like a common-born peasant than someone of prized Valyrian stock—and it didn’t help that, unlike your brothers, you had no dragon, either.

Ser Lorent watches as you absently push a piece of seared cod around your plate, sighing. “That isn’t true, my princess.” His words are tinged with sympathy. “You are being sold to no one. Your mother wishes for you to have a marriage born of love—not duty.”

“Ah, yes,” stabbing the fish with the prongs of your fork, you bring it to your lips, “which is why I’m being forced to spend my summer meeting with the haughty sons of fat country lords—for love.”

His tongue clicks with disapproval. “Your mother has given you a choice in selecting your own husband, princess; which is a luxury not granted to many women.”

Frowning, you pop the piece of fish into your mouth, turning his words over in your head.

Gods.

You hate it when he’s right.

“Fine,” you relent, still chewing. Turning sideways in your chair, you raise your fork to him in a mock threat, “But my earlier statement stands! If I must take a husband, then it certainly won’t be anyone from here—lest I become no more than a puddle of sweat.”

Ser Lorent cracks a smile at you. “Should you turn to a puddle, princess, then I vow to mop you from the floor.”

“How valiant of you, Ser Lorent,” you laugh. “I’m unsure of how I might ever repay you for such loyalty.”

“I’m not sure you have to worry about that, princess—I don’t believe that puddles are much concerned with matters of debt.”

Turning back to the table, another soft laugh spills from your lips. “I suppose you’re right, Ser.”

All too soon, however, your amusement begins to fade. A warm breeze blows in through the many open windows lining Riverrun’s dining hall, the stifling air only accentuating the stickiness of your skin.

Sucking in a deep, heavy breath, you ask, “How long do we have?”

Ser Lorent doesn’t ask for clarification, knowing almost at once what you were asking him. “We’re expected back in the Great Hall in a little under an hour, princess.”

You blow the breath out, groaning slightly.

An hour—that's all the time you had left before you would be forced back upon the dais, expected to once again smile and be cordial as men and boys from all across the Riverlands made their case for your hand.

How many of them could possibly be left? This morning alone you had met with dozens upon dozens of them, their voices all blurring into a monotonous hum as they spoke of the history of their Houses—if one can consider nonsensical legends from the ancient Age of Heroes as true history, that is.

Noticing the dreadful pall cast over you, Ser Lorent clamps a comforting hand on your shoulder. “How about a walk before we go back? It might help to clear your head,” he suggests. Then, with a wry grin, “Perhaps you might wish to think back on the men from this morning—see if any of them might make you change your tune about life in the Riverlands.”

You pin him with a playful scowl. “There’s not a man alive that could change that tune,” you vow. “But you’re right—a walk might be nice.”

Rising from your seat, the servants around you lower their fans, silently dismissing themselves.

“Will you be accepting my company on this walk?” Ser Lorent teases—though you know what he’s really asking is: will you be accepting my protection.

“After this morning, I believe I’ve had enough company for a lifetime.”

The knight’s brow draws tight, an apprehensive frown beginning to pull at the corners of his lips. You roll your eyes.

“Oh, don’t worry so much, Ser Lorent. It gives you wrinkles,” you tease. Adjusting the slit running along one side of your dress, you reveal the dagger holstered on your thigh. “I assure you that if any of these Riverlanders dare lay a hand on me, they’ll lose some fingers.”

Ser Lorent snorts, head shaking. “It’s not you I worry about, princess,” he jokingly admits. “Just stay close by, understand? Your mother will have my head if anything happens to you.”

“Yes, yes—understood,” you dramatically gripe, already walking past him to the exit.

“Oh, and princess?” He calls out just as the guards pull the doors open for you to leave. You glance over your shoulder at him, brows lifted. “At least try not to injure anyone.”

With one last roll of your eyes, bright with mischief, you shout on your way out, “No promises, Ser Lorent!”

Wandering through the outer yards of Riverrun, the blistering sun beating down upon your skin, you find yourself overwhelmed by a sudden ache in your chest.

You miss home. Desperately.

You miss Dragonstone’s near-constant cover of clouds, forever shielding you from the heat. You miss the cool breeze rolling in off the Blackwater, the air peppering your cheeks with salty kisses.

But even as you dream of a reprieve from the muggy Riverlands, you can’t help but miss your family—your brothers—most of all.

Perhaps it is that feeling that led you here, to the training yard, guided by the familiar lull of splintering wood and steel slicing through the air, the sound offering a much-needed remedy to the homesickness twisting in your gut.

Smaller than the one at Dragonstone, Riverrun’s yard was no more than a cramped stretch of dusty-dirt, lined with old training dummies and archery targets. Mostly encircled by the towering sun-bleached stones of the castles, only a small part of the yard remained open to the sprawling gardens beyond, sectioned off by ornate iron fencing.

Striding over the open gate, your attention falls upon the lone boy standing in the yard's center.

As the sunlight beats down overhead, long shadows dance around his feet as he glides through a set of movements—each step calculated, every strike deliberate.

You step closer, keeping your steps light as you approach. With his back turned to you, you watch as sweat drips down his neck, glistening. It soaks into his tunic, the thin black material clinging to his lean, muscled back.

He’s talented—you think, studying his form.

Talent is something you're familiar with—intimately. You were raised around warriors—trained by the Rogue Prince himself. Yet never before had you found yourself so utterly bewitched by a fighter.

He didn’t move like other boys.

He wasted no time on the flowery style displayed by so many summer children—the ones who thought of battle as a performance rather than a matter of life or death.

Instead, he moved with the lethal prowess of an apex predator—his blade cutting through the air with a controlled ferocity that, while lacking the flourish of other warriors, was undeniably impressive.

Dirt flies as he throws himself into another set of movements—a series of strikes and parries, executing with unbelievable precision. With every twist and pivot, muscles tense and shift beneath his tunic, his body as powerful a weapon as his sword.

He lunges forward—and wood cracks! as he slashes his blade along the belly of one of the dummies, a move that would have disemboweled a living opponent.

Cutting through the sudden stillness, you bring your hands up to your chest, filling the yard with a slow clap. Back still turned to you, the boy's spine goes ramrod straight at the unexpected sound.

“Impressive,” you muse, taking another step towards him. Mere feet remain between the two of you, now. “You move well—better than most, I’d say.”

The boy spins around to face you, his once elegant movements now blundering as he nearly trips over his own feet. Biting your tongue, you try to hold in a laugh.

Big, storm-cloud eyes meet your gaze, pinning you in place as he blinks, visibly thrown-off by your presence. “Sorry-” he stammers, out of breath. “I didn’t think anyone else would be coming out here-”

You lift a hand, cutting him off with a smile. “Oh, no—don’t apologize on my account! I enjoyed the show,” you tell him. “Seems that you have a real talent for swordplay.”

His cheeks flush, his lightly sun-kissed skin turning a stark crimson. “Thanks.” His laugh is a nervous, awkward thing—endearing, too. He sticks a hand out towards you, the other still limply holding his sword. “Benjicot. Blackwood,” he introduces himself, fumbling over his words, “but you can call me Ben or Benji—or anything, really.”

You take his hand, biting your lip to mask your amusement. “Pleasure to meet you, Benji.”

A beat of silence passes before confusion finally tugs at his features, his hand falling back to his side. “Uhm—” another sweet, awkward laugh— “and you are…?”

Realization dawns on you, leaving your brows to shoot up to your hairline.

Seven Hells. He doesn't know, does he?

A sudden speechlessness grabs hold of your tongue.

You suppose you shouldn’t be surprised—after all, you aren't what many expected of a Targaryen princess.

Plain-featured and dressed in thin, common clothes, you imagine you likely appear no different than the servants surrounding you at lunch, fanning you to keep the heat from going to your head.

Even so, it's rare that you met someone who doesn't know who you are. And, selfishly, after a morning filled with insincere compliments from haughty Lord’s, you like the idea of remaining nameless—titleless—for the first time in your life.

“Wow—sorry—that was thoughtless of me, wasn’t it?” Tapping a finger to your temple, you laugh. “I’m Mylissa,” you lie, stealing the name of one of your handmaidens. “Mylissa Strong.”

“Strong?” He echoes, brow furrowing. “Strange—you don’t sound like you’re from the Riverlands. Your accent is—”

“Southern?”

Benji nods.

“Well, I’ve spent the better part of my life in the Crownlands, so I suppose I’ve picked up their accent,” you explain. “I’m here with the princess, actually—as her lady-in-waiting.”

The mention of the princess—you—turns his skin a pasty white.

Keeping a tight leash on your curiosity, you try not to sound too intrigued when you ask, “And what about you? Raventree Hall is a decent ride from here, is it not?” On horseback, the ancestral seat of House Blackwood was two days away from Riverrun, if not three. “Are you here to meet with the princess?”

Benji shifts his weight, leaning from one foot to the other. “Supposed to,” he begins, his words tumbling out, “but I don’t know—I’m not so sure that I’ll go through with it.”

Your expression falters, disappointment washing over you like a cold wave, combatting the intolerable warmth of the sun.

“Why not?”

He shrugs—a timid, shy gesture that feels so unlike the predator you had snuck up on. “There are over a hundred men in there,” he waves an arm to the castle, to the Great Hall within, “all waiting for an opportunity to impress the princess—meanwhile, I can hardly get out a single sentence without choking on my own spit.”

Your laughter bubbles up involuntarily, a few giggles spilling past your lips. The Blackwood boy shoots you a playful glare from beneath long, dark lashes.

“Well,” you begin, absentmindedly toeing the dirt between you, “perhaps the princess might find it endearing, don’t you think?”

Benji scoffs. “Doubtful. I mean, think about it!—she’s a princess!”

Your eyes widen, glimmering with mock-offense. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

Once again, that crimson tinge returns to his skin, crawling up his neck, this time.

“I meant no offense,” he defends himself, mistaking your expression for one of a Lady meaning to defend her princess. “But what could I possibly offer a princess?”

You tilt your head, pretending to think on his words. “Well, the Blackwoods do have a history of being valiant warriors, do they not? And you seem to be quite skilled yourself,” you say, daring to let your stare drift down to his arms, the short sleeves of his tunic revealing well-muscled, sweat-slick biceps.

He snorts. “I’m willing to guess that the princess would likely care naught for my skill with a sword.”

“Then you would guess wrong,” you retort, a faint, teasing smile on your lips. “Many say that the princess herself is quite skilled with a blade—I imagine she would quite like a boy that’s capable of challenging her.”

Benji’s eyes darken a shade, an unreadable expression crossing his features. “And what about you, Mylissa?”

The false name catches you off-guard, but you do your best to hide it.

“What of me?”

A bit nervous, he asks, “Would you like a boy that can challenge you?”

Your heart stutters in your chest—skipping several beats as his stare lowers, dipping past your waist and falling upon your thigh. On the dagger sheathed there, no doubt.

Heat begins to crawl up your neck, hotter even than the sun's blistering rays. “Oh—” You stutter, words lost upon you.

It’s true that you were used to the attention of men. After all, your morning has been filled with it, and soon enough the rest of your day will be, too.

But this was different.

Benji wasn’t giving you attention because you’re a princess, a mere royal womb to strengthen his House’s bloodline. Rather, he was doing it simply because he wanted to—a feeling that was utterly foreign to you.

Wiping a clammy hand on his sweaty tunic, Benji misreads your silence, taking a half-step back. “Apologies, my Lady—that was too forward and-”

You don’t let him finish his rambling. Taking a step forward, you close the gap he sought to create between you. “I’ll make you a deal.”

“A deal?”

You nod. “As you know, the princess will be in the Great Hall for the rest of the evening, holding court with the other Lord’s who’ve come for her hand. I'd like for you to meet with her.”

Benji cocks his head, confusion crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I truly mean no disrespect to your princess, my Lady, but I was asking if you might be interested in–”

“I know what you’re asking, Benji.” You lift one shoulder in a casual shrug. “And after you meet with the princess, if you still wish to inquire about my hand,” you say, placing a palm to your chest, “then I will happily hear you out.”

In the distance, a bell sounds out—signaling the time, you realize.

“If you’ll excuse me,” you start, already taking a few small half-steps backwards. “I’m expected inside.”

Letting his sword drop to the ground, Benji lunges forward to catch your wrist. “So you agree to meet with me after court, then?”

“If you’re still interested,” you muse, a tinge of anxiety laced through your tone, “then yes.”

The corners of his lips twitch into a bashful smile. “I give you my word that–”

You planned to interrupt him. To tell him not to make oaths he wasn’t certain he could keep, knowing that he may very well change his mind about you once he realizes who you are—that you’re not technically a Strong. But, before you can, another voice intervenes.

“Princess!” Ser Lorent calls out, exasperated, as he walks through the gate. “We must hurry, princess,” he continues, pausing only to give a wary glance at Benji’s hands wrapped around your wrist. “We’re late.”

Your pulse begins to pound, a surge of adrenaline coursing through your veins at being exposed as a liar by Ser Lorent.

Benji’s face goes blank—then his eyes go wide, big as saucers as you snag your wrist from his grip.

“Princess...” He utters, voice laden with disbelief. “Princess?!”

You can hardly bring yourself to do anything other than grin stupidly at him, nearly stumbling over yourself as you back-up to where Ser Lorent is waiting impatiently.

“It was lovely meeting you, Benji!”

You hope he can hear just how genuine your words are.

“I’ll see you in the Great Hall,” you call out over your shoulder, sparing him one last glance as Ser Lorent guides you to the gate, watching as he blinks in astonishment, still processing the revelation.

Walking back towards the inner-castle, Ser Lorent glances down at you with a knowing look. “You seem giddy.” There’s a teasing glint to his words that makes you roll your eyes, cheeks flushing. “So,” he continues, his brisk pace never faltering, “does this mean that your statement from lunch no longer stands? That, perhaps, this sweltering purgatory may yet grow on you?”

You bite your cheek, a permanent grin still etched onto your face.

“Let’s just say that I’ve decided it’s best to keep my options open, Ser Lorent.”

a/n - you may ask yourself: lainie, why would you refer to him as mostly BEN in the last fic and BENJI in this one??

and the answer? I have not ONE clue. my brain is rotting and benji is cute.

anyways, hope you guys enjoy this one! feel like I got to explore more of his personality here. additionally, I need HBO to know that if this boy ends up not being benjicot blackwood then I'm gonna fucking riot

benjicot blackwood tag list - @a-song-for-ages @ghostinvenus

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barbieaemond · 5 months ago

Text

Religion

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

Warnings: mild angst, misogyny, banter, pregnancy, childbirth, oral sex, p in v, fingering, orgasm denial, dry humping, overstimulation, brief lactation kink, breeding kink, manipulation (to get some), some good ol' tying up, slandering of the Gods lol

Author's note: this is the third and final part following And I dream of a grave and A curse for a curse but can be read as a standalone. Just keep in mind that Aemond did not cheat on his wife while in Harrenhal. He used Alys only for her visions.

Word count: 13k. Ye have to suffer for your smut darlin'

MASTERLIST | English is not my first language.

taglist: @multyfangirl @ladystarksneedle @arcielee @darylandbethfanforever9 @zaldritzosrose @alphard-hydraes-blog

Her mother had come to King’s Landing three days after she gave birth. Peering through the door, the Princess didn’t know if the woman was more surprised to finally see a baby safely tucked between her daughter’s arms or to witness that she was still breathing. She had chosen to believe both.

Since she was a little girl, she had been instructed in what was coming, for her and all the girls like her: how to serve men, how to serve the Realm. She knew pregnancy could be a time of great distress, physical and otherwise, and for her, it turned out to be nothing more than that.

She spent the first moons plagued by sickness, glaring at the Maesters who told her that morning sickness was perfectly normal. It would've been, if only it had lasted the hours the sun was at its highest. Instead, she couldn’t keep down her breakfast, just like her lunch, or dinner. She had lost weight, she couldn’t stand any kind of smell with the risk of rushing to her pot and empty her stomach.

Then, on one fine morning, while she was walking the gardens with two of her maids, she had suddenly bent over, hissing with pain while clutching her maid’s arm, dreading the trickle running down her thighs.

The Maesters said occasional bleedings might happen, that she only needed to rest and take some tonic to strenghten her body. But that day signaled the end of her peace and the beginning of her confinement.

Because clearly, at the first sign of something going wrong, slipping out of his control, Aemond would panic, albeit showing none of it, standing as tall and stoic as ever and somehow more than he’d ever done now that the Conqueror’s Crown weighted on his head. But she knew better. She knew how to look through all his walls. She knew he was scared—for her, for the baby, for his sister, for his whole family. It was simply too much for a single person to carry all of that on their shoulders. And it was precisely for that reason that she didn’t object to any of his orders. After all, she couldn’t. He was the King now, even if he didn’t choose to style himself as such.

Thus, her chambers became her prison.

Cobwebs didn’t have time to grow because she was quick enough to point them out to the servants. She was aware of the slight drop in the stone tiles just behind the terrace, as of the strategic point where to linger to gain some cool breeze from the sea. She knew the baby liked to sleep upside down in the early afternoon, occasionally kicking hard as he, or she, settled comfortably in her womb.

