#dark whispers by candlelight

[outtacontextlitwtc]

"the shadows tell me secrets in the midnight hours, and they told me where the g spot is"

[transparentcowboywombat]

FINLAND WAS FUCKING ROBBED HE HAD THE RUG PULLED FROM UNDER HIM!!!! I FUCKING HATE THE JURY!!!!!

ALSO POLAND WAS ROBBED JANN DESERVED SO MUCH BETTER SOLO WAS SHIT AND GLADIATOR WAS EVERYTHING!!

[static-scribblez]

local litwtc fanartist finally draws chris and will in his actual artstyle ⁉️⁉️🤯🤯

huge fan of how these two seem to have default poses for fan photos jdjdjfjfj

[winxanity-ii]

SACRILEGIOUS DEVOTION [1/3]

ship: father charlie x fem!nun!reader warnings: nsfw 🔞 (oral sex/f. receiving; overstimulation; coercion/dub-con?; sacrilege, heavy religious imagery) word count: 3.6k a/n: So, Father Charlie is out here losing all his morals and sanity on Grotesquerie and my mind couldn't help but match it, so what's a better idea other than channeling all the religious trauma/journey into a spicy one-shot? i for one feel like it's a mini-therapy, but enough rambling, enjoy 😩🫶🏾 i'm in love with a holy man, mother 😔…. second part: 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 and final part: 𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

★·.·´ɢʀᴏᴛᴇsǫᴜᴇʀɪᴇ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

Father Charlie Mayhew was a sick man.

Not in the manner of flesh, but of spirit. He could feel the sickness festering in the quiet corners of his heart, a sinful yearning that had taken root there, twisting itself around his thoughts like creeping ivy.

It was a sickness that, he believed, made him a grotesque parody of the holy man he was meant to be. For how could he call himself righteous, devoted, when every whisper of prayer felt stained by the way his eyes followed you, Sister ____?

You were a vision of purity, an embodiment of the kind of gentle devotion that Father Charlie envied and craved all at once.

He watched you from a distance, always careful not to draw your gaze, afraid of what you might see if you looked too deeply. How dutiful you were, sweeping the church aisle with a focus that made him forget the dust and see only the graceful motion of your hands.

The sun, filtered through stained glass, seemed to seek you out, casting colors on your habit as if to mark you as someone far beyond his grasp, almost holy in your mundane tasks.

It was in the mornings, when he heard the soft chime of your laughter in the courtyard as you fed the pigeons, that he felt the deepest sting of his wretchedness.

The world seemed simpler in those moments, your laughter echoing off the stone walls, the warmth of early sun painting the sky in soft pinks and oranges. He wondered if you knew how your kindness drew even the animals to you, their heads dipping into your palms as if receiving communion.

There was a stillness to you, a gentleness in every gesture.

The worst of it was during your services. Father Charlie had seen you on your knees before, hands folded in earnest prayer, your lips moving softly as you whispered your devotion to God.

He would stand at the back of the chapel, watching with a mixture of awe and something far darker. He told himself it was admiration, but the truth festered beneath that facade.

It was longing, a hunger that ached at the edges of his soul.

A storm raged outside the convent one evening, winds battering the church walls with a fury that mirrored the tempest building in his chest. The clouds were bloated, dark as his thoughts, and thunder rolled across the sky with a violence that shook even the faith he held so dear.

You had come to his chambers in the dead of night, your knock barely audible over the howling wind. He had been preparing for bed, freshly out of the shower, wearing only his boxers when he heard you at the door.

The creak of the old wood seemed to echo forever as he opened it, and there you stood, eyes wide, looking so impossibly fragile in the dim candlelight of the corridor. Your modest night slip clung to your form, the thin fabric shifting in the draft that sneaked in from the hallway.

Charlie's breath had caught in his throat at the sight of you, innocence incarnate, seeking refuge with him.

He hesitated for only a moment before allowing you in, quickly wrapping himself in a silk robe that hung loosely on his shoulders, barely tied. He knew he should not let you enter, but there was something in the way you looked at him—so trusting, so devoted—that made him abandon every rational thought.

You had come asking to pray with him, your soft voice trembling as you spoke. The storm outside seemed like a reflection of the turmoil within him as he let you step past the threshold, closing the door behind you.

Now, you were here, kneeling before him, your eyes upturned and wide, waiting for his command, for his instruction like the obedient servant of God that you were.

Your soft voice brought him out of his thoughts, a gentle, "Father...?"

Charlie could only lament to himself how sinfully pure you looked. He hummed softly, his eyes dark as they trailed over you, lingering on the curve of your shoulders, the delicate line of your neck.

The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows across your skin, highlighting the innocence that made his hunger all the more unbearable.

"Yes, forgive me, Sister. Let us now pray," he finally said, his voice low and rough, the words nearly swallowed by the sound of the wind outside. He reached out, his fingers brushing against your forehead, and you leaned into the touch without hesitation, your eyes closing as if his hand was a blessing.

He swallowed hard, his thoughts spiraling deeper into the forbidden desires he had tried so desperately to keep buried.

He began to pray, his voice low, raspy, each word a struggle against the chaos inside him. "Heavenly Father, we come before you tonight..." But the words felt hollow, their meaning slipping away as he watched you, kneeling so obediently at his feet.

His eyes darkened, wandering further down, tracing the lines of your form. The way your lashes fluttered against your cheeks, the soft rise and fall of your chest with each breath—it all seemed to pull him further from the sanctity of the moment.

He should have been thinking of God, of salvation, of the purity of the prayer—but instead, he was thinking of you, of the way the thin fabric clung to your skin, the soft curve of your breasts visible through the modest slip.

He licked his lips, his gaze fixed on the delicate line of your collarbone, the way it rose and fell with each breath you took.

The more he spoke, the less the words mattered. He could feel the heat rising in his chest, spreading through his body, his thoughts growing more erratic, each word of the prayer slipping further from its sacred meaning, twisting into something profane, something filthy. "Protect us from all evil..." he whispered as he traced the line of your jaw with his thumb, the words a bitter irony as he felt himself drawn further into the darkness of his desires.

His hand moved lower, fingers trailing down your neck, lingering at the hollow of your throat. His touch was gentle, but there was a weight behind it, a hunger that he could no longer deny.

He could almost see the curve of your bare skin beneath the thin fabric, the outline of your body that he should not be imagining. He tried to focus on the prayer, but every word felt like a lie. He let out a shaky breath, the prayer faltering on his lips. "Guide us... guide us in your light," he managed, his voice thick with the weight of his longing.

The storm outside raged on, the wind howling as if to warn him, but Father Charlie could no longer hear it. All he could hear was the pounding of his own heart, the rush of blood in his ears as he looked down at you, so trusting, so willing.

As the final words of the prayer fell from his lips—"Amen"—you echoed him, your voice soft and unwavering. You blinked open your eyes, looking up at him with such innocence and Charlie felt himself slip past the point of no return.

He knew that no amount of prayer could ever cleanse him of what he wanted, that he could no longer pretend, no longer fight against the pull that drew him to you—the sweet, precious nun who had unknowingly captured his very soul.

Father Charlie stood, his robe slipping slightly from his shoulders, exposing the toned muscle beneath. The wind howled outside, and thunder bellowed again, followed by a flash of lightning that lit the room in a brief, startling blaze of white.

You were still kneeling before him, your wide eyes following his every movement, the flickering light casting you in both shadow and radiance.

Charlie bent at the waist, his fingers reaching out to cup your jaw, thumb caressing your bottom lip as his half-lidded eyes trailed over your face. "Sister ____," he murmured, his voice dripping with a twisted kind of affection, his name for you almost reverent, as though you were something sacred, something he could worship in his own unholy way.

You blinked, shifting slightly beneath his touch, a soft stutter escaping your lips. "F-Father...?"

He grasped one of your hands, his fingers wrapping around yours, and as he stood, he gently urged you to rise with him. His gaze never left your face, his eyes dark and full of something raw. He began to speak, his voice barely more than a murmur, the words heavy with confession. "As a man of God, there are expectations placed upon me," he started, his tone wavering between remorse and something darker, something that made his grip on your hand tighten. "I am meant to guide, to protect, to remain steadfast in my faith."

His other hand moved, slowly pulling your trembling hand against his bare stomach, pressing your palm against the hard planes of his abdomen.

You gasped, your eyes wide as you looked up at him, your hand trembling beneath his. The heat of his skin burned into your palm, the muscles flexing beneath your touch.

Charlie continued, his voice lowering, growing more intense as he spoke. "But these days... these days, Sister, I find myself at war. At war with desires that threaten to consume me..." His words trailed off, and he let out a low hum as he rubbed your hand across his stomach, the movement slow, deliberate.

Your hand hesitated for a moment, the warmth of his skin making you tremble as you instinctively pulled back. But his grip was firm, guiding you back, and slowly, tentatively, your fingers splayed across his stomach, your touch feather-light.

You swallowed hard, your eyes flickering down before you took a timid step closer, as if drawn by some invisible force. Your gaze shifted to the side, your cheeks warming with embarrassment at the proximity, at the way you could feel his heart beating beneath your palm.

Father Charlie's eyes never left you, and he could see every ounce of hesitation, every flicker of uncertainty that danced across your face. He leaned in slightly, his breath brushing against your forehead as he spoke, his voice a low murmur, "There's no need to be afraid, Sister. You are safe here... with me."

You blinked, your lashes fluttering as you dared to look up at him, your eyes meeting his through the veil of uncertainty.

There was something in his gaze, something dark and magnetic that pulled at you, made your pulse race. His thumb brushed the edge of your jaw; the touch almost comforting, but there was an intensity behind it that made you shiver.

"Do you trust me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes searching yours.

You nodded slowly, not trusting your voice to speak, your fingers trembling slightly against his skin. He smiled, a slow, almost predatory curve of his lips, and he hummed again, satisfied with your silent answer.

His other hand moved to rest against the small of your back, pulling you just a little bit closer, his robe parting further, exposing more of his chest.

Your breath hitched as you felt the distance between you closing, the way his body seemed to envelop yours. You could barely think, your mind clouded with the storm of emotions and the strange, electric pull you felt toward him.

His thumb traced along your bottom lip, his eyes darkening as he watched you. You felt your pulse quicken, your knees weakening under the intensity of his gaze.

"Good girl," he murmured, his voice a mix of praise and something darker, something that made your heart pound even harder. His words sent a shiver down your spine, and you felt your body react, leaning in just slightly, as if craving more of his warmth, his touch.

His fingers trailed lower, coaxing your hand along his body, and you felt the tension, the desire in every muscle. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice a husky whisper, "Let me show you, Sister ____... let me show you what devotion truly means."

He kissed you then, his lips crashing against yours like a man starved. His mouth moved hungrily, tasting, devouring, and you felt his tongue lick into your mouth, coaxing a soft, surprised whimper from your throat. His groan vibrated against your lips, the sound raw and desperate.

Your head spun, your senses overwhelmed by the taste of him, the sheer need in his kiss.

You pulled back, gasping for air, your lips tingling from the force of his kiss. He didn't give you a moment to recover; his lips moved to your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin.

He nipped at your neck, his teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, to make your knees weaken beneath you. The heat of his mouth trailed down, his tongue flicking out to soothe each small bite, and you felt your body trembling, a warmth pooling low in your belly.

Charlie's hands were relentless, holding you steady as your body threatened to give out, your knees buckling as his mouth worked against your skin. He pulled back only long enough to whisper your name, his voice thick with something between reverence and hunger.

Before you knew it, he had scooped you up, his arms strong and sure as he carried you towards his bed. Your breath hitched, your fingers clinging to his robe as he moved, each step filled with purpose.

He set you down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath your weight. His eyes roamed over you, dark and filled with desire, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath.

Father Charlie moved quickly, his hands deft as he pushed your slip off your shoulders, the fabric sliding down your skin and pooling around your waist. His lips followed the path of the falling slip, pressing soft, lingering kisses along your shoulders, his warm breath fanning across your skin.

You shivered beneath his touch, the cool air of the room prickling at your exposed skin, your nipples pebbling in response.

His eyes darkened at the sight of you, and he let out a low groan, his hands running along your bare arms, feeling the way you trembled beneath him. "You're like a goddess," he murmured, his voice thick with reverence and lust. "Perfect. Untouched. A temptation I can't resist." His lips found your collarbone, kissing, nipping, his words vibrating against your skin.

You felt heat rise in your cheeks, your heart pounding as his lips moved lower, trailing down the center of your chest, his hands spreading across your back, urging you to arch into him. His kisses were relentless, each one making your breath catch, making your body react in ways that felt both unfamiliar and thrilling.

You couldn't stop the soft whimper that escaped your lips, your hands clutching at the sheets beneath you, unsure of what to do, where to touch.

Charlie pulled back for a moment, his eyes locking onto yours, his gaze filled with hunger. He pushed you back against the bed, guiding you to lie down, his hands never leaving your body, his touch possessive, as if he couldn't bear to be without contact. He looked down at you, splayed out before him, your slip barely covering you, and he licked his lips, his eyes raking over every inch of your exposed skin.

"Look at you," he whispered, his voice dripping with a mix of adoration and hunger. "So innocent, so pure... and all mine." He leaned down, his lips capturing yours in a heated kiss, his hands working the slip further down your body, baring you completely to him.

The cool air made you shiver, your body exposed, vulnerable, and you couldn't help the way your legs shifted, instinctively trying to close.

Charlie's hands moved to your knees, gently but firmly pushing them apart, his eyes never leaving your face as he watched your reaction. His lips moved from your mouth, trailing down your jaw to your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin as he groaned against you.

He pulled the slip away entirely, tossing it aside, his hands roaming over your bare skin, mapping every inch as though he were committing you to memory. "You are... perfection," he muttered, his voice strained, filled with a hunger that made your breath hitch.

His lips moved lower, trailing down your body, leaving a heated path across your chest, your stomach, and further down. His hands were strong, keeping your legs pinned open to the bed, his fingers pressing into your thighs with a possessive hold. He kissed along your inner thighs, his warm breath fanning over your skin, making you shiver, anticipation coiling in your belly.

You instinctively tried to scoot back, to move away as you felt his breath getting closer to your core, but Charlie's grip tightened, his hands holding you firmly in place. He looked up at you, his eyes dark, almost predatory, as he whispered, "Stay still, Sister... let me worship you."

He breathed you in, a deep, satisfied groan rumbling from his chest. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, as if savoring the scent of you, and then he leaned in, his tongue licking a slow, deliberate stripe from your entrance to your clit.

A squeal, half surprise and half pleasure, escaped your lips, your back arching slightly off the bed.

Father Charlie's tongue moved with a purpose, his lips wrapping around your clit, sucking gently before flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud. His hands kept your legs spread, his grip firm and unyielding as he worked his mouth against you, his groans vibrating against your core.

He was relentless, his mouth moving with a hunger that made your head spin, your fingers gripping the sheets beneath you, trying to ground yourself as waves of pleasure washed over you.

You could feel his smooth skin against your inner thighs, the sensation only adding to the overwhelming pleasure that built inside you. His tongue moved in slow, teasing circles, his lips pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against you, his eyes flicking up to watch your every reaction.

The sight of you—your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, the way your chest heaved with every ragged breath—only seemed to spur him on, his groans growing louder as he tasted you.

Your body reacted before your mind could catch up, your hips bucking against his mouth, a whimper slipping from your lips. Charlie's hands moved to hold your hips down, pinning you to the bed as he continued, his tongue delving into you, his nose brushing against your clit as he worked, utterly consumed by the taste of you.

He was lost in it, in you, his tongue moving faster, his mouth desperate as he devoured you.

You gasped, your fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer, your body trembling beneath him. The heat built inside you, coiling tighter and tighter, until you felt like you might break apart. His name fell from your lips, a breathless plea, and he groaned in response, the vibrations sending a shockwave of pleasure through you.

Your back arched off the bed, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps as you felt yourself teetering on the edge, your body ready to fall apart under his touch.

Your first orgasm washed over you without warning, a blinding wave of pleasure that left you feeling weightless, your entire body trembling as you came undone beneath him. You melted into the bed like butter, your limbs going limp as the intensity of it left you breathless.

Charlie's mouth moved against you with a fervent hunger, drinking in every bit of your release as if it were the most sacred offering.

A small whimper escaped your lips as the sensation grew overwhelming, your body growing sensitive to his touch. He didn't stop, his tongue moving lazily, drawing out every last bit of pleasure from you, his mouth still savoring you.

Your grip on his head shifted, your fingers now pushing at him, trying to get him to stop, but his hands only gripped your thighs tighter, keeping you in place. "W-Wait..." The heat in your stomach was already starting to build again, the slow, deliberate movements of his tongue igniting another fire deep within you.

Charlie groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core, his face buried even further between your legs, his tongue relentless.

Your breath came in quick, shallow gasps, your body trembling once more as the pleasure built. You could feel another orgasm approaching, your mind spinning as you tried to form words, but all that left your throat were broken, incoherent sounds—static that filled the room as you babbled.

You tried to scoot back, to move away from the overwhelming sensation, but Charlie's strong arms wrapped around your hips, yanking you back down, his grip unyielding. His own hips pressed into the bedding below, his desperation evident as he devoured you.

You teetered on the edge once more, the pleasure too much, too intense, until it finally broke over you again, your body arching, your mind going completely blank as you came undone a second time.

The world around you seemed to fade away, leaving only the sensation of his mouth on you, the heat, the pressure, the overwhelming ecstasy that left you gasping for air.

As you came down from your high, your body trembling, Father Charlie finally pulled back, his lips and chin glistening. He stared up at you with dark, lidded eyes, his expression filled with hunger, with desire that seemed insatiable.

There was no hesitation, no regret—only a raw need that made it clear he no longer cared about going against his vows, no longer cared about the priesthood or what was right.

All that mattered to him was you.

A/N: i'm sorry, i just watched Grotesquerie last night and i've become obssessed.... ugh, the tension between father charlie and sister megan is just *chefs kiss* it's clear that megan is obviously meant to be y/n and the screenplay was written in the intent of it being catered to the female gaze because wheeeeww 😩...