Aemond had picked some books for her, mostly about history, having her yawning at the third page. She had tried needle work, putting all her good will into it for the sake of doing something, and she had deliberately chosen to believe she was undeniably good at it. But that was a very generous lie.

“What is that supposed to be exactly?” Aemond asked one day, peeking over her shoulder as he reached her on the terrace.

She didn’t look up, keeping her eyes fixed on her embroidery tambour, working the needle in and out. “Isn’t it obvious?”

He leaned down until she felt the long silver strands tickling her head and even without turning, she could feel him grimacing. “A bird?”

At that, she had raised her head, reading all the disbelief on his face. “It is a dragon. For the cradle.”

Aemond had simply furrowed his brow, unable for the life of him to consider what he saw as something even remotely resembling a dragon. But he thought better than to anger his pregnant wife, given her late sour spirit, but especially in light of how fiercely she had started to stick the needle in, likely picturing to stick it into him instead. He had built the most fake pleasant smile he could master and said “Very well. Excellent work, my love.”

“Thank you, husband.”

The trouble was that, as time went by, she only became sourer. She grew more and more uncomfortable, too tight in her own skin. Her back hurt, her breasts hurt, and she was starting to believe she was carrying a real dragon, with fangs and all; she had no other explanation for how hot she constantly felt, forced to lie in a thin white chemise all the time, despite the winds carrying the winter.

But maybe there was another reason why her spirits were so low and sour. She had come to learn that pregnancy affected every aspect of her life, including the most pleasant one.

She would grow wet for a kiss. She would close her legs and rub them together upon seeing him rise from the bathtub. She would moan into his mouth if he so much as grazed her nipples with his knuckles. But as she grew bigger and bigger, along with the discomfort, kisses and some intimate brushing were all she would get from him. Aemond had grown distant, not only with his presence, due to all the duties he had to fulfill wearing the Crown, but even when he was there, in their chambers, sleeping next to her, she felt him leagues and leagues away.

“Pregnancy is a very hard time for a woman.” The Dowager Queen had said to her “It is overwhelming to think that you are never alone and yet...somehow you are.”

She’d never understood what her good mother meant until she was confined to her chambers, alone with her thoughts and her fears. She didn’t expect Aemond to do something, this was women’s business. And she knew his reluctance to lie with her rested solely on concern and love for her.

No matter how much he craved to take her, he had decided to put his husband’s rights away for the delicate final moons until the baby was born. He still felt guilty, for Harrenhal, for the witch, for forsaking her only to get drunk on visions and prophecies. Yet, those visions turned out to be true. He had shut that voice in his head and tried to make amends. But they didn’t have the time to mend themselves together, to knit all the distrust and suspicions into something good; the baby was coming, and it seemed he or she did nothing but grow them more apart.

He saw how tired she was, how some days she couldn’t even get out of bed. And how useless he felt when he would catch her crying, like that night when he found her all alone on the terrace at the hour of the owl.

She was sitting on her chaise filled with cushions when Aemond walked around her. Given the state of his white shirt and hair, he had likely just awakened and hadn’t found her beside him.

“What are you doing out here? You will catch a cold.”

“I cannot sleep.” she had kept her eyes far, on the Black Water Bay, far from him. But he saw them anyway, her reddened eyes.

“You cannot stay here in your condition.” He said almost tiredly, but when she didn’t even blink at his words, he called her name, with the tone he used in the Throne Room.

“Aemond, please.” She whispered, turning her head. “I—” she bit her tongue, unwilling to put this on him, but she knew he wouldn’t let go until she was safely back in bed. So, she said “I don’t want to hear her.”

It took him less than a moment to understand what she meant. Helaena. Helaena who lost a child, who saw her flesh and blood horribly murdered before her eyes. Helaena who couldn’t stop wailing in the dead of night.

She had looked at him, seeing that torn thing, broken and raw like a split wound; shame and guilt and rage all at once. Then, he lowered himself onto his knees until he took her cold hands and squeezed them tight. His mouth opened, but she was faster. “Don’t say it.”

You cannot keep such a promise, you cannot keep us safe. No matter how many times you say it. But she wouldn’t take that solace away from him, not that plainly. The more he said it, the more he seemed to believe it. So be it.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked, and there was a beautiful, heartbreaking desperation in his hushed voice. “Tell me what to do.”

She had built a convincing smile, running her hand through his loose hair and pushing some strands back. “Go back to sleep. I’m fine.”

Her spirits during the day would slightly improve. And between the Council and some hearings in the Throne Room, he always saved some time to go visit her in their chambers. She didn’t seem to enjoy being watched like a toddler, but deep down she cherished his concern. She cherished the way his hands would gently hold her own, or caress her hair, her belly. She found it hard to believe those hands could bestow such reverence and violence at the same time. And even in his absence, he managed to ensure she always had anything she needed. Even blackberries in early autumn.

“Myra, where have you been?” She asked in a late afternoon, when one of her most loyal maids entered her chambers after disappearing for the whole day.

The young girl had an awful look. She seemed exhausted, as if she had walked the entirety of Flea Bottom, twice. “Apologies, my Princess. It took me quite a while to find blackberries.”

“Seven Hells, it is only a craving. You did not have to go all the way through King’s Landing to find me blackberries.”

"No, I-I ought to.”

The Princess paused, frowning at the young girl. “Did someone else tell you that you ought to?”

“Well…yes…” the maid said, sinking her gaze to the floor “The King—uhm Prince Regent.”

She sighed deeply, and with heavy steps, she walked towards the terrace; her maid was immediately at her side to help her. “What did he tell you?” the Princess asked as they reached the chair outside.

The girl waited for her to sit, slowly and awkwardly given her big belly; then, a little timidly, she said “He…ordered me to go look for blackberries and not to…bother coming back if I didn’t find them.”

The Princess rolled her eyes in quite an unlady-like manner, “How in the name of Seven did he know about it?” She asked, grimacing as she desperately tried to find a comfortable position. “I have barely seen him this morning.”

The young maid helped her, fixing some cushions behind her back and whispered “The White Cloak at the door…I suspect he reports everything to his Grace.”

The notion didn’t seem to strike her that much, or maybe she was too tired, too uncomfortable and too hot to comment on the matter, or even scoff at it.

She grabbed a fan from her maid’s hands and unceremoniously shook her shoes off, placing her swollen feet on the cool tiles. Closing her eyes, she basked in that small relief; the floor was cold, the sun was about to set, and the baby was sleeping.

According to the Maesters, her time was close. She was eager to meet this little person but in truth, she just wanted it to end. She hated having no control over her body, her spirits, her marriage. She missed being a wife and being treated as such, not just as the mother of his child. She had come to think that, deep down, any woman felt that way, but they were forced to hide everything behind a joyful smile while sinking to their knees to thank the Mother. Wasn’t that the sole purpose of any girl in the world? To bleed on a birthing bed? Wasn’t that the way men measured women’s value?

She swallowed hard as the question spun in her head. Am I finally worthy of you, Aemond?

She wouldn’t dare ask him.

“What is it? Are you unwell?”

She was too lost in her thoughts to even hear his footsteps on the terrace. As her gaze flew up, she read the deep concern on his face, all lumped in the steep furrow between his eyebrows. He must’ve seen her grimacing, thinking she was in some pain. She was, but she was too much of a coward to tell him.

She resumed her fanning, averting her gaze and stretching her legs out further on the floor. “I feel like I’m boiling.”

“Yes, I can see that.” He deadpanned, raking his eye over her disheveled state; sprawled on that chair with her legs slightly open, her white chemise all crumpled and unbuttoned, and a bead of sweat on the forehead, in the crevice of her swollen breasts. He thought the times when a mere look at this woman would make him hard were gone once the novelty of having a wife, someone rightly and thoroughly his, had dissipated. He was wrong.

“I’m well aware of my lack of decency.” She replied, seeing how he was staring, the little inquiring curve in his eyebrow. “I’m afraid I care very little about decency at this moment. Blame it on your son.”

His lips curled up, watching her gather her loose hair with one hand while she kept fanning herself quickly with the other.

“Are you still inclined to believe for certain that it’s a boy?”

“I know it’s a boy. Only men can be this insufferable.”

That little smile on his lips lingered, deepened, and then he moved, going to stand behind her. “Let me.” He said, and took her hair between his hands. She couldn’t see what he was doing but got the gist as she felt his deft fingers moving and her neck free to get some air. When he walked around the chaise to sit beside her, she saw that his hair was loose. He had tied her hair with the black lace he always wore to prevent the silver strands from ending up in front of his eye.

She loved to see him like this: hair loose, eyepatch lost somewhere in a drawer, sitting next to her, even without saying a word. The sapphire seemed to match his eye, glowing a soft violet under the setting sun. She felt that familiar lump in her throat, as she stared at him, a restless thing flowing through her whole body, demanding to be released only to be trapped under her teeth, biting down her lower lip, starved and yearning.

“A little bird told me you put a hound on my trail.” she said at one point, shutting her little fan.

Aemond didn’t look surprised to acknowledge that she knew. He had actually ventured with himself about how long it would have taken her to realise he was spying on her every move.

“You are well aware of my duties now.” He said, turning his head to look at her. But not quite. His eye seemed to linger everywhere at once, fleeting, snatching a look here and there, her legs, her sweated neck, her belly…his own testament, as if she wasn’t one already.

You left your mark on her just as she did on you. Those were Alys’ words, at which he had ugly sneered. And she had laughed at the sight, eerily, as someone who owned the truth. I’m your spoil of war and yet, you speak to me ten paces away. What are you afraid of, Kinslayer? That your skin would burn like brimstone if you touched another woman?

“Besides,” he resumes “any lady would be flattered by her husband’s genuine concern.”

“You could flatter me in different ways.” was her prompt answer and she moved incredibly fast, given her impediment, getting close to him until she filled his nostrils. She smelled different since she was pregnant. A thick smell, musky. She tasted differently. Sweeter and somehow sourer. He swallowed at the mere memory. “We have talked about this.”

“And I’ve talked to the Maesters.”

His head spun around, forcing her to stifle a smile at his ever strictly reserved nature.

“They said there’s nothing wrong, or remotely dangerous, if we…engage in our conjugal duties.”

He tried to ignore her hand, her fingers traveling up his arm like a spider’s legs. “Did you need the Maesters to learn that?”

“No, but you do. You hang on their lips…I wish you hung on mine.”

Aemond heard her voice dropping a tone, and dropped his chin down, looking at her hand roving on his chest, shamelessly slipping beneath his dark green doublet, skin to skin. She glided on his planes slowly, making sure to trap one of his nipples in the little hollow between her index and middle.

“I don’t need them to know about my private matters.” He said mindlessly, trying to hold a grip on his thoughts.

“Seven Hells. It baffles me to witness how prudish you desperately want to appear while I perfectly know how debauched you really are, to the bone.”

“My debauchery is confined to these four walls.”

“Oh, is it? What about that time on our way to the Grand Sept?” She tilted her head, so she was talking almost in his ear. “Do you remember?”

Her hand on his chest was burning, or was it his own skin? His own flesh simmering wherever she touched him.

“Don’t do that.” She whispered when she saw his long legs cross. “Let me see. You have condemned me to do nothing else.”

His eye chased her hand as she grabbed his knee and pushed to uncross his legs, so that she could see, the outline of his cock through the breeches, see how he ached for her. “Do you remember what you did in the wheelhouse?” She asked again, looking at him; the sapphire was the only thing flashing violet now. His eye was pitch black.

“You put your hand beneath my gowns…” she said and her hand slid up against his thigh “you grabbed me, harshly.” And she did the same, forcing his mouth open and a shallow breath out of his throat. “And you grinned…because my garments were soaked.” he closed his eye for a moment, perhaps recalling, or maybe because her hand was moving, palming all his length through the breeches.

“And then you slipped your fingers underneath…” and again, she did just so, unbuckling his belt and sinking her hand in. He opened his eye, and basked in what he saw: that sort of silent, desperate plea in the little wrinkle between her eyebrows, in her heaving chest, in the way she was rubbing her legs together.

Thus, just when she was about to grab him, he grabbed her wrist instead and crashed his mouth against hers with a low growling sound. She could do nothing but moan, giving him open room to slip his tongue in and taste every corner, driving his body closer and closer, but not too much as to crush her.

She, on the other hand, felt free, finally, to roam, to rummage. Her hands grabbed and pulled everywhere, at his doublet, the collar, the buttons, the thin white shirt underneath it all, until everything was loose, and she was free to touch him, all the while making the sweetest wanton sounds, close to desperate whines. “Please, Aemond…” she begged freely, holding his face “just this once…please…”

He shushed her with another harsh kiss and with a free hand, he clutched her white nightgown into his fist, pulling up, enough to stick his arm between her legs. She spread them for him, panting with anticipation, and stopped breathing altogether when he cupped her core with the large palm of his hand. Aemond trapped her lower lip with his teeth, biting softly upon feeling how wet she was, dripping on his fingers, so much that he wished to fall on his knees and wipe it clean with his tongue.

“Please…” she breathed, barely rocking her hips to urge him to touch her.

“Hush.” he said, and curled his fingers, brushing his fingertips against her centre, gaining a delicious wince from her. “Tell me of the wheelhouse.”

She smiled breathlessly, her eyes hungry and heavy, full of lust. “It was the first time I wore green.” she started to tell. “We were still betrothed. I wanted to impress you.”

“Hmm. You certainly did.” He remarked, watching her closely while rubbing his index pad against her entrance, teasingly, making her squirm. “Go on.”

She felt like burning, her face hot for the sun, the baby, the ache in her lower belly, stirring and coiling. “You told the White Cloak to take another round…” she said, breathing with her mouth open. “You grabbed my waist and forced me on your lap.”

“And you pushed me away. Twice.” he’d laughed, flashing a grin that made her willing to shove him away, to pull him closer. “What a farse you put on.” he continued, leaving a chaste kiss on her neck that resulted in her writhing some more, pushing her pelvis against his hand. “I had to cover your mouth for your mewling. You were so fucking loud.”

It was then that he finally granted her some mercy, slipping one finger inside her drenched lips, spilling a long gasp from her.

“No. Not quite.” He observed cruelly and slid another finger, this time gaining a proper loud moan. “That’s more like it.”

His two fingers started to pump slowly, and yet she was making the lewdest sounds he’d ever spilled from her, arching her back as far as she could, scrunching her face almost in pain and pulling at his collar, twisting, as if he were torturing her instead of giving her pleasure. She made his cock stir painfully, his teeth grind for the ache, for the fact that she was coating his whole hand. “Easy now…” he warned her, his tone all husky. “You don’t want to come already, do you? ‘Tis the only thing you’ll get from me, sweetling…you better make it last.”

She whined in annoyance, forcing another grin on his ruthless lips, and with that same ruthlessness, he slowed his ministrations, only to cup one of her breasts with his free hand, squeezing softly until the thin, silky fabric slipped down, revealing her pink, swollen nipple. “I must say…I’m relieved you will summon a wet nurse…so these will be all mine.”

She had to stifle a breathless laugh at that. “Being jealous of your child is a bit too much, even for you…”

“Oh, my love” he crooned, freeing the other breast “I am jealous of the clothes on your skin.”

Wasting no time, he wrapped his lips around her nipple, causing her to arch against him once more, one hand flying down his shoulder, fisting his doublet, twisting it as he swirled his tongue and hummed with delight dripping from his tone, as if he were tasting honey, and the sweetest ever made.

His fingers resumed their frantic rhythm, sinking deep inside and stretching, hitting that special spot that made her sight go black, reduced to a mess of sweat coating every inch of her skin and a string of moans growing hoarse and high-pitched.

“Are you close? Hmm?” he rasped “How about another? Can you take another for me?”

He slipped a third finger in, causing her to wince and cling to his shoulders with her mouth open in a silent scream. “Good girl.” He praised at the sight. He wished he could savor it for a little longer, he wished to keep doing that again and again, until the sun went down and rose again, until there was nothing but ruin around them.

But she was so close now, he could feel it in her tensed arms around his shoulders, in her clenching walls around his hand, and quite frankly, the ache in his breeches was unbearable, twitching at every moan and squelching sound of his fingers inside her flesh.

She came loudly, curling her ankles on the ground and writhing in his hold as if in a delirium. He kept her still, his hand buried inside her, feeling the quick pulsing that rivaled the one in her heart. And he watched her, gasping for air and throwing her head back, utterly spent, hair all sticked to her forehead. In his eye she had never looked this beautiful.

He pulled his fingers out, making her wince slightly, and brought them to her mouth, smearing her spent desire on her own lips, like the final touch to a painting. And then he kissed her, humming at her bittersweet taste. He held her face gently, grabbing her jaw and angling her head to taste her better, eliciting a blissful sigh from the back of her throat that made his hardness throb. As if she had felt that, her hand had slipped between them with purpose, sinking past all his layers and taking hold of him.

She rejoiced in the little whimper he gave her, and started to work her hand up and down, making it impossible for him to kiss her any further, if not for a sloppy and panting mess of spit and teeth.

Given the unbearable pressure building past his navel, he knew he wouldn’t last long. And she knew that too. But she didn’t want to have him this way. Awkwardly, she stood up and spread his legs to make herself some room, but as soon as Aemond, despite the lack of blood in his mind, caught her intentions, he stopped her, grabbing her arms firmly.