[jaylalolz]

hiii omg i think u should do a one shot w nicolas chavez and it should be like a honeymoon one! 🥹🙏🏾🙏🏾🙏🏾🙏🏾🙏🏾

WIFE!reader x HUSBAND!nicholas 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

SUMMARY, how nicholas would treat his wife on their honeymoon

A/N, thanks for requesting, anon!! have fun reading

WARNINGS, none??

Nicholas had always been intense— whether on set, in the way he looked at you, or how he touched you-but on your honeymoon, he took it to another level entirely. The moment you arrived at the private villa, nestled on the edge of an untouched beach, Nicholas made sure you knew exactly what his intentions were. He had planned every detail, wanting to spoil you beyond your wildest dreams.

From the moment you stepped into the villa, it felt like a dream. The room was drenched in the soft glow of candlelight, and the sound of the ocean waves crashed gently in the background.

Nicholas had arranged for champagne to be chilling in the corner, and as you entered, he wasted no time pulling you into his arms, his lips grazing your neck in that way that made your skin tingle.

He handed you a glass, his eyes locking with yours as he toasted to forever-his voice low and seductive as he whispered promises of the life you'd build together.

He was different during this time— softer, more intimate. He insisted on pampering you in every way, starting with lazy mornings spent wrapped in silk sheets, where he'd trace the lines of your body as if memorizing every inch of you all over again. The way he'd look at you made it clear you were the only thing that mattered. Breakfasts were delivered to your room-luxurious spreads of fresh fruit, pastries, and champagne, though more often than not, they went untouched as you both got lost in each other instead.

In the afternoons, he would take you out on spontaneous adventures, sailing along the crystal-clear waters or exploring hidden coves where no one else could find you. His hand would always be on the small of your back, guiding you through every experience, whether it was a private wine tasting or a secluded dinner on the beach.

Nicholas would pull your chair close to his, his thumb running circles along your skin, his lips brushing yours between bites of dessert as if he couldn't get enough.

But the nights were when his intensity showed most. He'd draw you a bath filled with rose petals and fragrant oils, dimming the lights until the room felt like a sanctuary. He would sit beside you, his hand lazily tracing the surface of the water, his gaze dark and full of promise as he watched you soak. And when you were ready, he'd lift you from the water like you weighed nothing, wrapping you in a towel before carrying you to bed.

In the dim light of the room, he would take his time with you-slow, unhurried, his touch worshipping every part of you as though he was making up for all the nights you'd ever spent apart.

Nicholas's hands would move over you with a delicate reverence, his voice low as he whispered how beautiful you were, how lucky he was to have you. He wasn't just making love to you-he was claiming you in the most tender way possible, ensuring you felt adored, desired, and cherished.

Throughout the honeymoon, Nicholas was relentless in his devotion, showering you with lavish surprises— jewelry, designer dresses, and even a private concert under the stars where he played your favorite songs, his eyes never leaving yours. He loved to spoil you, but more than anything, he loved seeing your smile, knowing that every bit of happiness you felt was because of him.

And every time he looked at you, it was with the same hunger, the same fire. Because, for Nicholas, the honeymoon was just the beginning. The start of forever, where he could love you like this for the rest of your lives.

[peachysunrize]

Insolent wench ⥃ Prince Regent!Aemond

Summary: when he finds the master of whispers’ daughter in the council room in the dead of the night playing with the marble ball he gave to Aegon earlier, the dragon in him is ready to burn or succumb to her.

Pairing: prince regent!Aemond Targaryen x Larys Strong’s daughter reader

Warnings: 18+ mdni! Dark content -> manipulation & blackmail! Dark!reader even a bit of dubcon, virginity loss, virgin!reader, degrading, rough sex, spanking, pussy slapping, breeding, fingering, porn with little plot, ehem using the ball as a toy, Larys’ daughter has zero description, English isn’t my first language<3

Word count: 3.07k+

A/n: thank you @namelesslosers for giving me this dynamic idea & thank you @sylasthegrim for beta reading this for me🥹 Happy rough fucking with Aemond everyone🤭 Reblogs & comments are most appreciated!💕 also I was too lazy to make an aesthetic moodboard for my fic lol

He lurks in the corridors of the Keep that lead to the Small Council room. It has become his little secret, a routine he has always longed to have, and now, after months of yearning, he finally has it.

The halls are silent, and the sound of every step he takes echoes within the walls. Aemond walks with Blackfyre attached to his hip, the heavy weight of the Valyrian steel makes him smirk. Truly, he has never felt an emotion so deeply rooted inside him that makes the hair on his nape rouse, but now being the regent and the protector of the realm does it for him.

He stops for a moment when he finds the door to the council’s room ajar, the flickering of the candlelight visible from outside. He has never encountered anyone at such an hour, everyone has to be abed, except for the guards who are the ones that aren’t found anywhere near this room.

He takes a cautious step towards the door, hearing the sound of a low humming coming from inside. He reaches for Aegon’s dagger, fingers wrapping around the hilt as he pushes the door open slowly, his good eye skimming the room only to find someone’s back to him, leaning over the table and playing with his marble ball.

“A fine night, is it not, my Prince Regent?” you ask him, your back still to him as you fidget with the ball on the table, walking towards the King’s chair with a sway in your hips.

“What is your business here, Lady Strong?” he asks, letting go of the dagger before he locks his hands behind his back, walking towards his previous seat at the end of the marble desk.

He watches you closely, his good eye following your every move as you sit down on his chair at the head of the table, rolling the ball between your fingers as you look up from the ball to him slowly.

“I am disheartened by your words to my father,” you say, leaning back on the chair while your thumb rubs over the smooth surface of the marble ball in your hand, “he has served the King and your grace faithfully.”

Aemond doesn’t move from his spot, staring solely at your fingers as they rub and caress what belongs to him. He listens carefully, though he is not sure what good it might come out of conversing with a lady like you at such an hour.

“Your father sought power when he already had more than he deserved,” he replies, taking prolonged steps towards you, stopping at Tyland Lannister’s empty chair, “my council is no place for cunning rats like him.”

You chuckle, leaning your head on the back of the chair with a smirk tugging on the corner of your mouth, and it irritates Aemond to no end to see you finding such immense joy in tormenting him—even though you have not really started yet.

You were always such a strange lady to him; so much like your father in the sense that you stopped at nothing to obtain what you wanted".He has heard tales of your rebellious nature in the court, always listening and bothering the royals with your remarks, but they have failed to tell him about your blinding beauty.

“I thought you were ruling in your brother’s stead while he recovers, my prince,” you say, pushing the ball until it starts rolling towards where Aemond stands, “allegedly, this is his council, not yours.”

“Yet your father assumed he’d be my Hand, not my brother’s,” he moves the ball on the table as he walks towards Orwyle’s seat, his gaze never leaving yours, “it does make me wonder how hungry both he and you are for the attention of the royals, my lady.”

“Oh, you have mistaken my motives, your grace,” you stand up, stepping on the opposite side of him, matching his pace as he rounds the table with confidence until he’s standing behind the King’s chair, “I am not here to seek power or the attention of the royals, no. I am here to tell you that sometimes you need to think before you utter some words; ugly rats like my father as you said, tend to thrive on them, best is to learn how to say those words without causing a problem.”

“Mind your tongue, little girl,” Aemond spits out the words, closing his fingers around the ball tightly before he strides towards you purposefully with a tinge of fury in his steps.

“Not little, my prince,” you match his tone, standing where you are until he is right in front of you, the purple of his eye now fully gone as darkness seeps through his iris, “certainly older than you. I reckon you like older women, given your rendezvous to the brothel and all.”

His hand comes up to grip your jaw, squishing your cheeks harshly as he looms over you, his face inches away from yours as his nostrils flare in anger.

“Watch yourself, insolent wench. You are in no position to drag my name in the dirt. Your father tried, and look where he is now—called a Toad by me, dismissed as my Hand and ready to fetch Otto Hightower like a dog,” he says through gritted teeth, his nails digging into your face as he leans closer, his hot breath hitting your lips.

“Your name is already filthy by your own hands. You and Larys Strong have more in common than you think; both kinslayers—“ he cuts you off by spinning you away from him, pushing you down on the table roughly by his large palm on your back.

“Filthy whores like you should be executed in the muddy streets of Flea Bottom and their heads parading around the city on a spike,” he presses himself against your back, his crotch rubbing against your skirt, “Lucky for you, I know how to treat girls like you.”

“I assumed His Grace took no pleasure in taking whores,” you laugh with a jab in your tone at him, “I would love to see how you treat them though. Your brother is the one with tales of his masterful bedding, not you.”

“Tormenting me at the hour of the wolf has severe consequences which I will deliver to you accordingly, Strong,” he groans against your ear, reaching for his dagger to tear through the fabric of your dress, the remaining layers falling on the floor with ease. “Punishment or not, you will learn you shall never wake the dragon for you will burn and the only thing that will remain is your ashes.”

Your small clothes join your ruined dress on the floor, leaving you bare and dripping to the Prince Regent’s eye, devouring the sight of your flesh like a man starved.

The moan that slips from your lips when you feel something cold against your heated cunt is shameless, just like the sound a whore in the Street of Silk would make. 

Aemond starts rubbing your buzzing pearl with the marble ball between his fingers, his breathless laugh against the shell of your ear only makes the feeling of the coldness against your most vulnerable part much stronger.

“You were playing with my property, now I shall use it to make you a property of mine as well,” he whispers, his teeth sinking in the flesh of your neck as he moves the ball faster, your juices flowing down on the cold stone in his hand.

You realize you have awakened the beast within him as he quickens his movements, one hand pinning you to the table and the other rubbing the bundle of nerves furiously, tightening the knot in your core. You fist your hands, nails digging into your palm as your breathing turns into panting.

“It is in your blood it seems, to enjoy having the attention of someone who can easily snap your neck in half,” he mumbles more to himself than you, pleased with how shaky you have become, “you see, insolent wenches like you should be put in their place. How fortunate you are to be under my care.”

As soon as you feel your breaking point, he takes away the ball from your cunt, making you whine and arch your back in protest. He chuckles darkly, bringing the ball to your lips before he orders you to suck and clean the ball off your juices.

“My Prince—“

“Go on, you tart, show your prince how much of a power-hungry slut you are, maybe I will reconsider naming your father as my Hand.”

You comply, licking your nectar off the cold marble, humming at the taste. Aemond knows these games, at least he knew them with the little education he had in the brothels, but you? You are a different kind of lady, a master in disguise. It irritates and arouses him to no end.

Aemond lets go of the stone, bringing his palm down on your arsecheek roughly, making you yelp in surprise. He repeats his action, slapping your backside one more on the same spot he did a few seconds ago. 

You whine in pain and unbelievable pleasure as the sting of his hand spreads through your flesh, a deep primal desire rushing to your aching pussy. He looks down to find you wetter than before, and the sight makes him almost lose his self-restraint, almost.

You wrap your hand around the ball tightly, crying out when you feel the impact of another spank not on your bottom but on your cunt. The pain mixes with an undeniably overwhelming pleasure that has you biting your lip, not wishing to give him the satisfaction. He senses it anyway and hears the muffled scream as he lands another slap on your swollen folds with a sinister smile. 

“I wonder if your father knows of your whereabouts, his daughter ready to be turned into his future king’s whore,” he brings two of his fingers to his mouth, covering them with his spit before he reaches down to play with your pussy, no patience left in him as he thrusts his fingers inside you, groaning at the feel of your warmth.

You do not have the chance to tell him about your maidenhead, and with how fast he is moving his fingers, you can no longer think of it as an issue — your plans are falling into the right path.

Your mind has turned into a mush with how luscious his fingers feel inside you, not a foreign feeling but his fingers are much longer and thicker than you and reach deeper inside you, having you moaning and clawing the table.

“It only takes a few fingers to have your mouth shut, Lady Strong. I wonder what you’d do when I have my cock deep in your cunt,” he leans down to lick at your cheek, his fingers moving faster as he presses his bulge to your thigh. This time, he doesn’t pull away and keeps his pace up, curving his digits to hit your sweet spot rapidly, bringing you closer to your high. 

“My prince, please—“

“That’s it, Strong, give it to me,” he groans out the words, resting his forehead on the side of your face. He hums as soon as you start shaking and tightening around his fingers, gushing your wetness on him.

He doesn’t kiss you, no, he just licks over your lips as you moan and part them in pure delight, seeing stars as your peak rocks your body forward. 

“Fuck it, I need to be buried inside you, seeing for myself how the real blood of Strongs feels like,” he says, biting your cheek as he pulls his fingers out, wiping them on the red handprint on your bottom before reaching for his doublet, unbuttoning it and pulling his linen undershirt out of his leather pants. His fingers unlace his trousers quickly, pushing them and his breeches down enough for his cock to spring free.

He aligns his leaking tip with your soaked entrance, filling you to the hilt with one swift snap of his slim hips. Aemond groans, your wet pulsating walls enveloping his length in a delicious way that not even Sylvie has made him feel.

His hands make a home on your hips as soon as he starts thrusting his cock at a fast bruising pace, not letting you adjust to how his girth stretches your walls more than you thought you’d expect. Your maidenhead is now gone, you can feel his tip licking at the head of your womb, nudging it with each snap of his hips to yours.

Aemond cannot take his eye off of the way his cock disappears inside you, coated with your essence and wetness as he fucks you with abandon, his brain foggy with a desire he has only felt while burning his brother and killing his nephew—you are special in his eye, you awaken the dragon within him, insolent wench as he so likes to call you.

Your hands grow clammy, and the ball falls from your grasp with Aemond’s rough hammering, rolling on the table until it falls on the floor, making a loud uncomfortable noise that matches your unladylike moans and gasps in pleasure.

“You can’t even hold a fucking ball in your hands, Strong. Is your father as weak as you? Will he succumb to me the way you have with just a cock inside your tight pretty cunt?”

It is you who has succumbed to me, you think to yourself as coherent as your thoughts can get without the feeling of him overwhelming your senses. You nod mindlessly, thinking of how he has fallen into your trap so easily.

He comes hard, his hip bones pushing your plush thighs to the rough edges of the council’s table, filling you to the brim with his royal seed. Aemond’s head is thrown back, groaning at your name as his cock twitches inside you, the final ropes of his warm cum painting your walls.

“What have you done?” you ask shakily, faking terror as you try to push him away from you, 

“what— how could you, my prince?”

“What?” he asks dumbfounded, pulling his now softened cock out of you, looking at you with his mind now sharper than before, “what are you saying, my lady?”

“Which lord will now take me as his bride? I am—may the Seven help me— I am tainted! I-I cannot find a husband, m-my maidenhead!”

“You…” Aemond’s voice falters, “you were… you were still a maiden?”

“I was! How crude you have to be to sully my name like a- like the whores you visit? I cannot believe you—“

“Wait!” he tries to reach for you, his lips parted in sheer surprise and terror as you push away from him, nearly dropping on his knees, “My Lady, we should have a word—“

“No!” You fix your dress as best as you could, shaking your head as you run away from him, opening the doors without even looking at him, leaving him shocked and confused with his soft dick out, looking like a deer caught by the hunters.

With so little sleep, Aemond walks through the same hallways he took last night, waltzing inside the small council with a pulsating heart. His eye finds Larys alone in the room, humming as he plays with the marble ball you — his daughter — were playing with last night.

“My Prince Regent,” Lord Larys stands up and bows, “what a lovely day, do you not think so?”

“Lovely morrow indeed,” Aemond says, sitting at the head of the table, glaring at Larys who rolls his marble ball from side to side, “state your mind or leave me.”

“My daughter, Your Grace,” Larys sighs, a ghost of a smirk finding its way onto his face, “she was… in a not-so-pleasant state for her status when she sought me out.”

“What of her?” Aemond tries to remain unbothered, but he knows there is a scheme going on that his intelligence could not pick up on last night.

“She said you forced yourself upon her,” Larys drops the ball on the floor as he locks his hand on the table, his eyes meeting Aemond’s, glaring at him with newfound confidence, “that no Lord will take her now, that you have tainted and impured my daughter!”

“I assure you, my good Lord, that is a lie. Your daughter was the one who made me do it—“ he tries to reason with him, but Larys has none of it.

“So you admit that you yielded to your desires and took my daughter’s innocence! How wild, how disgusting! To know I wished to be in your council—“

“‘Mind your tongue, Lord Larys. I do not care if you are to leave the Keep, but you will not talk to me as if I’m lesser than I was before!” Aemond’s voice booms through the room, slamming his fist on the table as he stands up.

“You are a lesser man, Prince Aemond. A man who gave into his desires and used his power over a helpless noble woman…”

“What is it you wish for me to do? I have not forced myself upon your daughter, she partook in the act willingly if not more enthusiastically than me.” Aemond’s breathing changes and his knuckles turn white as he tries to stop himself from doing something he would surely regret.

“She was crying in my arms last night—“

“Name it and it is yours!” Aemond yells at him, walking to grab Larys by his collar, “You want me to name you my Hand? I will. But in return, you shall keep your mouth shut.”

“You are in no position to tell me what to do, my prince,” Larys calms down a bit, knowing the plan he and you have made has been done perfectly, “you will make me your Hand, and you will marry my daughter in a fortnight.”

“Not acceptable! We will lose Baratheons’ support!” Aemond shoves Larys back on his seat before he starts pacing, “You are my Hand from now on, and I will arrange a good match for your daughter.”

“No, she will be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, or I will taint your reputation the way you have done to my daughter.” 

Rest assured, Larys Strong’s only child married the former Prince Regent and now the King in a fortnight with a lavish feast thrown for her.