“No…” he croaked. “Not on your knees.”

She couldn’t help the little surprise on her face. Aemond had never been this considerate, especially in bed. He could be gentle in his own way, subtly. Little hidden things in the way he would run his fingers through her hair once she had reached her peak, the way he would regain air once he’d spilled inside her, breathing into her neck and running his lips lazily against her skin. But most of the times, he was very diligent, all focused in giving her and himself the pleasure they both craved; he was somehow harsh, ruthless, a mirror of who he was outside the bedroom, possessed by some kind of urgency that would break her in the most beautiful and cruel way and put her back together at once.

But then again, she imagined the promise of his heir living inside her was affecting even one of the most ruthless of men.

She sat down again and watched him stand up, his breath labored and open-mouthed as he looked down at her, working the few laces of his breeches still tied. She didn’t need an invitation, an order, a mere tilt of his chin to sit upright and put her hands alongside his snatched waist.

She looked up, and he found himself swallowing hard, cursing silently at the sight of her looking straight into his eye with his cock a breath away from her, all hard and glistening on the tip. Shamefully, he thought that would have done it for him.

A coarse grunt left his lips as soon as she wrapped her mouth around it, teasingly swirling her tongue on the slit without ever averting her gaze from him. He hissed painfully when her lips started to travel along his length, trying with all his might to hold back and not spill into her mouth so soon.

She, on the other hand, seemed eager to watch him come undone, just as he had done to her a few moments earlier. She started to suck him eagerly, like a starved creature, because on all those nights and days when he had taken her apart, learning every inch of her and how to bend it to his will, she had done just the same.

She knew how to make him wince and moan openly, while on her knees on their bedroom floor or on a fucking terrace during a late afternoon, with likely anyone to walk on them at any moment. With the Gods watching.

She didn't care. The Gods didn't care for them anyway. Let them see to whom she fell to her knees.

He couldn’t stop looking, how pretty she was like this, swallowing him whole, up to the hilt, hitting her throat with a gagging sound. So lecherous, so holy.

He was so close he had to bite his lip to restrain himself, letting out a string of curses until he felt the pressure growing stronger, and then, he thought, he might as well have it his way.

“Stop…” he croaked, grabbing her cheek but delicately, slipping out of her mouth and running his thumb over her sore jaw. She closed her slicked mouth, a drop of spit running down her chin and she looked at him, with such devotion he thought he had nothing to envy the Gods.

“Let me…” he pleaded, wiping her chin clean with his finger. “Let me fuck your mouth, sweetling. Would you?”

A question that needed no answer. Indeed, he wasted no time and grabbed the back of her head, tilting it slightly up for a better angle. He sheathed himself all the way in, gasping deeply at feeling the hot walls of her mouth, her cheeks hollowing.

His fingers curled into her hair, but never in a hurtful way, enough to keep her still as he started to move his hips against her face back and forth, his open mouth quivering as the pleasure began to build where it left off.

“Fuck—” he cursed once, and then twice, fucking her mouth faster to chase his peak, pulling ever so slightly at her scalp until he went still altogether, pushed his waist hard against her, and grunted loudly, in a pretty uncharacteristic way, as his cock twitched and spilled down her throat until the last drop.

Panting harshly, he pulled himself out and watched her close her mouth, eyes fixed on him, working her cheeks and making no mystery of the white essence on her tongue before swallowing it, thoroughly.

Aemond let himself fall on that chaise and she watched, she drank that sight: his hair all disheveled and damp with sweat, a shade of pink on his cutting cheekbones as he slowly pulled himself together, breathing through his open mouth while buckling his belt and breeches.

“I think I’m going to take a bath.” She said at one point, clumsily standing up. He had mumbled something in return, still caught in the throes of what they had done, but before she got back inside, she turned and said “Oh, just so you know…all of this was a ploy.”

She smiled cunningly at his frowning. “I never had any cravings. And I knew about the White Cloak at the door since the first day you put him there. You are not as subtle as you think you are, my love.”

A man of few words, but loud actions.

Her pains came during a peaceful afternoon.

In haste, nursemaids began their frantic rounds in and out of the Princess’ rooms like soldiers, carrying hot water and boiled rags. The Dowager Queen abandoned her perch beside Queen Helaena, or what was left of her, and went to assist the Princess. Having borne four children, she had quite a bit of advice to dispense, things she had learned on her own skin, things that any Master would never have told her because oblivious and convinced they knew what happened to a woman's body at such a delicate time based on how deep they had buried their nose in an old dusty tome.

Alicent helped the Princess rise from the bed, clutched her arm firmly and helped her walk. She said it was vital to walk, that it would ease her pain and help the baby come sooner. She told her to squat when the pain hit. She rubbed her back and wiped the sweat off her face as if she were her own daughter. It felt like that. Even though the Princess seemed to face it all with a stiff lip, Alicent could see that she was scared and in terrible pain, that she probably wished for her mother to be there. She had wished the same, no matter how many times she had faced it.

“Your Grace?” The Princess asked after another wave of pain had come and gone.

“Yes, child?”

“Do you think your son would forgive me If I said this one is both the first and the last?”

The Queen had smiled at that. “If the Gods bless you with more children, it will be easier, I can assure you. The first time is always rough. But it shouldn’t be long now.”

Well, her good mother turned out to be wrong. Because the pain plagued her for a full night, giving her no peace. At the hour of the nightingale, the nursemaids forced her to bed, and she gladly went. She was exhausted, she could no longer walk without hissing at every step, and by that time she was so used to the pain she no longer whined or anything, only scrunched her face and ground her teeth.

The servants stripped her bare and replaced her sweat-soaked nightgown with a fresh one. They dabbed her face with a wet cloth, but she could barely register anything, floating into unconsciousness only to be brought back to the present as another pain choked her breath.

“Perhaps some Milk of the Poppy?” One of the nurses said at one point.

“No.” the Maester said. “She may need to start pushing any moment now. We need her vigil.”

Her heavy-lidded eyes opened, wandering helplessly around the room. Useless research, for she knew he wouldn’t be there. She didn’t expect him to be. The birthing bed was no place for men, save for the Maesters, although she was starting to doubt their real usefulness when all they could do was pull her nightgown up, take a close look and shake their heads. They might as well let Aemond be there.

She imagined he must’ve been waiting outside, or in the Council, and yet she ached to see him. She closed her eyes and searched for him in her mind, clutching the sheets in her fist as if she could clutch his hand instead. And then she felt someone’s hand closing around her own, loosening her grip. Alicent, smiling down at her, and holding her hand tight.

It was holding her good mother’s hand that, at the first light of dawn, she gave birth to her child. A boy, healthy and all screeching as soon as he was out of her womb, clad in blood and grease.

Aemond had decided to name the child Aenar, if it was a boy, after the first Targaryen Lord, and she couldn’t quite believe her eyes or force her tears back when he was finally admitted to their chambers and took their son in his arms for the first time.

Alicent was beaming at the sight, squeezing his arm. “Congratulations, my son.”

But Aemond didn’t seem to even register her mother’s words, or presence, utterly enraptured by his little creature. He cast a look at his wife, a secret little look that told her how proud he was of her, how relieving it was for both to have come this far after all that happened, to have this little thing, this little ounce of peace amidst all the chaos of war.

What she didn’t know at that time was that Aenar was not exactly a peaceful child.

She had believed there had finally come the time when she could be herself again. But from the earliest days, Aenar proved not to be an easy child to deal with. The newborn cried and cried for hours, plagued by belly aches, and seemingly able to calm down only when in his mother’s arms. They had obviously called on a wet nurse; highborn ladies did not feed their children themselves, let alone a Princess. But Aenar had categorically refused to latch onto his wet nurse’s breasts. Alicent had proposed to summon another one, but as they dawdled and wavered, the Princess felt her heart break into pieces each time she held her little baby in her arms, all red in the face, hungry and in pain, turning his head towards her cleavage, desperate for her milk. Thus, she had put aside ceremonial court and all of that and chose to feed him herself.

But it was a strenuous task. The Maesters had warned her it would be tiring, sleep depriving, but she really had no choice. She had to do it every three hours, sometimes less, because being latched onto her breast seemed the only thing that would prevent the baby from screaming at the top of his lungs all day long. The nursemaid had recommended fennel and chamomile for belly aches. And, instantly, Aemond had ordered an astounding amount of both to be delivered to the Red Keep’s kitchens.

Queen Alicent taught her to hold the baby on his stomach, to rock him, but not too fast. They told her to take several breaks during breastfeeding, to make the baby belch often and prevent air from his belly. In the first week after Aenar was born, her mind was all but a vessel of do this, do that. No, not this way. Don’t ever wake the baby when he’s sleeping. Try to sleep when he does. Don’t eat spicy dishes.

In the midst of all of this, Aemond turned more and more suffocating in all his well-hidden, self-consuming concern. A handful of white cloaks, the most trusted by Ser Criston, were constantly guarding the door, day and night. He had a secret passageway that led to his rooms walled up, and she could swear he slept with his dagger beneath the pillow. Evidently not at peace with such extreme measures, he had the cradle moved to his side of the bed, within his reach, so that every time she had to wake up because the baby was wailing, she had to walk around the bed and pray that she would not tumble to the floor in the dark.

However, she was at least grateful to have Aemond’s support, for the little he could do. If he wasn’t occupied with warfare or hearings, he spent all the time he had with her and their child. And in those moments, no matter how exhausted she was, she would always find the strength to smile at the view when he held their baby, tracing his long fingers over the velvety grizzled skin of Aenar’s small hands; even when he’d speak to him in Valyrian, at which she had frowned at first.

“You do realise he’s one week old?”

“”Tis never too soon.”

“Mh. What’s next? Bring him to the skies on dragonback?”

“I’ll have you know Vhagar is perfectly safe to—“

“Over my dead body.”

He had smiled and stood up, going to place the baby in her arms. Aenar immediately began to fuss, whining and turning his head against her chest. She had started to unbutton her chemise but then stopped, looking up, where Aemond stood still like a sentry, and watching.

She raised an eyebrow. “Am I putting up a show?”

“Usually, you do.” He drawled. “Am I not allowed to watch? It seems my son and I already share a few interests.”

She looked away, smiling, and then she freed her left breast, watching as the baby immediately latched onto it. A moment later, Aemond took her chin in his hand, forcing her to look at him. He stared at her, and she saw that familiar glint his eye.

He trailed his thumb over her lip, barely breaching inside. “Soon?” was all he asked.

“Soon.” Was all she answered.

The soreness and the bleeding were reducing, and she was back in her tight flesh.

But the Gods must have cursed them some more, because that “soon” never seemed to become “now”.

The sickness didn’t seem willing to leave the poor child alone, along with his parents and the entirety of the Red Keep who had to suffer through his heartbreaking cries day and night.

The Princess had started to feel hopeless and guilty, no matter how many times the nursemaids, and even Queen Alicent, told her it was not her fault, that it was natural. No matter how many times she tried to convince herself they were right. Her heart broke any time the baby cried, wriggling desperately in her arms, in Aemond’s, in the cradle. She would end up crying too as she tried to soothe him, caressing his back with her cheek resting on his timidly silver-haired head.

She was working herself up to exhaustion, often falling asleep with the baby still latched onto her breast. It was Aemond who would take the baby to the cradle, it was Aemond who would button her chemise and pull up the blankets.

She hit rock bottom two weeks after Aenar’s birth, when she realised she hadn’t bathed in four days. Even Aemond, she could swear, was starting to look a little ragged around the edges. You don’t want to be King and take decisions in the middle of a war only to come back to a screaming infant at night.

But then, like a curse lifting, the sickness stopped. Amidst all those days she had stopped counting or even being aware of which was which, Aenar stopped crying. She was ashamed to admit that the first night he slept peacefully in his cradle, she had gone to check on him five times, to see if he was still breathing.

She began to gradually return to her former self, able to enjoy motherhood with a more rested mind, at least. Physically, she still felt worn out, given how much time she spent breastfeeding or rocking the baby to sleep. But now she was strong enough to take the baby out, walking the gardens with her maids and smiling proudly as the court ladies stopped to congratulate themselves and say how beautiful her baby was.

By doing this, though, she also became aware that she had lived in a bubble for so long that she had almost forgotten there was a war raging, there were battles being fought across the realm.

Reality hits her one day when Alicent goes to visit her and her grandson, bringing the news of a very important victory near the Honeywine, a large river flowing in the Reach, thanks to Prince Daeron Targaryen who had arrived all victorious on that very morning, riding his blue scaled dragon, Tessarion.

The news stuns her for a moment. She had no idea of it, partly because she had been too caught up with Aenar, but also because Aemond had not told her. Yet her family came from the Reach, they lived there, not very far from the Honeywine; her older brother fought for the Green Army. Still, not a word from Aemond.

Taking advantage of Aenar sleeping and the fact that Alicent offered to watch him, she leaves her chambers and heads for the Council. There’s a bustle of lords coming out of the door when she gets there, barely paying her any attention as they hastily babble about armies and supplies and men; always more men to be sent to slaughter.

She stops at the door, widening her eyes at the silver head crossing the threshold, one she hadn’t seen in a long time. “Prince Daeron.”

The youngest son of Queen Alicent and late King Viserys was nothing but a boy. But war had taken its toll on him too. He stood like a man, a Prince, and more than anything, a skilled dragon rider.

“Princess.” He says, tilting his chin down.

She curtsies and sees an immediate gentle smile softening his Valyrian features. “I believe some congratulations are in order.”

“Well, in all fairness, you shall be the most celebrated, my Prince. I’ve just heard of your recent victory.”

His gentle smile lingers, but loses its sparkle. “I must say I much prefer to celebrate life…rather than…the death of innocent men and women.”

There can’t be objections to such a statement; she just nods and casts a distracted glance inside the Council.

“Please…” the Prince says then, making room to let her pass “I won’t keep you away from my brother.”

She turns her head and smiles, tightly. “I’m afraid it is your brother who keeps himself away from me.”

“Heavy is the head that wears the Crown.”

“Indeed.”

The Prince bows to her and leaves.

Closing the door behind her, she glances at Aemond sitting at the head of the table, in the King’s chair, with such effortlessness that he seems to have been born exclusively for that purpose.

“I thought I heard you.” he says absent-mindedly, scribbling down a small piece of parchment. She slowly walks to the windows, casting a single furtive glance down, but she can’t possibly make out what he’s writing, or to whom.

“How’s—"

“Aenar is fine.” She cuts him off. “He’s with your mother, sleeping.”

He stops scribbling, glancing up for a moment. Her voice is tight, cutting. He knows that tone. It’s the same one she used in Harrenhal, as if he should have fallen to his knees and be grateful for the mere fact that she was speaking to him. But he doesn’t have time today to circle around her like a coiling snake, so he goes straight to the point. “Is something the matter?”

“You didn’t tell me of the Honeywine.” She says after a moment, gazing at the Bay.

Aemond sighes, a sign that he was expecting such a question. “You were looking after our son.”

“And?” she’s quick to rebut, quick to reach him at the table and stare down at him. “You didn’t deem it appropriate to inform me of a battle raging in my family lands?”

“I am your family.” He says, stoically, as if common law, and she has to stifle a bitter laugh. The nerve of him. “That is a very lovely concept. Strange how it got lost on you in Harrenhal.”

“Enough!” he barks, and the sudden harshness makes the quill pierce through parchment. “I thought I’d made myself clear.” He warns. “I don’t want to hear another word about the witch. Ever.”

She obediently looks down, regretting having said that, but not entirely. Perhaps she has spent so much time beside him that she, too, can’t let go of her grudges.

“I did not tell you, for I did not want to upset you.” He says, resuming his collected tone. “You were worn out by the baby, I didn’t want to put more weight on your shoulders.”

She knows he’s sincere. Still, her nod is stiff as she looks away, biting her cheek. She is just so sick of it all. Of being regarded as a cunt to be bred at first and now a weakling nailed to a cradle with an infant sucking the life out of her. She knows she’s not the first, and she won’t be the last.

Aemond leaves the quill and stands up, circling until he’s close to her. “Your family is fine.” He tells her, lingering behind her. “Daeron spoke to your brother this morning.”

She keeps nodding, keeping her gaze down on the table, all scattered with maps and little dragon-shaped tokens, some black, some green. She frowns, letting warfare soothe her petty spirits. “What is this?”

“Our next move. A defense plan…which happens to be an attack plan too.”

“A pincher?”

She turns just in time to see the little surprise on his face. “My brother talked of nothing else when we were children. He slept with warfare books as pillows.”

“Hmm.” He muses, and takes a step closer, slipping his arm around her waist and resting his chin on her collarbone. “Show me.”

She shudders at his sudden proximity, at his breath blowing on her neck. She shudders at anything these days. A hand on her back, his legs fumbling beneath the covers and casually brushing against hers. She’s tight as a fiddle string.

“A pincher is nothing else but a decoy.” She explains. “You let your enemy believe they have you trapped…” and in saying this, she grabs his hand and moves it across the map. “And then…at the right moment…” she makes him hold a green token between his fingers and brings it near a little division of black ones “you strike on both flanks.” And with a swift flick of her wrist, his hand scatters all the black tokens across the table. To do so, she must lean over the table, accidentally brushing her lower back against his bulge. He’s not hard, yet, but it thrills her to feel the lightning quick effect she has on him.

“Hmm. Good. Very good.” He praises next to her ear as she withdraws her hand; his voice is so low it makes her spine shiver. But she keeps herself grounded and asks “When will this happen?”

“Soon.” he whispers, placing his hand flat on her stomach. “There’s another Small Council shortly but Aegon wanted to be present. They went to fetch him.”

“Well, then I shall retire to my chambers. I feel a bit lightheaded from all the thinking.”

He ignores her jab and keeps her still by the arm when she tries to move. There’s a little sly smirk pulling at his lips. “I have some time to spare.”

“And how do you propose we spend it?”

“Enough with your pantomimes. I can feel your legs squirming.”

Curse him.

He slips the other hand straight into her corset, cupping her breast and humming with delight at how full she is, how it fills his large hand entirely. “Are you wet for me, my love?”

His teeth sink down her lobe, and at the same time, he pinches her nipple between his thumb and index, forcing an indecorous whine out of her. “My, my…” he laughs darkly, torturing her sensitive skin until he feels something wet on his fingertips, probably milk. “I could make you come just by doing this.”

Powerless, she yields, leaning completely against him, rubbing her lower back for some friction. “What if someone enters?”

“We’ll make it quick.”

“But I don’t want it to be quick.” She pants, grabbing his hand on her breast and squeezing; the other crawls behind her back to try to feel him through his breeches.

Hissing, when she starts to palm him, he says “Then we let them watch. They get to see how pretty you look when you come on my fingers, or my cock. Which should it be?”

“Both. Anything.” She answers hastily, pulling at his collar to bring him close enough to kiss him. He hums contentedly when she does, twirling his tongue around hers. It soon gets messy, each of them fighting for dominance, winning and losing in turn, until he spins her around, so he can look at her and with both his hands, he seizes her gowns and pulls up, furiously rummaging through them.

“How many fucking layers have you on?”

“I’m not pregnant anymore.” she points out, unbuckling his belt.

“Pity. Perhaps I should fuck another one into you to keep you in your skimpy robes.”

“Don’t you dare, Aemond—”

“Gods be good, brother! That eager to make another one?”

They both startle like little children caught doing something naughty, turning their heads towards the door, where two servants are carrying King Aegon on a chair. Aemond sighs annoyingly, letting go of her gowns as she does with his belt, trying to compose herself.

“My King.” She says, greeting her good brother with a tight little smile.

Aegon’s appearance has improved since Rook’s Rest, just as the burnings, but he carries with him the smell of Milk of the Poppy and rotting skin everywhere he goes.

“Good-sister. What are you doing here? Apart from being ravished by my brother... should you not be breastfeeding?”

Aemond gives him a level stare and then looks at her, hoping she will not take the bait. Aegon and his wife never got along well, to say the least. Things had only escalated with time, to the point that whenever they found themselves in the same room, one of them would wisely leave, his wife most of the times, lest they start to hiss at each other like two cats fighting for territory.

“What if I intend to stay and attend the council?”

Aegon giggles, as the servants put down the chair, and after a quick glance below her neck he says “I’m afraid you would be a little distracting. And my brother is not one for sharing.”

Before she can ask what in the Seven he is blabbing about, Aemond takes her arm and makes her turn, shielding her from his brother and the Lords coming through the door.

“You should retire.” He curtly says.

“Are you taking his side again?” she asks, wriggling her arm to free herself from his hold.

“You’re leaking.” He informs her, flatly.

At that, she frowns and dips her chin down, watching the front of her dress practically soaked in milk. “Oh.”

“I shall join you when I’m done here.” He tells her, and lets her out through the side doors.

Aemond did not join her.

The council lasted until the evening, a recurring thing when Aegon attended. Aemond was stern and concise in his decisions. Aegon liked to laze around, enjoying the wine in his cup, rattling his younger brother’s nerves. Deep down, she was convinced that Aegon did not really want to attend the Council because really interested in what to do, but only to remind his brother that he was still breathing and that the Conqueror's Crown on Aemond's head was a temporary measure.

But it didn’t matter. She would join him for the banquet in honor of Prince Daeron.

She was thrilled to go. It was not a proper feast. Since Helaena had fallen into grief, the atmosphere within the walls of the Keep had become rather austere. But a banquet still meant an occasion for conviviality, and after weeks and weeks spent locked up within four walls, the Princess was eager to spend some time outside her chambers. She had felt like a terrible mother at the mere thought. She loved Aenar, how could she not? But she also loved herself, her family, her marriage, Aemond. Especially Aemond.

Once she had put the baby to sleep, she had ordered her maid to prepare one of her favorite dresses, a green one, and to tie her hair in an elegant braided bun. When she had looked in the mirror, she had almost grunted. The scarce and troubled hours of sleep were all evident in the dark circles under her eyes, but it was nothing a little egg-white couldn't temper.

When she arrived at the banquet, Aemond was already there, standing in his usual soldierly stance, intent on talking to his mother. She approached them from the side, Aemond's blind side precisely, so that when she announced herself, he had to turn his shoulder to look at her. He cast a glance at her hair, ran his eye over her entire figure. She wasn’t expecting any kind of sappy words, and certainly not in front of his mother, nor did she desire them. She could feast on that look alone.

Queen Alicent excused herself to give order about the banquet, and they were left alone, while some musicians gathered in a corner of the hall.

“You said you would join me. I thought they abducted you.”

“More or less.”

“Ah. Yes, I'm sure it must have been so hard for you to listen to the lords snapping like little soldiers at your command.”

“It pains me to acknowledge how little you know me, when you think I'd rather talk war with those wimps who can't even hold a sword than fuck my wife till dawn.”

“That was your plan?”

“We have some unfinished business, don’t we? And don’t play dumb. You’re wearing green. You’re not as subtle as you think you are either.”

“Good. I’m sick of subtleties. So, are you going to ask me to dance?”

Aemond rolled his eye and gave her a stare that told her he’d preferred to walk barefoot on lava.

“Still not fond of dancing, eh?”

Prince Daeron suddenly appeared between them, with his cheerful manner and his head of silver curls, dressed in dark green just like his older brother. “Strange. You were the only one listening to the lessons when we were children.”

“Yes, because you and Aegon acted as court jesters the whole time.”

“I’ll have you know, brother, I have refined my dancing skills in Oldtown. So…may I dance with my good sister?”

Aemond gave him a simple nod, and Daeron bowed to her gallantly, raising his palm up.

She kindly accepted the invitation and placed her hand on his. “Don’t sulk too much.” She whispered to her husband before following his brother.

Aemond watched closely as they started to dance, stealing all the attention, and despite that little primitive tug at the sight of his woman dancing with another man, even though that was his brother and there was absolutely nothing malicious in his or her intentions, he was glad to see her like this, spinning and twisting around instead of lying still in the cold with dread eating her alive.

When the dance ended, Daeron escorted the Princess back to Aemond and took his leave. “Remind me again,” she asked as she watched the young Prince leave “How is it that your brother is still unmarried?”

Aemond sighed deeply and took her arm to escort her to the table. “I’d give you one week before you’d get bored of him.”

While they waited for dinner, the lords and ladies of the court were obviously very eager to hear Prince Daeron. Alicent in the first place, after so much despair, and after being separated from her youngest son for years, seemed to smile with her eyes every time she heard him speak.

“Hear, hear!” one of the lords cheered after listening to Prince Daeron’s retelling of the Battle of the Honeywine. “A brave soldier and a brave dragon rider! I propose a toast.”

At once, everybody stood up, raising their glasses. “To Prince Daeron, to House Targaryen!”

“And to House Hightower.” The Prince proudly stated, raising his glass towards his mother.

As they sat back, the Queen ordered the servants to serve the dinner. The table was gradually filled with a great variety of dishes, many of them Prince Daeron's favourites, specifically ordered by his mother to make him feel at home. It had been weeks and weeks since such a banquet had been seen at King's Landing. Prince Daeron seemed very pleased and grateful, as did all those present who watched the rich dishes crowd the table, and lastly, the huge tray of fresh fruit that a servant laid in the middle.

“I can’t quite believe my eyes. Blackberries? This far in the season?” said Lady Bracken.

“I’m afraid that is entirely my fault.” The Princess chirped, catching Aemond’s attention from across the table.

“I had a sudden craving, while I was carrying Aenar.”

“I had one too with my first.” Lady Redwyne joined in. “Plums, specifically.”

“Did you find them agreeable, Princess?”

“Oh, very much indeed.” She stated, casting an innocent glance around, but lingering for just a moment longer on her husband. “I devoured so many…I still feel the taste on my tongue.”

Devious woman, he thought, fighting back his cursed smirk. He had half a mind to excuse themselves and retire to their chambers, if he managed to endure it all the way and not take her in the middle of a hallway.

She seemed able to read his mind, judging by the way she was looking at him, unfurling a napkin on her lap. He knew her well enough to foresee when she was in a teasing spirit, and he was all in for it.

But then, just when they were about to start eating, her trusted maid came in, going straight to the Princess. “Apologies your Grace.” she said to her ear “but the Princeling is awake.”

Aemond saw the concern instantly widening her eyes and then a shadow passing over her face. “Yes…” she said, and stood up talking to all the present. “My apologies. I must retire.”

“See?” said Lady Bracken as Aemond watched his wife leave the hall. “This is why I refused to breastfeed. No matter how my second would scream…”

By the time she had done breastfeeding, her chest hurt so much that the maid had to place some rags soaked in cold water directly on her nipples; the instant relief had made the Princess close her eyes and almost moan. She had planned to go back to the banquet as soon as Aenar had had his fill but as she gained relief by pressing those wet rags to her breasts, she realised her son wouldn’t let her get away that easily.

As soon as the maid had taken him, trying to put him to sleep, he had begun to fuss and wriggle, whining in what she knew would soon turn into a high-pitched, deaf inducing crying.

Perhaps he’s cursed too. She had thought exhaustingly, promptly kissing his silver little head.

She gave up on her plan to go back to the banquet and rocked the baby herself, pacing before the windows while whispering sweet soothing words.

As soon as he had dozed off, she put him in his crib and absent-mindedly grabbed a book from Aemond's desk, lazily leafing through it while rocking the cradle with the other hand.

Aemond finds her like this when he opens the door on his way back from the banquet. She looks up from the page and sees him striding purposefully towards her, snatching the little book in her hands and throwing it on the bed.

She’s shocked, to say the least. One might say he treats books far better than his subjects.

“What—“ she tries to say but he takes her hand and pulls, forcing her to stand up and follow his steady gait.

“Aemond?” she asks down the corridor, a girlish grin climbing on her lips. “Where are you taking me?”

He doesn’t bother to answer but she doesn’t have to wait long to find out. They stop before a door down the corridor opposite to their chambers, Aemond pushes her inside without so much grace and shuts the door behind them.

She looks around briefly; the room is warm, the fire in the hearth is lit, as the candles scattered all around. This is all familiar. “These are my old chambers…” she says with a little frown, turning to him.

“Quite the observer, wife.” He drawls, and takes a few steps. His stride is different now. Slow, contemplating, as his gaze raking over her, as if he in the first place doesn’t know why he brought her here and he’s assessing what to do. A war map, and he knows where all the faults lie.

“I thought we could spend some time together” he starts, walking past her to go sit near the fire “Alone.” he adds once he leisurely sits down, crossing his long legs and resting his hands on the armrests. “What better place than a vacant room? No one will come looking for us here.”

She tries as hard as she can to stop the little smirk at the corner of her lips; she walks closer, stopping right in front of him, staring down. “They might hear.”

“Hmm. And that is much of a trouble for you, isn’t it?” he asks with the most fake genuine tone, taking a cup from the nearby table, and then “You sucked my cock on a terrace and begged me to fuck you in the Small Council…I thought I told you to quit your act.”

She smiles openly now, watching the wine pouring in the cup, his eye fixed on the liquid as his eyebrow shots up. “Besides, I know exactly what to do to muffle your noises.”

“You should be proud of my noises.”

“I am.” He says, taking a sip of wine, his eye piercing through her above the cup’s brim. “But for once, Aegon is right. I’m not one for sharing.”

His arm moves to put the wine aside but she takes it, only to feel his hand pulling the cup away from her. “You cannot drink.”

“Fine.” She concedes, leaning on him. “I’ll have it my way.”

She holds his face and with her left hand she glides her fingers on the left side of his face, delicately but with purpose, pushing the eyepatch off. And then she kisses him, eagerly, licking his lips and then breaching inside to taste the wine on his tongue, on the roof of his mouth.

She sighs deeply when he locks his tongue with hers, and feels his lips curling.

“Did you hear it?” He says breaking the kiss, breathing into her mouth. “That one is my favorite.”

“Your favorite what?” She asks mindlessly, chasing his lips but to no use, because he tilts his head back, his cursed smirk ghosting.

“Noise. It’s a little thing…” he tells her, locking one hand around her neck “in the back of your throat, close to a sigh but not quite…” his fingers trails against her throat, chasing her swallowing “It tells me you’re dying to.”

“To do what?”

“Fall on your knees for me. Be a supplicant.”

She grabs the back of his neck, driving his head close and looks down at his arched mouth “You cannot live without God, can you?” She looks up, her mouth open to breathe “Seven of them seem to have cursed me. I had to find my own.”

His eye widens at that. He looks straight into her eyes, so devoted, so raw. She’s right. The Gods would curse her some more if they saw she looks at him the way she should look at the Gods.

“Then do it.”

“What?”

“Flatteries don’t work on me, sweetling. You should know that.” With his hand on her neck, he slightly pushes her away, making some distance between them. “You will have to show me.”

“What would you have me do?”

His hands let go of her completely, resting on the armchair. The gemstone glints blue, and yet it’s nowhere near the bright cursed thing in his eye. “Get on your knees for me. Now.”

She should be ashamed of the pull in her bones, the muscles willing to move on their own accord and fall to the ground. But why, why does it have to be sin? Why can it not be religion?

When her knees hit the ground, she sees his chest rise, his long fingers spreading flat on the armchair. But her eyes fly back to his face as soon as he speaks, as soon as he commands. “Take off your dress.”

His eye sinks down, watching her hands work the corset, steadily. It’s the only sound in the room, this tugging, at the dress. But she tugs at his cock too. She tugs between her own legs.

When the dress is nothing but a pool of green on the ground, she goes to pull down her white chemise, but she suddenly stops. Aemond uncrosses his legs and the air hitches in her throat as his hands go straight to his belt, unbuckling it.

He revels in the little lump in her throat. Perhaps later he will let her have what she’s craving, but not so soon. “Give me your wrists.”

“My—”

“Don’t make me say it again.”

Swallowing, she keeps her eyes on him and raises her hands, like an offering. Aemond takes off his belt and leans forward, enough to take her hands and cross her wrists. She shudders at the sharp tug when he wraps the leather around, tying them tight.

“On your feet.”

And up she goes, testing her hands briefly but finding soon that she cannot move them, at all.

“Come.”

It takes one swift movement of his leg, bending the knee while the other rests loosely on the ground, for her to get the gist and walk closer, sitting on his knee, sideways.

“No. Like this.” Quite harshly, he grabs her hips and turns her so that she’s straddling his thigh. He can hear her little gasp when he pushes his thigh firmly against her core. He can feel her warmth through the fabric, stirring his cock. But he pays it no mind, for now.

“What now?” She asks, poised precariously on his thigh.

Aemond tilts his head, and he just looks at her. In the spur of a moment, a boyish one that doesn’t sit well with how he’s built, he thinks he might be quite contented by merely looking at her. Because she’s beautiful and mine, mine, mine.

But his hands are burning, they might fray and wither if he doesn’t touch her. He unties her hair, running his fingers through them as they fall around her shoulders. The Maiden. The Mother. And yet something better, something worse. Because her eyes are hungry, her mouth is starving for air, for his flesh.

“You must toil to find God.” He says, and then he grins. A savage thing, full of promise. “Bring yourself to come.”

A flash of thrill lights up her face, darkens her eyes and Aemond tilts his head again, biding all the time in the world, for he knows she will.

Tentatively, she pushes her body down, against his thigh, feeling a timid shot of pleasure traveling up from her core, ending in a short, labored breath.

That noise, that might be his second favorite.

Soon, her hips start to move back and forth, each time trying to push herself down as hard as she can, making little breathless cries each time she fails to give herself the friction she needs. She has little balance due to her tied wrists, so she rests her palms on his chest to gain some leverage. And that seems to do the trick.

She tilts her head back, moving faster, doing little jumps on his thigh, panting harshly as sweat lumps on her forehead and pleasure coils in her belly.

Aemond hikes up her chemise, watches her cunt brushing back and forth against his leg, leaving a trail of wetness on the fabric of his breeches. He has to choke down a growl. “Gods, you’re soaking me…”

She looks down at him, her cheeks pink, her lips open in a little o. He can’t help himself. He sticks two fingers inside and how relishing it is that she waits for no invitation or order. She laps, twirls her tongue around his fingertips, sucks them.