[greengoblinswifey]

You’re My Religion- Father Charlie Mayhew x Fem!Reader

summary— what begins as a confession turns into a heated encounter at the altar with your mother’s priest. they say god forgives all but after this, you’re not so sure.

warnings— EXPLICIT CONTENT. degrading kink, praise kink, daddy kink, priest kink, unprotected sex, creampie, face fucking, face slapping, spanking, spitting, blasphemy, gaslighting, mentions of hell, mentions of drugs.

a/n— written while listening to religion by lana del rey. this is longggg but worth it <3

You stepped into the dimly lit church, your heels echoing off the stone floor, drawing the eyes of everyone already seated. Your mother sat in the front, her lips pressed into a tight line, her eyes narrowed in disapproval as they roamed over your outfit, lacy, white, and far too revealing for the sanctity of the place.

You could feel the heat of judgmental stares as you made your way forward. A white garter peeked out from beneath the hem of your dress, resting against your thigh like a silent rebellion. It wasn’t just the dress; it was everything, your lateness, your attitude, your recent choices. Smoking behind the house had been the last straw for your mother, who was determined to have you confess your sins to Father Charlie Mayhew. You’d done worse but she hadn’t found out, might as well do as she asked.

Father Charlie stood at the altar, his presence imposing yet alluring. He was young for a priest, with sharp features softened by the flickering candlelight. His eyes briefly lingered on you as you approached, dark and inscrutable, before his expression returned to one of serene composure. His hands clasped in front of him, holding a Bible, as though the words inside it could shield him from whatever thoughts were swirling in his mind.

You slid into the pew beside your mother, her disapproval palpable. “You’re going to talk to him after the service,” she whispered sharply, not even glancing your way. "You will confess and make things right."

You barely heard her. Your attention was fixed on Father Charlie. Something about the way he looked at you, even for just a second, made your pulse quicken.

He stood at the pulpit, his voice echoing through the quiet church as he continued his sermon. The congregation sat in attention, but his eyes kept flickering toward the front row, toward you. You sat beside your mother, legs crossed, the lacy white dress slipping higher as you adjusted in your seat.

His words wavered for a moment, his gaze slipping to where your dress had risen, revealing more of your thigh. You could feel his eyes on you, feel the subtle heat of his attention even from across the room. A wicked thought crept into your mind, and slowly, carefully, you parted your legs, revealing the scarlet lace of your thong.

For a brief moment, Father Charlie’s voice faltered. His eyes caught the sinful glimpse of red beneath your dress, and he quickly looked away, clearing his throat. His fingers tightened around the Bible, knuckles white as if he was trying to anchor himself to its holiness.

He paused, then spoke, his tone harder now, deliberate. “We must be wary, brothers and sisters, of the dangers of lust, of temptation. Of the Jezebels who seek to lead good men astray with their wicked ways.” His words cut through the air like a blade, but his gaze briefly darted to you once more, betraying the battle raging beneath his composed exterior.

Your mother shifted beside you, her disapproving eyes narrowing as she looked over at you, suspicion flickering across her face. She didn’t know what you had done, not fully, but she felt something was wrong. The sermon had taken an oddly personal tone, and she wasn’t oblivious to it. You could feel her judgment creeping in, but it only fueled the excitement that stirred within you.

Father Charlie continued, though his words seemed to be more for himself now than the congregation. “We must resist. Resist the lure of sin, no matter how enticing it may appear. For we know that the path of temptation only leads to destruction.”

As he spoke, his eyes met yours again, and for a moment, it felt as though the entire room had disappeared. There was no congregation, no mother, no church. Only the two of you, caught in the tension that simmered between righteousness and desire.

As the sermon ended, Father Charlie closed his Bible, but the tension between you lingered in the air. You bit your lip, feeling his gaze burn into you even as he tried to avert his eyes. Throughout the sermon, you had kept your legs parted, teasing him, the red lace of your thong on full display. He’d stolen glances, his composure faltering more than once, but somehow he had managed to make it through. Now, with the service over, the real test was about to begin.

Your mother, determined to show her righteousness, practically dragged you over to him. Her hand clutched your arm as she led you to the front of the church, where Father Charlie stood, his posture stiff and his expression carefully neutral.

“Father,” your mother began, her voice stern, "this is my daughter Y/N. She’s been...not of God lately. I’ve begged for her to come here so she can cleanse herself, confess her sins, and find her way back to the Lord.”

Father Charlie’s eyes flicked to yours for a brief second before he straightened, clasping his hands together. “I understand,” he said, his voice smooth and steady, though there was an undercurrent of something else, something darker, in his tone.

“Since she found her way into church late,” your mother added, giving you a pointed look, “I trust she can find her way back home. Keep her as long as you need, Father, until you’re sure she’s, renewed.” Her eyes darted to your dress, her distaste clear, before she turned to leave.

As she walked away, you watched the door close behind her, leaving you alone with Father Charlie. He stood there, silent for a moment, before finally speaking. “Confession is a powerful thing,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “It requires honesty, humility. Are you ready to confess?”

You gave a slow, deliberate nod, your lips curling into a soft smile. “I think I have a lot to confess, Father.” Your voice was low, teasing, as you looked at him through your lashes.

His jaw tightened, but he motioned for you to follow him to the confessional booth. Once inside, he slid the screen between you, his silhouette barely visible through the latticework. “Speak, my child,” he said, the formality of his words clashing with the tension between you. “Confess your sins, so that you may be forgiven.”

You hesitated for a moment, then decided to push further, testing the boundaries. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," you said, your voice soft and sultry. “I’ve been thinking wicked thoughts. Lustful thoughts.”

He was silent on the other side, but you could sense his tension, feel the weight of his conflicted desires.

“I’ve done things, drugs, other things,” you continued, your tone growing more seductive. “Things I shouldn’t. With people I shouldn’t.” You shifted in your seat, your legs parting slightly, knowing full well he could sense it even if he couldn’t see. “Sometimes, I just can’t help myself. The temptation is too strong.”

Father Charlie cleared his throat, clearly trying to maintain his composure. “Temptation is the Devil’s work," he said, though his voice wavered. "You must resist it.”

You bit your lip, leaning closer to the screen, your voice barely above a whisper. “But what if I don’t want to resist?”

There was silence. You could hear his breathing, shallow and uneven. His hand shifted, and you imagined him clenching his fists, fighting the very thing you were offering. “You must,” he finally said, though it sounded more like a command to himself than to you.

You leaned back in your seat, a mischievous smile on your lips. “But daddy, don’t you want to help me?”

His breath hitched, and you knew you had him. At the same time you both exited the booth, his face looking flushed as he did.

As the tension grew between you and Charlie, your fingers brushed lightly over his chest, feeling the warmth of his body beneath his clothes. You leaned in, close enough that your lips barely touched his ear. “Daddy,” you whispered, your voice filled with temptation, “I’ve been such a bad girl. A dirty sinner. Punish me. Give me a preview of eternal punishment.”

His breath caught at your words, his hand grabbed your hair as he pulled you back to face him, his eyes dark with restrained desire. “You don’t know what you're asking for,” he growled, though his grip on you betrayed his true thoughts.

You smiled up at him, your lips curling in a teasing smile. “I think I do,” you murmured, arching your back to press against him, your hand slipping around his neck as you pulled him even closer. “Right here, in front of the cross, I don’t care.”

Charlie’s eyes flicked toward the large cross behind you, but his gaze quickly returned to your lips, unable to resist the pull. “You’re going to hell,” he muttered, before gripping your waist firmly, lifting you onto the altar as if he couldn't control his actions any longer.

Your legs parted naturally, and you wrapped them around his waist, pulling him in as his lips finally crashed against yours. The kiss was intense, filled with the heat of everything you both had been holding back. His hands roamed over your body, but even as he touched you, he still kept control.

“You're such a bad girl,” he said between heated kisses, his voice low and commanding. “here, of all places.”

You grinned against his lips. “I wanted you,” you admitted breathlessly, “and I knew you couldn’t resist, I always get what I want.”

Charlie’s grip tightened, his hand moving to your throat in a possessive hold. “You need to learn some discipline,” he growled, pulling you closer. “And I’m the one to teach you.”

Your pulse raced as you felt his control over you grow. The cross behind you seemed to sway slightly, but all you could focus on was the fire between you. His hands were everywhere, and every touch made your breath catch, your desire building with each second.

“You wanted to be bad?” he whispered harshly against your ear, his voice filled with both heat and command. “Then you’ll have to take what comes with that.”

Before you could respond, the cross behind you shifted, tilting dangerously. You gasped, glancing back just in time to see it tumble forward, crashing to the ground. The loud thud echoed in the church, but neither of you moved, the sound only fueling the intensity between you.

With one final, wicked smirk, Charlie leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. “There’s no turning back now.”

He shoved you to your knees and you ripped your thong off, your fingers dipping to your sopping pussy as he rid himself of his robes and presented himself bare in front of you. “Suck this priest cock,” he demanded. Without waiting for a reply, his cock was sent into the back of your throat making you gag.

“That’s it little bitch,” he groaned, “take whatever the fuck I give you.”

You took him in, your mouth working around him, your cheeks hollowing as you surrendered to his brutal rhythm.

“Good girl,” he praised, his voice thick with desire. “Just like that. You’re doing so well.” The way he spoke made you want to please him even more, and you found yourself pushing back against him, eager for more.