“Look at you…” he croons, taking his fingers out, leaving a trail of saliva down her chin. “But you can’t, can you? Perhaps I should fuck you before a mirror, so you see. You see how pretty you are when you’re desperate for me.”

His hand travels down her neck, tossing her hair back and then grasping the strap of her chemise, pulling it down, revealing her swollen, turgid breast. He leans forward immediately, cupping it in his hand, and takes the nipple into his mouth, crooning contentedly and then some more when he feels her wince and cry out loud.

Her tied wrists writhe in their merciless hold and he stops her, gripping both her hands with one of his own, keeping her still, lapping and sucking at her nipple until he feels something wet and saccharine on his tongue, humming all the better. He grazes his teeth over the sensitive bud, and she cries out again, bucking violently against him, turning sloppy and frenzy as she feels the fall close.

He feels it too, feels her thighs trembling around him, and that’s when he takes her hips in a tight hold and forces her to stop altogether.

“Did you think I would make it so easy?” he asks spitefully, seeing her dazed expression. Wasting no time, he holds her firmly close to him and stands up. It takes him only two of his long steps to reach the bed and place her above. In a moment of illusive freedom, her tied wrists fly to his breeches, to his evident hardness, but he’s quick to stop her, bringing her arms above her head, keeping them there with a firm hold. “Stay still.”

“Aemond—“ she pleads.

“Hush. Spread your legs.”

She obliges, eager for him to do something, anything to stop the aching. Aemond wets his fingers on his tongue and brings them down, breaching inside her with two of them, watching her gasp, arch her back and twist her wrists in his hold, uselessly. “Easy…” he cruelly laughs “I have just started.”

But she hasn’t. She’s a few steps away from the precipice of her previous denied peak, it would take him so little to push her over the edge. Instead, his torture is so slow that the whole coiling in her belly falls apart and she must climb her peak again.

His two fingers slip in and out ever so easily, their wet sounds echoing through the room, mixed with her panted breaths and his own. He aches for her to touch him, he aches so much that his cock is pulsing, painfully, but this is just too thrilling. Now he knows exactly how she felt in Harrenhal, when she had him chained up to a chaise.

Her hips rock frantically against his hand, trying to speed him, to get there faster. Mumbling nonsense, her legs tense like iron, her cunt clenches and sucks his fingers in like a vice. “Yes…yes, please…Aemond…please don’t stop—‘m so close…”

And just like that, he slips his fingers out; a dark pleasure dances on his candle-lit features as she writhes and whines for the loss of his fingers, swinging her lower back and forth, desperate for the barest friction that would end her misery.

“Aemond, please…” she says, and even with only one eye, he can’t mistake the tears of frustration at the corners of her eyes.

“What, my love?”

“Plea—” she’s cut off by his hand, pushing his sticky fingers inside to make her clean up her mess.

“We said enough with subtleties, did we not? Speak. Tell me…what you need me to do?”

“Let me come please…please…”

At that, he finally lets her wrists go, and she almost winces in pain, for the time she had them tensed above her head. He stalls for a moment, unsure, running his eye over her whole body, sweating and feverish, and so beautifully plump because of motherhood. He unbuttons his doublet, and then his shirt, his breeches. He bares himself completely, catching her eyes following his deft hands everywhere, breathing heavily.

He kneels between her legs, spreading them. And it’s embarrassing, really, the way she tumbles as soon as he puts his tongue flat against her drenched folds. If only she cared.

It takes only a couple of twirls of his tongue around her lips, and she comes undone, shaking all over, canting her slit against his face. He helps her ride out her climax, by not stopping at all. Instead, he doubles his efforts like a man possessed, pushing his mouth open against her cunt as if he wished to devour it, sucking harshly until she whimpers hard, choking on a loud sob. “Aemond—wait—I can’t—”

She cannot take more so soon. But he’s utterly deaf to her complaints.

He feasts on her, lapping and dipping his tongue in, parting her folds to go as deep as he can, humming while drinking all of her; his voice reverberates through her flesh, it makes her bones rattle.

His long nose rubs against her bud and he looks up: she trashes about the sheets, cutting herself as the belt leather scratches her skin. She tries to push him away with her tied wrists, to no use. She clamps her legs around his head, in a desperate attempt to chase him away, sobbing for the unbearable stimulation. And yet…and yet her hips move on their own whim, bucking with sharp jolts until the wave starts to rise, higher and higher, and she drowns in it, letting go a high-pitched cry, clutching his scalp with both her tied hands, scraping, pushing him against her as she rides her peak against his face.

He swallows everything, licking her clean, moaning softly at feeling her pulsing on his tongue.

“Enough…I—Aemond you have to stop…” she rasps breathlessly.

“Why?” he asks, finally rising from where he had perched himself; he climbs on her, until he speaks to her face. “I am only making up to you. Wasn’t that what you wanted?”

She can smell herself on him, she can see herself, glistening on his mouth, chin, even his cheekbones.

“Answer me.” His hand grips her jaw “You said you wanted everything.”

She chokes down a whimper when he leans completely on her, feeling his cock against her cooling flesh, while he’s hot and hard and heavy.

“I will give you more.” He says, brushing a strand of her sweat-soaked hair from her temple. “I will give you another child. Keep you all aching and wet for me while you swell with my child. Do you think I don’t know? How you ached for me? D’you think I didn’t?” he presses himself down, so she can feel it thoroughly, furrowing her brow as her body already answers to his call.

“I can feel you in our bed…” he keeps rasping “rubbing your legs together. And you know how much that bothers me. Your pleasure is mine to take…and to give.”

Her lips part, gasping roughly. She was so hung on his lips that she hadn’t even registered that he had taken hold of himself, bending her knee on his left hip, and guided himself in.

She arches against him while he slowly sheathes himself all the way in, moaning with long-awaited relief. He stays still for a moment, adjusting, but also because he takes her wrists and sets her hands free.

Thrilling as it was, he wants her hands on him, he craves her touch.

He wants her to cling to his shoulders as she always does, digging her nails down.

He wants her to clamp her fingers on the back of his neck, scraping and pulling his hair to keep him close enough to moan into his mouth.

He wants her hands on his back, sliding down, to push him even deeper while rutting inside her.

And she does all of that. She finds God.

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strcwbrryklss · 1 month ago

Text

୨୧﹕ forgive me .ᐟ oneshot

pairing ; father charlie mayhew x fem!reader contains ; tension , smut ( oral m receiving ) a/n ; i rewatched fleabag season two and HAD to write this for my own sake ( also havent proofread this,, so just ignore any mistakes pls. summary ; it has been 160 days since your last confession.

the soft hum of hymns filled the stone walls of the church, echoing through the vast, candlelit space. the congregation sat quietly, hands folded in prayer or resting on their laps, their eyes fixed on the alter.

the heavy scent of incense hung in the air, weaving between the polished wooden pews, where you sat toward the back, trying to focus on the words of the sermon. the light from the stained glass windows poured in, casting delicate hues of red, blue, and gold across the congregation, illuminating the man at the front of the church.

father charlie.

your heart pounded in your chest as you stared at him, your fingers nervously gripping the edge of the pew. you had tried to stop coming to mass, but something always drew you back here—drew you back to him. each week, you told yourself it would be different. you would listen to the sermon, find solace in his words, and leave without this gnawing ache in your chest.

but it never worked.

father charlie stood at the altar, the bible held firmly in his hands as he delivered his message, his voice deep and smooth, filling the grand space with a quiet authority. his tone was soft, but it held power, a magnetic pull that kept everyone’s attention on him. but while the others listened intently to the words of faith, of virtue and devotion, your mind was far from holy thoughts.

your eyes traced the lines of his jaw, the way the sunlight caught in his brown hair, making the strands shine beneath the dim lighting of the cathedral. his features were sharp but kind, his strong brows furrowed in concentration as he spoke about resisting the temptations of the flesh.

temptation.

the word reverberated through you, sending a jolt of heat to your core. temptation, the feeling you knew far too well. father charlie’s hands moved as he gestured lightly with his sermon, and you found yourself imagining those hands on you, instead of the bible. you swallowed hard, pulse quickening as your thoughts drifted to places you knew they shouldn’t go, especially here — especially with him.

he was the very definition of unattainable, a man sworn to a life of celibacy, of purity. and yet, you couldn’t stop the thoughts that rushed through your mind every time you looked at him. every sunday, you sat in the same pew, feeling that same magnetic pull toward him, a pull you couldn’t explain and couldn’t resist.

his robes hung loosely on his tall, lean frame, the fabric shifting with each subtle movement he made. beneath them, you knew there was something stronger, something more human than the holy image he portrayed. and the thought of that made your stomach twist with desire.

you could barely breathe, the church suddenly feeling too warm, too confined. you bit your lip, eyes darting to the floor as you tried to steady your racing thoughts. this was wrong. so wrong. but you couldn’t help it. every word that came from his lips only seemed to make it worse, sending your mind spiraling deeper into a fantasy you had tried so hard to bury.

you imagined it so clearly now — being alone with him after the congregation had gone. the church would be empty, the candles burning low, the flickering flames casting long shadows along the stone walls. you would step toward him, heart pounding, and when your hand brushed his, you’d feel the heat of his skin, the tension between you palpable. he would hesitate, of course. his vows, his faith — they would hold him back for a moment. but then, in the quiet of the empty church, his restraint would finally break.

your pulse raced as the image flashed vividly in your mind: his hands on you, pulling you close, his lips crashing into yours with all the pent-up passion he had kept locked away for so long. the forbidden thrill of it sent a shiver down your spine, your breath coming faster as you quickly glanced back up at him, half-expecting to see him watching you, knowing your every sinful thought.

but he wasn’t. father charlie’s gaze was still fixed on the congregation, his words steady as he spoke about virtue, about control.

you looked across the church, towards one of the many paintings of god, his expression seeming almost disappointed. you felt a flush of guilt, heat rising to your cheeks. how could you sit here, in a place meant for worship, and think these things? how could you look at him — father charlie — and imagine him like that? it was wrong. but that only seemed to make the ache in your chest grow stronger, the desire burning hotter with each passing moment.

the service was drawing to a close, and your heart pounded as you realised you would soon have to face him. father charlie always stood at the door after mass, offering a handshake and a few kind words to each person who passed. every week, that brief moment of contact set your skin on fire, leaving you wanting more.

and then you saw him — father charlie, standing by the entrance, his eyes warm and kind as he greeted the parishioners. you swallowed hard, heart racing as you approached. his gaze shifted to you, and for a moment, the rest of the world seemed to blur at the edges, leaving only the two of you.

"god bless you, y/n" father charlie said softly, his voice sending a shiver down your spine as his hand extended toward yours.

you hesitated for the briefest moment, your breath catching in your throat as your hand slipped into his. his grip was firm but gentle, the warmth of his skin sending a spark of electricity through you. you looked up into his eyes, searching for… something. some sign that he could feel the same pull, the same tension that had been building between you for months. but his expression was as serene as ever, his smile kind and distant.

"thank you, father," you murmured, your voice barely audible as you let go of his hand, your fingers tingling where they had touched him, before turning around to leave the sacred building. however, you stopped in your tracks.

turning towards him, you spoke timidly, "actually, father.."

as you approached, father charlie glanced up and saw you, his warm smile instantly making your heart skip a beat. his dark eyes met yours, and you felt that familiar pull, a flutter in your stomach that made your knees weak.

"yes?," he responded kindly, his voice a calm, steady presence that filled the space between you.

"father," you began, your voice shaking slightly as you stepped closer. "i was wondering if… there’s any chance i could confess later?"

there. you’d said it. the words hung in the air between you, and for a moment, you were certain he could see right through you — into your mind, your thoughts, your desires. you tried to keep your expression neutral, but the tension coiled in your chest made it nearly impossible to hide how nervous you were.

father charlie’s smile softened, a gentle, almost unreadable look crossing his face as he studied you. he took a small step closer, lowering his voice slightly as if sensing the weight of what you were carrying. "of course," he said, his tone compassionate, "confession is always available for those who seek it. Would you like to meet later this afternoon?"

the way he said it — just us — made your stomach flip. you nodded, unable to fully trust your voice at the moment. your throat felt tight, your thoughts tangled. "yes. that would be… good."

his gaze lingered on you for just a moment longer, his eyes holding yours in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. there was nothing inappropriate about it, nothing overt, and yet you couldn’t help but feel as if there was something deeper there, hidden beneath the surface of his composed expression. you tried to ignore the way your body reacted to it, the way your skin seemed to burn with the need for more than just words.

"come by around eight," he said, his voice soft but firm, as if he was giving you permission to unburden yourself in a way you hadn’t before. "we can speak privately in the confessional."

your heart raced as he said it, the reality of what you were asking for sinking in. it wasn’t just confession — not for you. It was a way to be close to him, a way to sit in that small, private space, separated only by the thin barrier of the confessional screen. the idea of it — of being so close, alone, with him — made your chest tighten with anticipation.

you swallowed hard, nodding again. "thank you, father," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

he gave you one last kind, reassuring smile before you turned to leave, the echo of his words still ringing in your ears as you made your way toward the exit. as you stepped out into the cool air, your body still tingling with the thought of what was to come, your mind raced. confession wasn’t supposed to feel like this — like a secret thrill, a forbidden opportunity. but that’s exactly how it felt.

and it wasn’t just the confession itself. it was him. the way he carried himself with such calm authority, the way his voice seemed to wrap around you, pulling you deeper into your thoughts. you had tried to fight it, tried to deny it, but there was no use anymore.

you wanted him.

by the time the clock struck eight, you found yourself back at the church, your heart racing as you made your way inside. the church was mostly empty now, the quiet stillness of the afternoon wrapping around you like a heavy blanket. you could hear your own footsteps echoing softly as you walked down the aisle toward the confessional booth.

you hesitated for just a moment before stepping inside, the small, intimate space feeling even smaller than usual. the soft rustle of father charlie’s robes reached your ears as he entered the adjacent booth, and your breath hitched in your throat. the thin screen between you offered a sense of privacy, but it did nothing to stop the electricity that buzzed in the air.

"whenever you’re ready," came his voice, low and soothing, sending a shiver through you.

your mind raced, the words you had rehearsed suddenly seeming inadequate. how could you confess these feelings to him? How could you possibly admit that the sin you carried was him? the thought alone made your throat tighten, but you knew you couldn’t back out now.

"forgive me, father, for i have sinned…" you began, your voice shaky, barely more than a whisper, "it has been 160 days since my last confession"

you weren’t sure how you were going to get through this confession, but one thing was certain — the desire that burned inside you wasn’t something that could be easily absolved.

you hesitated, grappling with the words that felt so heavy on your tongue. "i've been having… thoughts," you started, feeling your cheeks flush. "sinful thoughts that i know i shouldn’t be having."

"sinful thoughts about someone?" he asked, his voice a mixture of curiosity and caution.

"yes," you admitted, heat creeping up your cheeks. "someone i shouldn’t be thinking about. i know it’s wrong, but i can’t help it."

"tell me more," father charlie encouraged, his tone gentle but firm, as if he could sense the struggle within you.

"it’s... complicated,” you continued, feeling a knot tighten in your stomach. "i’ve been trying to push these feelings away, but every time i see him, it’s like i’m drawn to him in a way i know isn’t right."

"why do you believe these feelings are wrong?” he asked, and you could hear the slightest hint of tension in his voice, a challenge that made your heart race.

"because he’s... celibate,” you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. "and i shouldn’t feel this way about him. but i do."

the silence that followed was deafening. you could almost hear the clock ticking, each second feeling like an eternity. you held your breath, waiting for his response, feeling the heat of your confession hang in the air between you, "i don't know what to do, father. these thoughts won't go away"

the scent of incense swirled around you like a comforting yet suffocating blanket. you could hear the soft rustle of the priest’s robes on the other side of the screen. he took a deep breath.

"kneel"

the unexpected command took you by surprise. your heart raced at the thought, a mix of anxiety and anticipation flooding your senses. "kneel?" you echoed, trying to process his words.

"i want you to kneel."

you hesitated for just a moment, but something in his voice compelled you to comply. slowly, you knelt before the screen, feeling the coolness of the floor beneath your knees. your heart raced, each beat echoing in your ears as you sensed the shift in the air around you.

the curtain opened slightly, and father charlie stepped into view, his expression unreadable. the light from the candle illuminated his features, and for a moment, you were taken aback by the intensity in his gaze. there was a hunger there, a spark that made your pulse quicken.

father charlie looked down at you, bringing his hand down to your chin and tilting your head upwards to look him in the eyes. as the moment hung in the air, your heart raced, a wild drumbeat echoing in your ears. you could feel the heat radiating between you both, a magnetic pull that left you breathless. anticipation coursed through your veins, mingling with a desperate thrill that made your pulse quicken.

unexpectedly, he leaned down, stopping only inches away from your lips, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine. you looked down at father charlie's parted lips, before looking back up at his eyes, glistening in the candlelight. your thoughts raced, much more sinful than they were before.

and just like that, father charlie closed the gap between you in a slow but passionate kiss. it felt as if you were breathing each other's air, your fingers moving up and tracing his arm. he then pulled away. you almost followed him, desperate for more, but you couldn't.

looking up at him, your heart raced, a needy look in your eyes.

the sound of father charlie unbuckling his belt rang through the church; anyone who walks in would know what was happening. but you didn't care.

he unzipped his pants before pulling them down, just past his underwear, the thin fabric revealing his large bulge. your was mouth already salivating at the thought of it. father charlie looked down at you with a nod, giving you permission.

your fingers made their way towards his waistband, slowly curling underneath his clothing before slowly pulling them down, just enough to reveal his erection.

gasping slightly at the size of him, you hesitated, your heart quickening.

father charlie moved his hand to the back of your head, urging you.

you couldn't wait any longer. you took deep breath before licking his tip, the taste of his pre-cum giving you the need for more.

desperately, your mouth took as much of him as it could, causing him to let out a soft moan as his tip touched the back of your throat. you looked up at him. the sight of him looking down at you with so much lust, so much greed in his eyes caused your stomach to flutter.

he grabbed onto the back of your hair, lightly pushing you back and forth before picking up momentum. father charlie threw his head back in pleasure, before looking into your eyes once again.

you moaned as the pace grew faster, causing his eyebrows to furrow at the vibration. and with that, he released, the warmth of it running down your throat.

looking up at him with admiration, he smiled slightly.

you knew this wasn't the last time.

#nicholas chavez #nicholas chavez x reader #father charlie mayhew #father charlie x reader #father charlie smut #grotesquerie #nicholas alexander chavez #777 #݁₊ ⊹ ݁˖ ⋆ strcwbrryklss

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kingkat12 · 3 months ago

Text

you're my drug (eric draven x reader)

WARNINGS: 18+, piv sex, oral sex (female receiving), fingering, semi-public sex, sexual imagery, foul language, mentions of drugs/tobacco

summary: after you got caught making out with Eric at rehab, everything suddenly spirals into something much deeper

word count: 5,022 PART 1, PART 2, PART 3

a/n: this is part two of draw you! enjoy!!<3

As I stood in the courtyard, kicking some rocks along during my lap around the premises, I couldn't help but wonder when I would see Eric again. It had been a week since we were caught making out in his room, and I had just gotten out of a two-day solitary confinement— it was definitely a harsher punishment than expected. Then again, I should've known; this place was an absolute shithole.

The worst part of the ordeal was having to write down my feelings and get another check from the warden, along with questions about whether or not I was a nymphomaniac. Excuse me?

Had Eric gotten a harsher repercussion than me? Maybe he had been moved to a different rehabilitation center? I didn't want to think about it. Again, I shouldn't be worrying about a stranger I barely knew. It was a little reckless of me to care for someone who had drawn me naked— now that I wasn't in a state of arousal, it dawned on me how creepy that actually was.

But then again... I had been the one to jump him. That was on me. Had I not offered up, I wouldn't feel so attached to him.

... Maybe I was a nymphomaniac? Fuck.

So when I eventually lost track of where I had kicked my stone, I started looking for new ones. And it was during my hunt for entertainment that I eventually spotted a familiar tall figure entering the courtyard.

Eric's cheeks were more hollow than the last time I had seen him, and I couldn't help the guilt that immediately seeped into my system. He seemed much darker than I remembered, the green in his eyes no longer having that playful shimmer I could spot from far away. However, when he spotted me on his way through the courtyard with a guard by his side, something changed in Eric. The flush in his cheeks returned, his eyes widened, and I could see the faint remnants of the smile that had etched itself into my mind for nights on end. But when he met my gaze, he looked away in a flash-- was he afraid we'd be caught staring at each other again?

I couldn't even control the way I immediately jumped into action as the guards left Eric's side, and I made my way to him with a confident stride. "Well, if it isn't Michelangelo?" I said, approaching with a smile. Seeing him in the flesh again made the tips of my fingers tingle, a certain excitement building in my system. "Where have you been? Did they put you in confinement too?"

But the smile I had seen in him earlier wasn't there anymore-- he turned to me, face blank. Eric blinked twice, watching me as though he didn't know why I was talking to him at all, his nose scrunching up.

My pulse quickened as my anxiety rose; what was happening?

"We shouldn't be talking," Eric eventually mumbled, looking away. His green eyes darted towards the guards on duty, wary of their movements. It didn't take long before he started walking away from me, which in turn left me stunned.

I wondered whether I had said something wrong as I watched him join a few guys that were working out, and I had to take a deep breath to ground myself. Everything about this made me feel like a complete and utter idiot-- I turned away from Eric, rubbing my temples as I made my way back inside. This was giving me a bigger headache than the ones I would get after coming down from a high.

This definitely felt similar to that; the crushing feeling. Having Eric dismiss me like that after what we had done felt more painful than usual, now that I couldn't dull down my feelings with anything.

I walked back into my room, slamming the door shut behind me. Everything about this made my whole body ache, and I couldn't understand why I even cared to this degree.

Had I been so delusional as to think Eric felt something for me too?

Later that night, I didn't care to come out for the last meal. Something told me I'd be staring at Eric again and that he'd dismiss me once more, and I didn't know if I could take it. I hadn't missed drugs as much as now-- everything about this situation reminded me of how I ended up here in the first place.

As I lay in my bed, hoping to fall asleep and wake up a new woman, I was dragged out of my sleepy state when I heard a light shuffling sound coming from my door. I sat up, rubbing my eyes before my gaze slowly darted towards the commotion.

There it was. A note?

I went to pick it up, feeling my heart thump hard in my chest in anticipation. The paper was familiar, like rough velvet to my fingers, and the same size as a page from a notebook. The smile that crept up my lips was impossible to suppress-- I turned the paper to see a new drawing of me, made in the same scratchy style as the previous ones I had seen.

It was an image of me laying in a bed, my eyes hidden in the crook of my arm, lips parted as though I was drawing in a big breath. The pink jumper I was pictured in was a lot bigger than mine; I suspected it was supposed to be Eric's. From the waist down, I was wearing nothing but a black pair of underwear, my legs dangling halfway off the bed.

I sucked in a sharp breath, feeling my chest rise as my heart skipped a beat-- it was beautiful. Completely breathtaking. And in the corner to the upper right, there was a scribbled message with boyish writing that was hard to understand;

messy mornings. let's have those someday? xx

My smile only spread, and I let out a shaky breath of relief as I leaned my forehead against my door, pressing the drawing tightly against my chest. The joy that coursed through my veins reminded me of the same euphoric feeling I'd get from doing a certain type of drug-- I wasn't sure whether it was good for me or not to be feeling these things, but I knew I was addicted already.

Was Eric maybe addicted to me as well? Was the incident in the courtyard just something he did in front of the guards, straying away from trouble?

I couldn't be sure. Nonetheless, I had gotten confirmation that he definitely thought about me too, and that was all I needed.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

I could swear it was the same as getting high-- seeing Eric, I mean. It was especially exhilarating knowing he was right in front of me, but that I couldn't say a word to him.

We were currently in a typical meeting, a group of people sitting in a circle trying to work through why they had started drinking or using. I hated these gatherings the most; I wasn't the biggest fan of airing out my life to strangers.

But today was different. Eric had joined my group, even though his meeting usually took place later in the evening. I felt the air seep out of my lungs the second I spotted him in the door, watching him with eyes wider than expensive plates of china as he sat down on the chair opposite me in the circle, locking his gaze on me.

And there he sat, in a casual manspread as he twiddled his thumbs, waiting his turn. His dark mullet had grown out a little, the hair on his forehead inching closer to his eyes with each week he was here. It was easy to get lost when I stared at him for too long, hypnotized by his tall build and his green, green eyes darting right back at me. The smirk playing across his lips mirrored mine, both of us feeling the tension thicken between us despite knowing our minds should be elsewhere at this moment.

I had gotten so swept up with Eric that I nearly jumped out of my chair when my name was called. My eyes frantically ripped themselves off of him, finding the guidance counselor with a confused look. What question was I supposed to answer?

The counselor cleared her throat; "How are you planning to change your habits once you get out of rehabilitation?"

Oh. I had no idea. Flustered, I ended up shrugging, avoiding Eric's amused gaze. "I think... I might have to work on my impulses. So I guess I will try to make sure I don't give in to bad habits by..." I realized I was completely lost, and it made my cheeks flush. "By doing, uh... Doing breathing exercises?"

My eyes snapped toward the sound that came from the other end of the room-- I watched as Eric clasped a hand over his mouth, head hanging low to hide his blatant amusement. Was that a snort I heard? I had to actively bite back a smile from forming, my teeth sinking into my bottom lip with a force I had never used before.

The counselor cleared her throat, clearly unhappy with the direction this was heading. "Yes, Eric? Do you have anything to say?"

His green eyes darted up from his lap, and it was obvious that he was biting down on the inside of his cheek. Eric crossed his arms over his chest, nodding to himself as though he was thinking. "Well, if you're asking me the same question, I think I plan to surround myself with people I love. I think that's where it went wrong the last time,"

I held my breath-- I hadn't expected him to say that. And I had most certainly not expected Eric's eyes to find me immediately after, realizing his pupils had widened the second they landed on me.

I didn't try to suppress my smile this time. I let it happen, watching as Eric smiled right back with a shimmer in his eyes.

Something told me I was actually going to get something good out of group therapy.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

... It dawned on me a few days later that I didn't have much time left in rehab. It also happened to dawn on me at the exact moment another drawing slipped under my door, right around the time I was ready to go to bed.

It was probably the fifth one this week, and I had laid them out neatly on my nightstand. Every image was as beautiful as the last one-- two of me in bed, one of me out in the courtyard again, and one of me during a group session falling asleep on Eric's shoulder. It warmed my heart to think that he had thought about that imagery when we had sat opposite each other a few days ago. Actually, everything about this warmed my heart.

However, today's drawing caught me off-guard. Today, it was a nude one-- deja vu. My eyes locked on the image of me in what looked like Eric's room, gripping his hair as his head was dipped between my legs. One hand was clasped over my chest, and the other one was digging its fingers into my thigh, holding me down. Everything about it made my heart stop, letting out a laboured breath at the sight.

As always, there was a small message in the upper right corner;

in an alternative universe, there wouldn't be guards outside and there would be no stopping us. can't wait to taste you xx

My hands gripped the paper, almost to the verge of curling it. It felt as though my body was actively on fire, a need ripping its way through my chest. And it was this exact feeling that had me rushing to put the drawing away before bolting out my door, knowing Eric couldn't have gone too far.

Thankfully, I had been right. I spotted Eric further down the hall, towering over the people passing him. It was impossible not to notice the tattoos poking up from under his pink jumper, and something about it made my heart race even faster-- I so desperately wanted to see everything. Feel him beneath the pads of my fingertips.

And I burned. Burned, burned, burned up. And I kept on burning as I sped down the hallway, hearing the loud clacking of my shoes echo through the space along with the thumping of my heart. "Eric!"

Hearing his name, Eric turned around, eyes wide in surprise. "Hey, you," he murmured, brows knitting together as though he was about to scold me. "Thought you were sleeping?"

I finally caught up to him, quickly scanning our surroundings, realizing we were alone.

"... Are you here to return the drawing?" Eric asked, tilting his head to the side as he scanned the look on my face. A nervous smile spread across his lips, and he brought his hand up to scratch the back of his neck as his eyes flickered around the hallway. "Might've been a little much, sure, but you didn't seem to mind it the last time?--"

His words trailed off as the small hand tugging at his jumper caught his attention. Eric's eyes rounded out, immediately understanding what I was getting at. When he leaned down, I let out a shaky breath before I flung my arms around his neck, capturing his lips in a sweet kiss.

I had hoped it would satiate the burn ravaging my body, but it didn't. As Eric's big arms wrapped around me, pulling me flush against him, the fire only spread. My hands barely had time to go up into his hair, tugging softly at his dark locks, before he pulled away with an airy chuckle. "You'll get us in trouble again,"

That's true-- "Fuck," was the only thing I managed to say.

Humming, Eric glanced down the hall before pulling my hand into his, intertwining our fingers as he led me away. I was glad it was almost time for bed, seeing as there were barely any people out in the hallway and the guards were relaxing outside on their cigarette break. A familiar dulling of my brain seeped into my system as I remembered the smell of their cigarettes gliding into my room from outside-- I missed nicotine. But Eric was better than any cigarettes. Better than anything I had ever taken before. No high could match the one I would get from locking eyes with him, getting a drawing under my door, or the feeling currently coursing through my veins as he led me into a desolate stairwell. "This will do for now," he muttered, giving my hand a gentle squeeze before letting go. "I'll make sure to bring you somewhere nice when we're both out of here."

As my back hit the wall, I couldn't suppress my growing smirk as Eric neared me. The last time we had stood like this, had been right before he left my room after we made out. Seeing how tall he was, casting a shadow as he towered over me, I let out a sigh of joy; I had missed this. I had missed him. There was nothing that could make me happier than being alone with him. "I'm getting out of here soon, actually,"

Eric hummed as he placed his hand against the wall next to my head, his green eyes locking with mine. I wasn't too afraid to show my burning state-- he watched my lips part as I stared up at him, and I watched his jaw clench as he tried to digest the look in my eyes.

Sex. I was giving him those bedroom eyes that always worked on every guy I had ever been with. My eyes got all glassy, my thick lashes hanging low. I was quite sure I would let him fuck me right here if he wanted to-- I was past the point of caring who caught us.

"Soon, you say? How soon?" Eric asked, leaning down to press two separate kisses against the corners of my mouth.

I had to control the way my breath hitched before I answered; "A week and a half,"

Nodding, Eric's fingers brushed against my lips, pressing into the skin as he watched my expression with a heated one of his own. His thumb dipped past my lips, brushing against the tip of my tongue. "I'm out in three,"

I smiled before wrapping my mouth softly around his thumb, watching a breath escape him as his green eyes locked on the sight. Eric leaned down to kiss my cheek, watching as they flushed when he pulled his finger out of my mouth. "Where can I find you when we're out?"

"You seriously think I would leave this place without giving you my address?"

"Okay, good," Eric chuckled, his eyes rounding out with a newfound softness. "Because I think I'll need you out there more than I need you now."

What? I swallowed, biting down on my lower lip. Did he reciprocate the way I was feeling these things? I wondered whether he also felt the pit of fire in his stomach, whether he couldn't breathe whenever I wasn't around, and whether thoughts of me also wreaked havoc through his mind in every waking moment.

Eric's eyes lowered, taking in my stunned silence. "Honestly, I thought this was purely a lust thing, but... I've come to realize it's not just that. The one thing rehab has taught me, is that I need to break my habits, so here I am. Not running,"

I hadn't smiled this brightly in years. "Eric?"

A hum.

"I feel the same way," I reached out for his face, glad he had bent down a little to make it possible. "I'm quite sure I've gone mad, but standing with you here feels better than any drugs I've ever taken. And quite frankly, that drawing... Fuck, that was quite something." A breathy giggle escaped me, watching as Eric met my gaze with a smirk playing across his plush, pink lips. "That shit was hot. You're so fucking talented, do you know that?"

Eric freed his lower lip from his teeth, inching closer to gently nudge his nose against me. "Nope, I definitely don't know that. Completely oblivious. Which is why I need you around to tell me that, once in a while,"

"I'll tell you every day, if you want," I closed my eyes, relishing in the feeling of our closeness.

"Good," Eric whispered against my lips, his hands now grabbing at my waist, pressing himself closer to me. "And I'll eat you out every day. Deal?"

I was quite sure I was going to faint. Remember the drawing, I couldn't wait for our time to come. "Sounds like better therapy than anything they've done for me here,"

"Definitely,"

I smiled, giving his dark hair a tug, pulling Eric against me to connect our lips in a passionate kiss.

How we had gone from staring at each other to this, I had no idea. How it became this enormous feeling burning through my body, I couldn't guess the answer. But the one thing I knew, was that it felt right-- being with Eric like this felt right. Correct. Perfect.

As our kisses grew with hunger, resembling that one evening on Eric's bed, my body began to grow flushed as his hands dipped beneath my pink jumper, traveling up my torso with a fiery need to be close. "Can I take this off?" he asked, pulling away, panting just slightly.

I nodded, unable to wipe the grin off my face as my sweater got discarded somewhere on the floor, licking my lips out of pure habit. Eric was quick to dip his head forward, swiping his own tongue along mine. My back arched off the wall in surprise, the movement against his body earning me a small groan. This was how I realized he was hard-- I had to suppress another hitch of my breath.

"Shit, I want to take it all off," Eric whispered against my lips. "Everything. Feel all of you." He pressed his lips against my chin, moving his way down my throat and to my neck. I could feel the cool air hitting my back as he lifted my shirt off as well-- my nipples hardened at his attention, his hands gripping my breasts through my bra, squeezing them.

I whimpered against his touch, writhing in anticipation. I had no idea what he had planned for me, if we were going to go all the way or not; I could already feel my excitement pool between my legs, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. The arousal had been in my system since the second I saw today's drawing, and I let it out by tugging at his dark hair once more, hoping for him to come back up. "Eric, kiss me-- Wanna feel you too,"

I watched Eric's eyes light up as he pulled away and met mine. And he complied, capturing my lips in a needy kiss, his big hands gripping at my hips and digging into my skin through my trousers. Realizing I was the only one with my shirt off, my hands dipped under his, hoping he'd get the memo as I tugged at the hem of his pink sweater.