But then he pulled back, looking down at you with a mixture of pride and mischief. “I think you need a little discipline,” he said, the hint of a smirk on his lips. Before you could respond he grabbed your hair and pulled you over his knee as he sat at the altar, he then delivered a sharp smack to your ass, making you gasp.

“Did you like that?” he asked, watching you closely. You nodded, a thrill of excitement coursing through you. “I thought so,” he replied, his hand coming down again, the sound echoing in the church.

“Let’s see how many more you can take,” he taunted, giving you another hard spank, each one leaving a burning sensation behind. The mix of pleasure and pain made your head spin, and you found yourself craving more.

“Daddy,” you gasped, looking up at him with wide eyes. “I can take it. I want more.”

“Such a naughty whore,” he chuckled, the heat in his gaze intensifying. “But I’ll give you what you want. Just remember, you asked for it.”

He placed a kiss on your ass before his hard hand came down again, causing you to yelp. He chuckled darkly at the sounds you made before he gripped your jaw, making you open your mouth and spat inside. He continued his assault on your ass whispering darkly to you.

“This is what you like? Is this what whores like you enjoy? To be violated by their priest? Hmm?”

“Y-yes father,” you moaned, feeling his sharp hand come down again, you weren’t sure how much you could take but you didn’t want to let him know.

“Alright whore, back on my cock, make me cum and maybe I’ll give you what you so desperately desire.”

As you knelt at the altar, the irony of the moment didn’t escape you. Typically, this was a sacred space meant for prayer and reflection, a place where you sought forgiveness and guidance. But here you were, on your knees, not in a plea for redemption but in a silent prayer of your own worshipping the man who stood before you. Worshipping his big, thick, leaking cock. Thank God for him.

The flickering candlelight casted shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw and the way his lips curled into a smirk. You felt a thrill rush through you, knowing how wrong this was, yet wanting it more than anything.

“Look at you,” he said, his voice low and teasing. You got to work, spitting on his cock and taking him as deep as you could in your throat as tears left your eyes, as you did so he ripped your little dress off you making you gasp. The little sounds you made on his dick made him moan in pleasure. You continued sucking and not long after he held your head own as you gasped for air and came down your throat.

He clearly hadn’t released in a long time because there were still small ropes of his cum he pumped onto your face. With a smack, his hand came down across your cheek then he spat on you, making you stick your tongue out.

“Disgusting whore, you’re fucking filthy, sent from the devil himself.”

“Make me yours then,” you panted and Father Charlie smiled down on you.

With a swift motion, Charlie gripped your waist, bending you over the altar. The cool wood pressed against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat building within you. You felt exposed, your heart racing as you heard him move behind you.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear. “So willing to give yourself to me right here in God’s house. I wonder what He would think of this.”

You could barely focus on his words as anticipation coursed through you. “I don’t care,” you managed to reply, your voice breathless. “Just please, Father.”

He chuckled, positioning himself behind you, and for a moment, you felt the weight of the world pressing down on your shoulders. “You might need to repent after this,” he teased, his tone playful yet filled with raw desire. “But I’m sure God will forgive me for what I’m about to do, you, a fucking slut, not so much.”

You shivered, knowing this was all so wrong, yet feeling every bit of it was right for you. “Just take me,” you urged, your body craving his touch.

As he pushed into you, a loud gasp escaped your lips. The sensation was overwhelming, a mixture of pleasure and guilt flooding your senses. He was so deep inside your pussy, tearing you apart with a burning stretch. “Holy—” you started, but he interrupted.

“‘Thou shalt not commit fornication,’” he quoted, almost mockingly. “But we’re not fornicating, are we? We’re just, exploring.”

You could only moan in response, the feeling of him filling you pushing all thoughts of right and wrong from your mind. “Yes daddy,” you breathed, lost in the moment. “Just exploring.”

He began to move, his thrusts deep and steady. “You know, sometimes the line between sin and pleasure is blurred,” he murmured. “But I think we’re in good hands. God will forgive me, won’t He?”

“God can’t see us,” you managed to say between breaths, feeling yourself getting closer to the edge.

“Exactly,” he growled, picking up his pace. “And you’re going to come for me. Make it worth it, bitch.”

He slapped your ass harshly, making you moan and open your eyes to look at the holy water on the altar that fell to the ground and splashed on you. You could swear it burned your skin.

As the pleasure washed over you, the world around you faded, leaving only the sensation of Charlie’s body against yours. You felt yourself tightening around him, waves of ecstasy crashing through you until, with a final gasp, you came undone.

“God, you’re beautiful when you’re like this,” he praised, his voice thick with lust. He pulled out, letting you catch your breath for a moment before lifting you effortlessly. “Now, let’s take this to a more fitting spot.”

With that, he guided you toward the chair where the priest would usually sit, its authority mixed with your reckless abandon. He sat back, pulling you onto his lap in one smooth motion. The air was electric with anticipation, and you could see the flickering candles casting shadows around the room, the only witnesses to your sin.

“Get ready to worship,” he growled, guiding you down onto him. As you sank onto his length, a loud moan escaped your lips. The thrill of the position combined with the sinfulness of your surroundings sent a shiver down your spine.

“Look at you, taking me right here,” he said, gripping your hips. “You’re my little slut, aren’t you? Just my bitch to fuck.”

You nodded, feeling the words stir something deeper within you. “Yes, I’m yours,” you breathed, moving your hips to find your rhythm.

He thrusted up into you, each movement deliberate, as he leaned closer. “And you love it,” he stated with a smirk. “You love being my temptation, my little distraction. If God didn’t want me to be tempted, He wouldn’t have created you for me to enjoy. This tight, wet, leaking pussy for me to enjoy.”

With each thrust, the sensation built, and you felt the heat of his words mingle with the heat of your bodies. “You’re going to take all my cum inside you, aren’t you?” he commanded, his tone a mix of dominance and desire. “You want me to fill you up, to pump my cum into your tempting little pussy?”

“Yes, father,” you gasped, your body responding to his every word. The sensation of him filling you pushed you closer to the edge once more.

Just then, the cross above you trembled, tilting ominously before falling upside down. A collective gasp echoed in your mind, but you were too lost in your desire to care. The flickering candles burst into flames, sending wisps of smoke into the air as if the universe itself was reacting to your sinful act.

“Look at that,” he chuckled darkly, his thrusts relentless. “Even God can’t help but take notice of what we’re doing here.”

“Just don’t stop,” you urged, feeling the intensity build again and tears fell from your eyes. The mix of danger and pleasure was intoxicating.

“Never,” he promised, his eyes dark with lust. “I’m going to fill you up, and you’re going to remember this forever.”

With a few final powerful thrusts, he buried himself deep inside you, moaning your name as he released, filling you completely.

As the final waves of pleasure rolled through you, you both collapsed against each other, your bodies slick and exhausted. Breathing heavily, you felt the weight of the moment settle in. The reality of what just happened hung in the air, a mix of satisfaction and consequence.

Charlie pulled back slightly, his gaze locking onto yours, a wicked smirk playing on his lips. “You know this is all your fault, right?” he murmured, his tone both teasing and dark. “You tempted me, made me filthy.”

You shivered at the heat of his words, the intensity in his eyes igniting something deep within you. “I didn’t make you do anything,” you replied, a challenge in your voice. “You wanted this just as much as I did.”

He leaned closer, his breath hot against your ear. “Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, sweetheart. You made it impossible for me to resist. Look at you, so innocent yet so depraved.” His fingers traced your cheek, a contrast of softness against the edge of his words. “You walked into this church, dressed like a temptation itself, and now look where we are.”

His gaze flicked toward the now-upside-down cross, a symbol of your defiance. “You should be ashamed, everyone would chastise you if you said anything,” he continued, his voice lowering to a husky whisper. “But I know you’re not. You loved every second of it, just like I did.”

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his words. “Maybe I did,” you admitted, unable to hide the thrill coursing through you.

Charlie straightened up, adjusting his posture, the authoritative presence returning. “Good. Remember that when you’re here alone, naked and exposed.” He smirked, taking a step back, his eyes dark with desire. “You think this is the last time I’ll see you? You’re wrong. You’re mine now. Your very being belongs to me. I am your God now.”

“You’re my religion,” you whispered.

With that, he turned, walking away toward the back of the church, leaving you breathless and alone. You stared at the cross, the flickering candles around it now extinguished, a stark reminder of the boundary you had crossed.

Naked and vulnerable, you felt a mix of fear and exhilaration wash over you. The reality of your actions hung heavy in the air, but the thrill of the moment lingered in your veins.

[dollwrites]

ɪɴ ᴀʟʟ ᴍʏ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍs, ɪ…! ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ sᴜɴᴅᴀʏ

𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 ∣ smut ( minors dni ), fem!reader, innocent!reader & manipulative!sunday, religious setting ( confessional ), mildly dark ( suggested mind control and dub con to cnc fantasies ), dub con, humiliation, masturbation ( him! ). all characters featured are aged 18+

𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁 ∣ please reblog && leave feedback. not proofread so there’s probably mistakes. thanks for reading < 3

𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗸𝘁𝗼𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟰 ∣ act seven [ masturbation ]

this was the third time.

the third time you’d found yourself sitting here.

the third time within the Cathedral of Morning Dew, perched and squirming uncomfortably in the claustrophobic cubicle, fumbling with your own fingers against the lace details of your skirt as it splayed across your knees— one of them bouncing as a testament to your anxiety and causing your voice to shake.

the third time you were confessing to Sunday.