Eric's lips barely left mine as he discarded his sweater elsewhere, satisfaction coursing through my veins as our chests pressed up against each other, our hearts beating at the other through our skin. I had desperately wanted to see his tattoos, drink in the sight of the art scattered across his body, but it hit me that we didn't have time-- we didn't know when we'd be caught. I figured I'd leave it to the time we'd be out of rehab, when we'd have time for messy mornings every day, and when we had time to be buried in each other completely.

"I don't know if I can wait three weeks," I breathed in between hungry kisses, my hands running up and down his toned torso.

Eric hummed against my lips; "Me neither,"

And with that, it didn't take long before his slender fingers dipped down into my underwear, making my breath hitch at the realization of what was happening. "Been dreaming about this for weeks," Eric whispered, one of his hands disappearing in my hair to hold me in place, making sure my eyes met his as he rubbed tight circles around my clit. "You're all I ever think about."

My mouth was open against his, small gasps escaping past my lips, bucking into his hand as he sped up his movements around my clit. "I'm so crazy about you," I whimpered, watching the green of his eyes swallow me whole with adoration and lust. My mind still hadn't completely registered that this was happening, especially not under the blue lights of the stairwell. "You're better than drugs, I swear."

Eric chuckled against my lips, watching me moan against him as he patted the pad of his finger against the slick of my core. "Better than drugs, you say?"

"Much better," My words were barely coming out properly, and any continuation of that sentence was stopped the second Eric pressed a finger into me. My breath hitched-- fuck.

He hummed, a sweet smile splayed across his lips; "You're my drug,"

It was almost too much-- I bucked against his hand once more, squirming in his grip as the flame spread through my body. I really couldn't remember the last time I had been this happy or aroused. I let out a breathy moan as he pumped his finger into me, the squelching sound of my wetness drawing forth a blush in my cheeks.

"I'd take my time with you," Eric whispered, capturing my lips in a short kiss before continuing; "But we don't have a lot of time. Forgive me if we make this quick."

I could barely nod, squeezing my eyes shut as I felt his thumb back against my clit, his middle finger curling inside of me. It was obvious that he had done this before.

My mind was already mush by the time Eric slid his finger out of me, turning me around and peppering my shoulder with wet kisses. It didn't take long before he leaned down to tug my pants down to my knees, fingers eager. I wasn't sure how to explain the burning need that was currently clawing at me, but I knew it was all-consuming. Eric had consumed me-- I knew I was his and only his.

So when I felt his big, strong hands grip my hips, pushing me towards him to allow for an easier entrance, I could only moan out in complete and utter satisfaction as I felt his cock sink into me. Eric let out a breathy grunt, now snaking both hands around my body, burying himself to the hilt with the slowest stroke known to man. "Fuck," was all he managed to say, hissing slightly against my shoulder before sucking down on a spot, wanting to leave behind a mark.

I couldn't believe the strange places my mind went to-- why was I contemplating getting that hickey tattooed? I wouldn't need it anyway, if Eric kept his promise and stayed with me after we both got out. There was nothing I wanted more in the whole wide world.

All my concerns flew out the window as Eric gripped my waist for leverage as he continued to thrust into me, leaving me with my mouth open against the wall. My body was aching with pleasure unmatched anything I had ever felt before, and I knew that the difference between this time and all my other escapades was how much I had craved Eric-- and how much I knew he craved me.

My breath hitched as he nipped at my jaw, whispering sweet nothings into my ear. "Wanted this... so, so long..." Eric let out a grunt as his hands went down to my hips again, pulling away from my neck to watch his cock pump into my dripping core. I was quite sure it was glistening with my slick by the sounds of it. "Wanted this-- Wanted you."

"Me too," I cried, resting my hands against the wall, meeting his thrusts. "Every night, all the time..."

"All the time," he echoed. "Forever."

My breath hitched at both his words and the way one of his hands left my hip, ghosting over my stomach. I knew exactly where it was heading, and I had to bite back a rather loud moan as Eric dipped his hand down between my legs. Eric spread his fingers, covering my whole cunt, feeling the sides of his own cock rut into me. It didn't take long before his whole hand was practically covered in my slick, and I was quite sure I heard a drop hit the floor. Everything about it made me shiver.

Like this, I was practically pushed to rut against the palm of his hand, the pressure against my clit making me gasp-- I knew I wouldn't last long like this. Perfect.

By the sounds of it, Eric wouldn't either. He let a breathy moan escape his lips before he let go of my hips, reaching up to grab my chin, tilting it to the side so that he could kiss me. I let out a soft cry against his lips, feeling my walls clamp down around his thick cock. Feeling beyond full, I reached around to grab his dark hair, feeling his locks between my fingers as a familiar tightening in my stomach appeared.

"You're the only one I've ever wanted this badly," Eric murmured against my lips, his thrusts becoming rushed and erratic, clearly holding back his high. "Be mine-- Fuck, be mine?"

If I hadn't been this close to my high, I would've cried. "All yours, Eric, all yours... A-Aah!--" My walls clamped around him as I was driven against the palm of his hand once more, driving me over the edge, coming harder than I probably ever had before.

Eric took this as a green light-- It didn't take long before he let out a grunt against my shoulder, gently biting down as ropes of cum decorated my walls, his thick cock twitching with its release inside of me.

Our pants filled the stairway, and I was quite sure my legs would give out as he pulled out of me with a wet pop, tucking himself back into his trousers. I could only smile, leaning against the wall as I let out a sigh of relief. I was so incredibly glad we managed to do all of this before getting caught-- I was sure I wouldn't have been able to wait until we were both out. The burning in my body subsided, the ache turning into an all-consuming feeling of joy.

I turned to Eric with a soft smile spread across my lips, trying to steady my breathing. He was especially beautiful now-- kiss-swollen lips really suited him.

He returned my smile, leaning forward to capture my lips in a soft, gentle kiss. My hands reached out for him, cupping his face as my thumbs caressed his cheeks. It was such an exhilarating feeling to be adored like this, and I wasn't sure I would ever experience it until now. Meeting Eric felt like seeing a lunar rainbow-- exceptionally rare.

However, Eric's sweet smile suddenly turned back into his usual mischievous smirk. Before I could even say a word, he had dropped down to his knees, leaning forward to wrap his lips around my aching sex, covering my whole mound as he sucked at me.

I could barely breathe as I realized what he was doing-- was he sucking his own cum out of me? This was new. And weirdly pleasurable. I let out a wanton moan, gripping his hair in the exact same way I did in Eric's drawing. I could only whimper as his tongue darted out, drawing a circle around my overstimulated clit-- instinctively, my hips bucked against his mouth. Something about this felt weirdly full-circle. "Eric, wait!-- Shit,"

He hummed, looking up at me with those green eyes I loved so much. "Will you kill me if I draw this?"

I could only sigh-- bliss.

(a/n: PART 1, PART 3 linked here!! enjoy<33)

#the crow 2024 #eric draven x reader #the crow x reader #the crow fanfiction #eric draven fanfiction #the crow #oneshot #fanfic #fanfiction #smut #bill skarsgård #bill skarsgård x reader #bill skarsgard #eric draven

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misswynters · 4 months ago

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Stormbound

Jacaerys Velaryon x pregnant!reader

[WARNING: pregnancy, mentions of difficult pregnancy terms, fluff

[SYNOPSIS: You were heavily pregnant as you and jace encounter a wild dragon while a storm raged on.

[NOTE: you had poor jace stressed out, we love jace being protective over the reader: also if you would like something specific, send an ask!

"Where are they?" he muttered to himself, running a hand through his dark curls. The maesters had assured him that everything was fine, but he couldn't shake the feeling of dread that had settled in his chest.

Your pregnancy had been difficult, and the tension had taken its toll on Jacaerys. He had tried to be strong for you, but the fear of losing you, or the child, was ever-present. He couldn't bear the thought of anything happening to you both.

Just as he was about to go in search of you again, the doors to the hall creaked open, and you stepped inside. Despite the strain of pregnancy, you carried yourself with the grace and strength he had always admired. Your hand rested protectively on your swollen belly, and your face lit up with a tired but genuine smile when you saw him.

"Jace," you said softly, your voice a soothing balm to his frayed nerves.

He rushed to your side, his hands immediately going to your belly. "Where have you been? I was worried sick."

You laughed lightly, the sound easing some of his tension. "I just needed some fresh air. The castle can feel so confining sometimes."

He sighed, pulling you into a gentle embrace. "You should have told me. I would have gone with you."

"I know, but you worry too much," you replied, leaning into him. "I wanted a moment to myself. Besides, I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

Jacaerys pressed a kiss to your forehead, his heart swelling with love and protectiveness. "I know you are. But I can't help it. I love you too much to let anything happen to you."

You smiled up at him, your eyes filled with warmth. "And I love you, Jace. But you need to relax. Stress isn't good for either of us."

He nodded, though the worry didn't entirely leave his eyes. "Alright. Let's find somewhere quiet. I need to feel you and the baby close."

Hand in hand, you led him out of the grand hall and towards the more secluded parts of Dragonstone. The storm outside raged on, but within the castle, it felt as if the two of you were in your own world. The soft glow of torches lit your way, casting flickering shadows on the ancient stone walls.

You reached a small alcove near the courtyard, a place where you had spent many quiet moments together. Jacaerys helped you settle onto a bench, his hand never leaving yours.

"You know," you began, your voice soft and contemplative, "I sometimes wonder what it would be like to just... leave all of this behind. To take our child and live a simple life, away from the responsibilities and the danger."

Jacaerys looked at you, surprise flickering across his face. "You've never mentioned that before."

You shrugged, a wistful smile on your lips. "It's just a thought. I know we have our duties, and I wouldn't trade our life here for anything. But sometimes, it's nice to imagine a different path."

He squeezed your hand, his gaze intense and loving. "If that's what you want, we'll find a way. Your happiness means everything to me."

You shook your head, a gentle laugh escaping your lips. "No, Jace. This is our home, and we belong here. But it doesn't hurt to dream, does it?"

"No, it doesn't," he agreed, pulling you closer. "As long as we have each other, we can face anything."

For a while, you sat together in comfortable silence, listening to the distant roar of the storm and the crackle of the torches. The tension that had gripped Jacaerys slowly began to fade, replaced by a sense of peace.

But peace was a fleeting thing in times of war and unrest. As the storm continued to rage outside, a distant, echoing roar pierced the night. Jacaerys tensed, his protective instincts flaring to life. "Did you hear that?" he asked, his voice low and urgent.

You nodded, your own heart racing. "What was it?"

"Stay here," he commanded, rising to his feet. "I'll go check."

"No," you protested, grabbing his arm. "I'm coming with you."

"___, you're pregnant," he began, but the look in your eyes silenced him. "Alright. But stay close to me."

Together, you made your way through the castle, following the eerie sound. The further you went, the louder the roar became, until you found yourselves standing at the entrance to the courtyard.

And there, in the middle of the storm, was a dragon unlike any you had ever seen. It was massive, nearly as large as Vhagar but with a wild, untamed look in its eyes. Its scales were a deep, iridescent purple, shimmering in the lightning flashes.

"Aero," Jacaerys whispered, awe and fear in his voice. "The Catastrophe."

You had heard of Aero, the wild dragon that roamed the skies near Dragonstone, but seeing it in person was an entirely different experience. The dragon's presence was overwhelming, and for a moment, you were frozen in place.

But Jacaerys didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, his voice steady and calm despite the fear in his eyes. "Aero," he called out, "we mean you no harm."

The dragon turned its gaze towards you both, its eyes glowing with an almost intelligent curiosity. It took a step forward, and Jacaerys instinctively moved in front of you, shielding you with his body.

"Jace," you whispered, fear gripping your heart.

"It's alright," he said, his voice firm. "Just stay behind me."

Aero lowered its massive head, sniffing the air around you. For a moment, it seemed as if the dragon was considering whether to attack or not. But then, with a huff that sent a gust of hot air over you both, Aero turned and took to the skies, disappearing into the storm.

Jacaerys let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, turning to pull you into his arms. "Are you alright?"

You nodded, clinging to him. "Yes. That was... incredible. And terrifying."

He chuckled, though the tension hadn't entirely left his body. "That's one way to put it. I can't believe we just saw Aero up close."

You leaned into him, the adrenaline slowly ebbing away. "We should get back inside. The maesters will have our heads if they find out we were out here."

He nodded, but didn't move to leave. Instead, he held you close, his hand resting on your belly. "I'm so glad you're safe," he whispered, his voice filled with emotion.

You kissed him gently, your heart full of love for this brave, protective man. "I am. Thanks to you."

As you made your way back inside, the storm began to die down, leaving a sense of calm in its wake. Jacaerys was still tense, but the fear had been replaced by a fierce determination to protect you and your unborn child. Later that night, as you lay in bed, Jacaerys held you close, his hand never leaving your belly. The events of the evening had only strengthened his resolve to keep you safe, no matter what.

"___," he murmured, his voice soft in the darkness. "I promise you, I will always protect you and our babe. No matter what it takes."

You smiled, feeling a sense of peace settle over you. "I know you will, Jace. You will be a fine father."

In the quiet of the night, with the storm finally gone, you both drifted off to sleep, your hearts full of love and hope for the future.

taglist: @benjicotblckwood

banner by: @cafekitsune

#house of the dragon #hotd fanfic #hotd season 2 #hotd imagine #house targaryen #hotd x reader #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys x you #hotd jacaerys #prince jacaerys #jacaerys x reader #jacaerys strong #pregnant reader

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nochepsicodelica · 3 months ago

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NSFW

Thoughts of stalker!Toji who knows where you live by now from the many times he's followed you home after you leave work. What a pretty, stunning, captivating dumb girl. Who would allow you to walk home alone at this time? Normal people are sleeping by now, you should be, too, but it's fine, it's fine. He's there to make sure you get home safe.

Stalker!Toji is careful, always maintaining his distance and taking his time to turn the corners you turn into, just to make sure you don't catch onto his unshakeable, looming shadow. He doesn't take too much time because, again, it's late. You could be snatched up by anyone. He won't let it happen. He'll protect you. Maybe if he lets something happen and he jumps in to save you, you'll consider him a hero and introduce yourself. He's tempted to create more distance from you to possibly see through this scenario. Nah. It's tempting, but he can't shake the fact that it would make him a really bad guy.

Stalker!Toji who has a spot he camps at while he waits for his favorite part of the night. You continue to prove that you're a woman in need of protection—his protection— with the way you leave your bedroom curtains open and your window unlocked. Yeah, he could easily slide those windows open and familiarize himself with your home while you're gone, but that would be disrespectful. He'll just stay outside where he usually does, crouched by the part of your window where your curtains stay bundled up until you signal that you're in your room by turning on the lights.

Stalker!Toji who comes with the moon every night and just waits for you to get home around the same time, now that he's memorized your address. He loves seeing you drag your tired self into your room, turning the light on with a careless flick of your fingers before walking towards your bed like you have stones weighing down your feet. You sigh and begin to unbutton your blouse, revealing a black lacy bra that cups your breasts so nicely. Oh, how he wishes he were there to relieve your stress by pawing at your chest. He wouldn't mind massaging your tired body. It would be an act of service for his favorite girl.

Stalker!Toji who gets frustrated when you walk out of his line of sight. You've removed your work clothes, and you're strolling around in a simple camisole and your undies. He wants to see you, but you keep going into your closet or into the bathroom next door to finish up your nightly routine. He knows he has to be patient for his reward, but fuck, you make it so hard when you tease him like that, parading around the room until you're out of sight.

Stalker!Toji who finally gets to enjoy the rest of the night once you lay down to sleep. He loves this time of year. It's too hot for you to be bundled up in blankets or layered in clothes, so you lay down in bed, half naked for his eyes to absorb. You leave very little work for his imagination when you stay so light in clothes. He can see your nipples poking through the thin camisole and your tummy is slightly exposed. His eyes rake over your thighs and the cute pattern on the fabric that covers the space between them. His mind stumbles on something that makes his dick throb in its confines. How sweet do you taste?

Stalker!Toji who internally fights the urge to fuck his fist every night when he gets turned on by the sight of you. You toss and turn in bed like a puppy doing its little spins to try and get comfortable before laying down. He gets to see the way your clothes shift on your body, revealing more skin or clinging tighter to where they rest. Sometimes you can't sleep until you make yourself cum and he gets a full on show that he would gladly lose the battle of not touching himself for.

Stalker!Toji who gets to see how kind you are to yourself, gently tracing your skin, pulling down the top of your camisole enough to expose your pretty breasts so that you can rub your nipples with one hand while the other drops to your inner thighs. He can't be kind to himself on such a time crunch, so he quickly unbuttons his jeans and pulls down his boxers enough to whip his drooling cock out, never letting his eyes leave you and your wandering hands. You finally stop teasing yourself and drag your cute little fingers over your panty clad cunt. He can see the way your tummy sinks and your chest puffs out with your touch. It's so cute.

Stalker!Toji who creaked open the window to hear your moans when he noticed the way your jaw hung open, presumably crying out in pleasure. You were angelic. Just straight up heaven to his existence. He was grunting with every buck of his hips into his fist. Why couldn't it be your pretty cunt wrapped around his cock? He could love you down so well, he could soothe you and put you to sleep with his body every night if you wanted him to, but no, he's stuck having to touch himself to the sight of his own private porn. Not that he's complaining about you. He could never.

Stalker!Toji who thinks you sound so cute when you're about to cum. You're gonna make him cum with all that sweetness in your voice. Your fingers are so much tinier than his, yet your whimpers and moans as you fuck yourself with them are so loud. With a couple more curls of your fingers you're gasping out moans and crying out in release. There's no name on your tongue, and it truly is a shame because you could make his name sound holy. He follows after you a few seconds later, thick spurts of cum landing all over his hand and the bottom part of his shirt. He has no choice but to bite his lip to muffle his groans because you've gone quiet and he can't risk drawing attention to himself. You sluggishly pull your panties up and tug your shirt over your chest again before dragging a hand down to your tummy. He watches as you draw shapes on your bare skin until you doze off. You tired yourself out... how precious.

Stalker!Toji who wipes his mess onto his shirt since it's already dirty and tucks himself away again before watching over you until he hears the morning birds sing. His gaze plays over your dormant body once more before he stands and goes back to being the normal person he was before you were caught in the web of his mind. He'll do this every night because you're a simple pleasure that he can't deny himself of. As for what happens when you catch on to his night watching tendencies, not even he knows where things will go from there.

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lovelyney · 11 months ago

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⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯DATING THEM !! FONTAINE GUYS⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

CHARACTERS: freminet, lyney, neuvillette, wriothesley.

SCENT: headcanons

WARNINGS: mentions of nsfw on everyone’s but freminet’s.

FLORIST’S NOTE: wow !! took me long enough ☹️ im so sorry for the wait pookies. also how are we liking this new layout for these ?? ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯2023 !! #©LOVELYNEY

꒱₊˚ 𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐓 !! 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐃𝐄𝐁𝐓𝐒

𖠵𝟎𝟎: SWEET BABY BOY FREMINET I LOVE HIM SM.

𖠵𝟎𝟏: As we know, Freminet's quite shy; he doesn't have much experience with romance, but he tries his best !!

𖠵𝟎𝟐: He wouldn’t hear the end of it from Lyney when he first started crushing on you. . . He kept on asking and asking when he was going to confess.

𖠵𝟎𝟑: Doesn’t like going out very much, but if it’s at the expense of your happiness and being with you, he’ll try and push through.

𖠵𝟎𝟒: Bought you a handmade plush of Pers since you always like to cuddle the robotic one while he’s away.

𖠵𝟎𝟓: Loves whenever he sees you wearing his clothes. he’d probably give you his entire closet if he could.

𖠵𝟎𝟔: Has a bunch of pictures of you and him that he keeps hidden in his dressers.

keeps one on him for good luck !!

𖠵𝟎𝟕: I honestly can’t tell if he’d give you a pet name ?? It’d probably be something like “nestling,” “my love,” and “baby/bébé.” (/ Meaning he uses both the English and French ver.)

❝H—Hey bébé. . . If you aren't too busy, would-would you maybe want to accompany me to brother’s magic show tonight ?? I-I could really use your company and I know we haven't been a date in a while. . .❞

𖠵𝟎𝟖: Crafts you all kinds of trickets🫶🫶

𖠵𝟎𝟗: Brings you the prettiest stones and little things that he finds when he goes deep-diving.

𖠵𝟏𝟎: Lyney “adopted” you into the family the moment you and Fremi started dating.

𖠵𝟏𝟏: He cringes whenever Lyney calls him a nickname, but he melts when you do it.

𖠵𝟏𝟐: Isn’t a big fan of PDA (he’ll obvi hold your hand) but in the confines of his room, he’ll cling to you.

𖠵𝟏𝟑: Will sometimes get pouty when you’re cuddled up to Pers and not him.

𖠵𝟏𝟒: Doesn’t get jealous like at all, he’ll just get annoyed and nervous at most.

𖠵𝟏𝟓: Didn’t pay much attention to his appearance initially, but ever since you started lovingly thumbing, kissing, and counting his freckles, it’s become his favorite thing about himself.

𖠵𝟏𝟔: I can imagine him liking his hair played with.

𖠵𝟏𝟕: Silently protective over you, you know ?? Like he’ll squeeze your hand if he senses someone you’re around is dangerous or unnerving. Or if he wants to leave and doesn’t want interrupt your conversation.

𖠵𝟏𝟖: Strangely warm !! He isn’t sure why you enjoy hugging him so much, but never complains, hehe.

𖠵𝟏𝟗: Likes to be both the big and little spoon !! If a day comes where he’s just exceptionally tired, he’ll want to be the little spoon. But if he wants to feel like the bigger person or you need comforting, he’ll be the big spoon.

꒱₊˚ 𝐋𝐘𝐍𝐄𝐘 !! 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐋𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐏𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐀

𖠵𝟎𝟎: I’M 1000% COMPLETELY NORMAL ABOUT THIS MAN, I PROMISE 🤐🤐🙏🙏

𖠵𝟎𝟏: Lyney, as we know him, is very incredibly playful and can be very charming !! He uses this to his advantage.

𖠵𝟎𝟐: Was obsessed with you before you started dating and is still obsessed with you now 😭

𖠵𝟎𝟑: The complete opposite of Freminet. He will not shut up about you to his siblings. . . (Sometimes he might mention you to “father.”)

𖠵𝟎𝟒: Wants nothing but for you to be safe and protected. (Bonus points if it’s in his arms.)

𖠵𝟎𝟓: Going back to the Knave, Lyney might share the relationship you two have with her but won’t give any explicit details about who you are as a means to protect you.

𖠵𝟎𝟔: “Darling,” “gorgeous,” “lovebug/bug,” “my (love)/mi (amour),” “my sweet,” and “sweetheart/chérie.”

❝Thank you so much for coming to today’s show, my love! It always fills me with so much energy seeing you in the seats, staring up at me. . . I ought to put together a show just for you, hm? How does this Friday sound?❞

𖠵𝟎𝟕: Loves to tease you !!

𖠵𝟎𝟖: Does not like waking up in the mornings, especially when you’re lying in bed with him.

loves to hide his face in your neck whenever he’s lying with you.

𖠵𝟎𝟗: Loves PDA. He cannot give a single fuck if you guys are in public. If anything, he’s proud to show his love for you to everyone.

𖠵𝟏𝟎: Can sometimes be unintentionally flirty with other people without realizing it. Don’t get it twisted, though; he’s incredibly loyal to you.

𖠵𝟏𝟏: Many people (of all genders) find him very charming, and as much as that might sting you, Lyney always finds a way to bring you into the conversation to dismiss their advances.

𖠵𝟏𝟐: Can be a little feisty sometimes. Examples are: biting your lower lip when he’s kissing you, biting your ear and nibbling on your neck in public, and placing his hand dangerously close to your thigh.

𖠵𝟏𝟑: Uses incredibly cheesy pickup lines and one-liners.

𖠵𝟏𝟒: If someone is continuously making advances towards you, then he’ll get jealous.

he’ll walk over to you, put a hand on your waist and act overly affectionate towards you hoping it’ll drive the person away.

𖠵𝟏𝟓: Seems innocent (enough), but if he sees you’re upset by someone’s actions, he’ll flip that fatui switch on immediately just to see you smile again.

sometimes asks Lynette and/or Freminet to comfort you while he’s taking care of the person.

𖠵𝟏𝟔: Surprises you by showing up in the most unexpected places in your house.

𖠵𝟏𝟕: Hates being away from you for long ): That’s the main reason why he hates arguments between you two.

𖠵𝟏𝟖: (↑) Although he lowkey can be petty sometimes. . .

𖠵𝟏𝟗: His hands are really soft !! Sometimes you’ll gently caress them, and he’ll literally melt on the spot.

𖠵𝟐𝟎: Also one who loves to see you in his clothes !! 𖠵𝟐𝟏: Really wants to have matching outfits with you. 🫶

𖠵𝟐𝟐: Loves whenever you dress yourself up !! He just adores seeing all sides of you.

𖠵𝟐𝟑: You have a whole bouquet of rainbow roses from the amount of times he’s randomly pulled one out and gave it to you. . .

꒱₊˚ 𝐍𝐄𝐔𝐕𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄 !! 𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐉𝐔𝐃𝐆𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓

𖠵𝟎𝟏: The most gentleman to ever gentleman, I believe ?!?!

idk man, it’s something with the dragon guys in Teyvat. . .

𖠵𝟎𝟐: I’d like to believe that when he started liking you, the Melusines caught on, because he seemed to always be lost in thought. . . 🤭

𖠵𝟎𝟑: Despite him being absolutely stunning and incredibly smart, he somehow felt like he didn’t have a chance with you. . .

the Melusines and Furina were not having any of that !! they devised a plan where she talked to you, and they talked to him. it all worked out in the end.

𖠵𝟎𝟒: Being in love with a busy man has its pros and cons, obviously; Neuvillette always tries his best to balance them out. ☹️☹️

𖠵𝟎𝟓: You guys tried to keep your relationship hidden for as long as you could with how Fontaine loves its drama. . .

and when you it got out (guess how), rumors, whispers everything spread like a wildfire. it was incredibly overwhelming for you, and he tried his best to quiet everyone down and comfort you 😞☹️ you can imagine the weather. . .

𖠵𝟎𝟔: (↑) Some people were muttering how you didn’t deserve him or weren’t “pretty enough” for him, which really pissed him off, but he had to remain civil (for the most part, lolz.)

𖠵𝟎𝟕: Your emotions have an incredible impact on him ?!?! If you start crying or if you’re sad, it’ll domino effect onto him. He loves you so much that it physically hurts him to see you distraught.

𖠵𝟎𝟖: All the Melusines adore you !! They absolutely see you as their other parental figure since you guys started dating.

𖠵𝟎𝟗: (↑) MELTS whenever he sees you interacting with kids. . .

𖠵𝟏𝟎: “Cherie/sweetheart,” “honey,” “my (dear/dearest)” and “my (love)/mi amour.”

❝I’m home, mon chéri. . . I must apologize for coming home later than usual—an issue in the case I’m looking into has presented itself and I went to personally deal with it. Hm, what was that, love? Ah, what was the ‘issue?’ Don’t worry about it, my dear. What matters is that it’s been dealt with. Now, have you had dinner yet?❞

𖠵𝟏𝟏: His trust in you runs pretty deep, so he trusts you when others are flirting with you. However, when people aren’t leaving you alone or are masking their interest behind innocent actions, he’ll get pissed.

𖠵𝟏𝟐: God forbid anyone lays their hands on you. . . Neuvillette doesn’t take people hurting you lightly at all.

𖠵𝟏𝟑: (↑) He isn’t a big fan of people touching what’s his in general, but he knows he (unfortunately) can’t have you all to himself. . .

𖠵𝟏𝟒: (↑) Safe to say, he’s quite territorial. . . He is a dragon, after all. They are quite protective over their treasure..

𖠵𝟏𝟓: Wrio likes to bring you up in conversations over tea !!

𖠵𝟏𝟔: This man has always been head over heels for you. Whenever you two are shopping together, he’ll follow you around like a puppy—always insisting that he holds your bags and pays.

𖠵𝟏𝟕: Pretty gentle with you. . . The farthest thing he wants is to hurt you, but sometimes his primal instincts kick in and he can’t help but want to mark what’s his !!

𖠵𝟏𝟖: Spoils the hell out of you. He literally can’t help it. He’ll see something that he’ll think you’ll like or something that reminds him of you and gets it without another thought.

𖠵𝟏𝟗: Really doesn’t like that you can tell his mood based of whether or not it’s raining. . . He hates worrying you.

𖠵𝟐𝟎: Furina loves to ask about you !! She thinks you two are so cute together.

𖠵𝟐𝟏: Loves whenever you visit him in his office while he’s working !! He’ll always try and persuade you to stay with him while he works—coaxing you to sit on his lap and such.

𖠵𝟐𝟐: He’s still relatively new to understanding human emotions, so he really appreciates you being patient and helping him out.

𖠵𝟐𝟑: Whenever you’re mad at him or giving the silent treatment, he’ll just look at you with the most saddest eyes ever. Guarantee heavy downfalls until you two make up 💔

꒱₊˚ 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐘 !! 𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐑𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐘 𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐓𝐘

𖠵𝟎𝟎: Literally the almost perfect definition of my type 😭

𖠵𝟎𝟏: He’s smart, cocky, and hot. You’re in for a wild ride with this one 💔👍

𖠵𝟎𝟐: Secretly a deep-rooted hopeless romantic at heart, he just hasn’t had the time to explore that part of him because of his duties in the fortress.

𖠵𝟎𝟑: Like Neuvillette, this man is head over heels for you. It’s just that he’s better at hiding it (most times, anyway.)

𖠵𝟎𝟒: A big teaser !! He loves to get under your skin.

𖠵𝟎𝟓: Can and will protect you at any cost. He loves you so much, it’d kill him inside if something were to happen to you.

𖠵𝟎𝟔: A bit of a sadist, I think. . . He’ll watch you struggle for a bit before actually helping you with something.

𖠵𝟎𝟕: Before you two started dating, Sigewinne kept on insisting he confess to you because of how obvious it was.

Clorinde also gave him shit for it.

𖠵𝟎𝟖: “Baby/babe,” “doll,” “my (darling),” “my (dear),” “my (love/lovely),” “pretty/my boy/girl,” and “sweetheart.”

❝Oh? I wasn’t expecting you to stop by for a visit today, doll—not that I’m complaining, of course. . . Lucky for you, I just finished up all my paperwork for the day, so I’m all yours ~ Wait, what? What do you mean you’re only here to deliver more papers? Please tell me you’re joking, babe. . . Archons sake, please at least stay for tea. I haven’t seen you since this morning.❞

𖠵𝟎𝟗: Roughly smells like freshly brewed tea with a mix of his cologne—it’s a rather comforting smell, actually.

𖠵𝟏𝟎: Hates whenever you’re gone too long above ground. He gets grouchy (more so than usual) whenever he hasn’t seen you for a certain amount of time.

𖠵𝟏𝟏: Surprisingly like a sloth when you two aren’t at work. . . He loves clings to you, doesn’t matter what you’re doing or where you’re at.

𖠵𝟏𝟐: I’d like to think he doesn’t give a shit about what people normally think of him, so he’ll love you on wherever and whenever.

loves to rub his cheeks/stubble against yours despite your whining !! i’m weak

𖠵𝟏𝟑: One of his favorite things about the two of you is your size difference. He finds it adorable his hand can comfortably envelope yours and somehow perfectly fit around your throat. . .

𖠵𝟏𝟒: A waist holder !! He loves to have a hand on your waist one way or another. Whether it be him pressed against you from behind or simply just a hand on your waist while you’re standing next to each other.

𖠵𝟏𝟓: Protective and possessive !! Not too much to the point where it’s toxic, I think. He’s just very territorial, and does not like when people get too close to you. He always denies he doesn’t get jealous, but he isn’t fooling anyone.

he doesn’t want your future to repeat his past, so he tries desperately to protect you from those kinds of people.

𖠵𝟏𝟔: (↑) All for marking you in obvious places if he sees this is a frequent thing. . . He’s far from shy with it, as well.

𖠵𝟏𝟕: Always prepares an extra cup of tea for you just in case you were to stop by his office.

𖠵𝟏𝟖: Nearly suffocates you if you’re in bed facing him—he’ll smoosh your head against his chest so you don’t have a chance to leave.

𖠵𝟏𝟗: People were genuinely shocked when they found he was dating someone !! Some didn’t believe you until Wrio proved them wrong.

𖠵𝟐𝟎: Is a mixture between gentle and rough with you. . . He doesn’t want to accidentally hurt you or you know, break you.

𖠵𝟐𝟏: He claims he’d be fine if you two broke up but in reality, he’d be a complete mess. (Sigewinne knows this without a doubt.)

𖠵𝟐𝟐: (↑) Pouts whenever you spend too much time with her and not enough with him </3 He can be a literal manbaby sometimes.

𖠵𝟐𝟑: Literally doesn’t know what to do with himself whenever you ignore him or give him the silent treatment.

goes to Clorinde for help if he’s really stuck. which may or may not be proven helpful depending on her mood. . .

𖠵𝟐𝟒: Adores whenever you’re resting on top his chest !! He always says that’s where you belong, lol.

𖠵𝟐𝟓: (↑) Also likes it when you rest on his lap when he’s sorting out paperwork. He claims you “give him the energy needed to make it through the day.”

𖠵𝟐𝟔: The one for you if you have a praise kink and the one for you if you have a degrading kink !! Two birds with one stone, amirite ?? kill me

#|✿| — 𝐅𝐀𝐖𝐍’𝐒 𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐒 #|✿| — 𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐁𝐎𝐖 𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐒 #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact #genshin impact x you #genshin impact x y/n #genshin x reader #freminet x reader #lyney x reader #neuvillette x reader #wriothesley x reader

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