“I’m sorry,” you feel like you should apologize, so your voice shyly fills the cool air around you. “You must have so many other important matters to tend to—“

“Nonsense.” Sunday replies with an impossibly soft and alluring purr in his gentle baritone. he’s positioned close enough to the lattice partition that he can almost whisper it to you, like a secret for only you to hear. “Penacony’s sons and daughters and their concerns are of utmost importance to me.” though it was meant as reassurance, your cheeks are aflame with embarrassment. to be coddled by a man with as much power as Sunday did make you feel like a helpless child that cries to her father when she’s upset. “Go on, my dear. Tell me what’s bothering you.”

you glance around the cubicle, eyes landing on the candle that endlessly burns beside you, yet no hot wax trickles down on to the pristine floor, nor does heat emit from the flame. even if you blew on it, you doubted that it would go out. as was the whimsicality of the Dreamscape. “It’s these… fantasies again,” you start, timidly bringing up a topic that had been the prompt for you to seek Sunday out every time. gnawing desires for things you knew you couldn’t have— desires for him. “It’s getting harder for me to tell them apart from, well, what’s really happening. The one’s I’ve had recently seem so… immersive.”

Sunday is a quiet for a moment before calmly asking, “Your condition is getting more severe? These fantasies are worrying you?”

“Well, yes.” you answer, choosing your words carefully. “They’re… very…” for all the words there were that could describe what these daydreams about Sunday were ( vulgar, lustful, depraved ), you could force none to breach your lips.

“Naughty?” Sunday offers, and you can almost hear the fond, ghost of a smile that tickles the corners of his lips. it only makes your blush hotter and more furious.

you bite down in your lower lip, rolling it between your teeth as your eyes look towards the latticework. you can only see the outline of his halo, and the glinting of the candlelight as it reflects off the piercings in his wings. squinting slightly, you attempt to make out more details. the softness of his silvery hair, always just so with not a single tendril out of place. the flawlessness of his supple, milky skin, until he turns his head, just a bit, and a glimmering, golden gaze nearly captures yours. with a soft squeak, realizing you’d been staring— wanting, you quickly avert your gaze. “Mhm…!”

you can feel his eyes on you for several more moments, but you can’t bring yourself to look up at him, deciding instead to stare at your bouncing knee.

“And what happens in these naughty, little daydreams of yours?”

a lump forms in your throat, and your mouth goes dry at the prospect of describing to Sunday the way you yearn for him. so, instead of answering right away, you shrink away from the lattice until you no longer feel him gazing at you. the cathedral is eerily silent, and you can hear the flapping of Charmony Dove wings outside. “My dear,” Sunday begins in a calm, patient tone, “you know that you must confess them to me, no matter how deplorable. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here. Now, don’t be shy. You’re safe here with me. You know this, yes?”

you had always felt safe in the warmth of his presence, so you nod again, though you didn’t think he was looking at you anymore. still, you were naive for thinking so. a perfectly gullible, little prey.

Sunday could hear the trepidation in your voice as you began, and he was smiling to himself, imagining the flustered look on your dreamy countenance as you recall how you fantasize about him. with slow, graceful movements, he pinches the very tips of the fingers of one glove, pulling it from his hand. his fingers wiggle once they’re freed from their cloth confinement, which he drapes neatly over his knee.

“In these… dreams, I come to you late at night, when no one else is around…”

“Do you?” he asks, amused, his bare fingers drumming lightly on his thigh silently. “All alone in secret? For what purpose?” he knows why. after all, he’s the culprit behind these eerily realistic fantasies. however, he wants to hear you say it.

“To— um,” you pause, your sheepishness getting the better of you. “Offer myself to you.”

Sunday exhales through his nose to keep a low sound of satisfaction from filling the air, and alerting you to his arousal. hearing how humiliated you are, it tightens the muscles in his lower abdomen, and a tent begins to form in his trousers, which he promptly rubs against his palm. “Oh…?” he asks, almost in a teasing, condescending lilt, murmuring, “In these fantasies of yours, do I accept the offer? Do I take you for myself? Steal your innocence like a wicked thief in the night?” even though his voice remained even, his heart was thumping. his cock jabbed uncomfortably against the fabric of his clothes, and he was busying himself with the task of freeing it.

“Mhm…. Many times,” you answer, and the way your voice breaks, Sunday can practically see your lower lip quivering. it only makes him harder to think about that, and your sparkling eyes welling up with tears. once his cock springs free, standing at attention, he wraps his bare hand around it in a loose fist, and purses his lips together to suppress a grunt. veins throb beneath his skin, the tip twitching as beads of translucent nectar bubbles up from the eager slit. “In many different ways. Sometimes, you— you’re rough with me.”

the tremors that shake your voice when you say this do not go unnoticed by Sunday, who closes his eyes, bringing the fantasy he’d handpicked to implant deep within your mind to the surface of his own. it was one of his favorites, and he was quite pleased that it affected you the most. though his memory wasn’t tampered with, as yours was, and so he couldn’t conjure all the sensations or watch the fantasy like a movie in his mind, he could imagine the sight of you beneath his wandering hands. how they tore at your delicate, little dress. ripping the neckline open to expose your pert breasts for him to grope and squeeze. the way he would imagine you to whimper and wince, perhaps even squirm, and he would have to spare a hand to wrap it around your throat and hold you down— pin you in place so you couldn’t escape him. he would whisper to you that as long as you’re a sweet, obedient darling, he would be gentle. but this was, of course, a lie. the way you would peer up at his figure as he forces his way between your trembling thighs, and the way you would cry out once he finally got his cock inside you, it would be your way of begging him to break you. your mouth could lie, and whine that he was hurting you, or that you want him to be careful with you, but deep down, you wanted him to dominate you. to decimate and own you. he knew this to be fact because he had designed this little dream to convince you of it.

all whilst his imagination ran wild, his thumb runs deftly along his leaking slit, applying enough pressure to milk the swollen, red tip until his precum begins to dribble down the length of his cock, slickening the skin. his palm glides down his needy length, fingers clamping down, until the side of his fist rests against the base, before he slowly drags it back upwards towards the tip, setting a torturously slow tempo for himself. “And in this daydream of yours,” he purrs, only parting his lips wide enough to allow the words to slip through, lest a sound of ecstasy also escape, “You love it when I’m rough with you.” it wasn’t a question. it was a matter of fact. “I can hear it in the way your voice quivers, my dear, you’re ashamed of yourself. Humiliated because, albeit untouched, your little cunt gets so wet when you think about me abusing it.”

“S—Sunday…”

“Mm?” he taunts in a soft voice, as if daring you to challenge the truth. “It’s true, isn’t it? Deplorable, vulgar, and embarrassing to admit, but impossible to deny that you’ve soiled your panties many a time when you imagine how a man like me could use your body all up, and leave you in a state of ruin.”

“Y—yes…” it’s exactly what he’d expected to hear, and yet his core throbs the second he does. he leans back, just enough to brace his back against the wall of his cubicle, and adjust his feet. spreading them further apart. “I—I can't help it…”

“Poor, little thing.” Sunday croons, his slender eyebrows furrowing as he pumps himself harder and faster. “So helpless.” his fist alternates by squeezing and releasing, in the same rhythm that he imagines your virgin pussy would spasm if he was inside, and the sensations were already driving him to the brink. Sunday tilts his head back against the wall, hissing out a soft groan under his breath. part of him even wants you to hear that little sound of pleasure, to realize what he’s doing— getting off on your distress. on your desperate, wanton lust for him. however, if you do hear it, you’re too shy to draw attention to it. too bad, he thinks, if she had only caught me, i would have the innocent, little thing gagging on my cock right here in this booth…

“Wh—what should I do?” your shy question snaps him back to the moment at hand. “About these fantasies. I feel— I feel like they’re only getting more depraved and… scary…”

Sunday has to seal his tiers tightly together, lest a breathy chuckle bubble up from his throat at just how frightened by your own desires ( or, at least, the ones he’s convinced you are yours ) you are. it was cute to him. adorable how eager you are to make these naughty visages go away before they spiral out of control, when that is exactly what he was waiting for. “You needn’t worry, you know this.” he manages to force the words out, even as he stroked himself, coming undone in his own palm to the thought of deceiving you. plucking away the petals of your fragile, little mind until you were compliant and easy enough to do the same deflowering to your body. “I will always be here for you, I will always take care of you.” as he says this, he milks his cock, slowly dragging a tight fist up from the base, coaxing a slowly oozing release from the engorged head. a couple of rogue streamers splatter silently against the floor between his feet, but he pays the mess no mind. instead, he retrieves a handkerchief from his breast pocket and carefully wipes the mess on his lap— cum glazing his bare hand and the length of his shaft, down to where it began to frost his now empty balls, just before reaching the fabric of his trousers. it was unsurprisingly that he looked pristine once he was cleaned and tucked back into his pants. the soiled handkerchief is forgotten on the bench, in exchange for his glove still resting across his knee. he slips it back on before he stands, taking only a moment to smooth his vest and jacket before escaping the now stuffy air of the booth. with a soft knock on the door to your side, he waits for you to come out, too. a gentle smile on his face, and the dusky blush fading into his normal complexion by the time you emerge.

when you open the door, it creaks a bit, and you glance down at the hinges, before looking up to find Sunday incredibly close. the subtle musk from his refined cologne tickling your nostrils, but that wasn’t all. there was another smell that was quite unfamiliar, and yet seemed to spark a low bubble in your belly, but you couldn’t place it. you shrink away from him with a sheepish smile, your back pressing against the door of the booth when he takes a step closer, effectively blocking you from leaving. “Your condition is my concern,” he assures you with a gentle smile, before reaching into his pocket and retrieving a little vial of pinkish, glowing liquid. it was familiar to you— the same elixir he’d given you the last two times you’d come to him. to help with the symptoms, he says.

“Th—thank you, Sunday—“ you whisper, reaching a trembling hand for the vial in his, but what he does next surprises you. grasping your wrist with the other, he presses the vial against your palm and covers your fingers with his, wrapping them tightly, and he leans in with a softer whisper.

“Remember to place a single drop on your tongue. Every. Single. Night.” when you nod, flustered by so much physical contact, he smiles fondly, and releases your hand. “Very good girl.” he appraises, before his right hand falls to rest behind his back, yet his left lingers, creeping up to trace the shape of your mouth. piercing, golden eyes for us on your lips, his own curled into a gentle smile.

“P—please don’t tell anyone… about my condition.” you whisper, your eyes big and hopeful. you didn’t believe he would, but it was something you always needed to plead for before you left.

Sunday chuckles softly at this, and presses a gloved thumb to the seam of your lips, applying pressure until your lips open and it nearly slips inside. “You and I have many secrets together,” he murmurs in reply, before his gaze flits back up to your eyes, locking them into an intense contact that has you shifting back and forth on your feet. “But that is why we must trust one another. Unconditionally. Do you trust me, my dear? Unconditionally?”

[sushiyuzu]

“don’t let him stare at you like that.”

nanami kento x fem!reader

warning: soft smut — kento being jealous and possessive in heat. minors dni!

- backup acc: @blushpawss

you sit across from kento, the flickering candlelight casting a warm glow on his chiseled features. he’s dressed in a tailored suit that accentuates his broad shoulders, and you can’t help but admire how handsome he looks tonight.

you guys are in a restaurant, which kento—like a gentleman—had taken you out for a fancy dinner earlier to strengthen the bond between the two of you. the venue buzzes softly around you, the low hum of conversations blending with the clinking of silverware.

you feel the soft lace of your red mermaid dress hug your curves, the fabric accentuating every movement. as you lean forward to speak, you catch kento’s gaze lingering on your neckline, his expression a mix of admiration and something more primal. the moment feels electric, charged with an unspoken tension that makes your heart race.

but then, you notice the waiter. he’s handsome, with a charming smile, and he seems to pay a little too much attention to you. you feel a flicker of discomfort when kento’s demeanor shifts. his jaw tightens, and you can see the irritation flashing in his eyes. it’s subtle, but it’s there, a protective instinct bubbling just beneath the surface.

“are you enjoying the food?” kento asks, his voice smooth but edged with an intensity that sends shivers down your spine.

“it’s delicious,” you reply, trying to maintain the lightness of the moment, but you can feel the heat radiating from him. he leans closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “just don’t let him stare at you like that.”

the possessiveness in his tone sends a thrill through you, and you nod, feeling a blush creep up your cheeks. it’s thrilling and intoxicating, knowing that he’s so affected by this. as the dinner progresses, kento’s hand finds yours across the table. his fingers intertwine with yours, his touch firm yet tender, grounding you amidst the growing tension. you can feel the heat radiating from him, a simmering intensity that makes you acutely aware of every brush of his skin against yours. the air around you feels thick with desire, and you can’t help but lean closer, drawn to him.

as the waiter comes to take your plates, kento’s eyes never leave you, his expression dark and possessive. you can see the tension coiling within him, and it only makes you want him more. after the waiter leaves, he leans in, his breath warm against your ear, whispering, “you look so beautiful tonight. i can’t take my eyes off you.”

the compliment sends a shiver down your spine. you can feel your heart racing in response to his words, the way his gaze roams over your body like he’s memorizing every detail. when the meal is finally over, kento stands, his eyes dark with a mix of jealousy and need. he gestures for you to follow him, and as you step outside, the cool evening air contrasts sharply with the warmth of the restaurant. but the chill doesn’t last long; kento pulls you close, his body heat enveloping you.

“i couldn’t stand the way he looked at you,” he admits, his voice low and gravelly, as he backs you against the wall of the restaurant. the intensity in his gaze makes your breath hitch, and your heart races as he leans in, brushing his lips against your neck.

you shiver at the contact, feeling both vulnerable and exhilarated. kento’s breath is warm against your skin as he whispers, “you’re mine. no one else can look at you like that.”

his lips find yours in a heated kiss, filled with urgency and need. he kisses you deeply, pouring all his frustration and desire into that single moment. you respond eagerly, your hands finding their way to his hair, pulling him closer as his kisses grow more fervent, trailing down to your collarbone.

“kento,” you breathe, feeling the weight of his body pressing against you, heat pooling in your belly as his mouth travels lower. he teases the edge of your dress, fingertips brushing against your soft skin, igniting every nerve ending.

“what do you want, baby?” he murmurs against your collarbone, his warm breath sending goosebumps across your skin. “tell me.”

“i want you,” you gasp, desperation evident in your voice, and the raw need in your words makes his gaze darken with desire.

“you want me to take you right here?” he teases, biting down lightly on your shoulder, his teeth leaving a mark that makes your breath hitch. “so everyone can see how much you belong to me?”

the thrill of his words sends a jolt of excitement through you, and you nod, heart racing at the thought.

“yes, please,” you whisper, and that’s all the encouragement he needs.

kento captures your lips again, his hands roaming down your body, gripping your waist as he pushes you further against the wall. the heat radiating from him mingles with the tension in the air, making you feel alive. he breaks the kiss and moves lower, his lips trailing down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin, leaving small bites that sting and thrill all at once.

“i want everyone to see the marks i leave on you,” he growls, and with a swift motion, he pulls your dress down slightly, exposing more of your skin. his lips find the soft flesh of your breasts, kissing and biting, leaving deep red hickeys that will bloom like flowers in the days to come.

“kento!” you gasp, feeling a mix of pleasure and embarrassment as he lavishes attention on your breasts. his mouth works expertly, teasing you with bites and kisses that make you writhe against him, desperate for more.

“you like that, don’t you?” he smirks, looking up at you with darkened eyes, his voice dripping with teasing dominance. “you love it when I mark you as mine.”

you can barely respond, the pleasure overwhelming you as he continues to nip and suck, leaving marks that scream of possession. the way he focuses on your breasts, the heat of his mouth, and the pressure of his teeth only heighten your desire.

“you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, almost reverently, as he pulls back slightly to admire the marks he’s left on your skin. “i want to see you like this all the time.”

with a low growl, he captures your lips once more, his kiss more demanding this time, as if he’s trying to consume you whole. he presses his body against yours, and you can feel the hard evidence of his desire pressing into your thigh, intensifying your own need for him.

“let’s get out of here,” he breathes against your mouth, his hands gripping your waist tightly as he leads you down the street, the cool air contrasting sharply with the heat radiating from your bodies.

he pulls you into a nearby alley, the darkness enveloping you both, a thrill coursing through you at the secrecy of it all. kento presses you against the cool brick wall, his lips crashing against yours again with a fervor that leaves you breathless.

“i’ve been thinking about this all night,” he growls, his hands roaming down your body, exploring every curve. he teases the hem of your dress, fingers brushing against your thighs, making you ache for more.

“please,” you whisper, desperation lacing your voice, and he gives you a wicked smile, knowing just how to push you to the edge.

“please what?” he challenges, pulling back to search your eyes, his expression one of mischief and desire.

“please don’t stop,” you plead, and that’s all the encouragement he needs to resume kissing you, pouring all his longing and passion into the moment, making it impossible for you to think about anything else but him.

“i’ll give you everything you want, but you have to promise me something,” he says, his voice low and serious as he pulls back to meet your gaze.

“what?” you breathe, heart racing, anticipation thrumming through your veins.

“promise me you’ll scream my name when i make you feel good,” he says with a smirk, and your breath hitches at his words, a rush of heat flooding your cheeks.

“i promise,” you reply breathlessly, and he crashes his mouth against yours once more, sealing the promise with a heated kiss.

in this alley, under the stars, you lose yourselves in each other, and nothing else exists.

[peachesofteal]

ghoap x reader / 18+ mdni / dark themes / prev here

‘C’mon, you never want to go out.” 

You rub your temples, eyes closed in exasperation. “I’m broke, Case.” 

“I’ll spot you. Come on, it’s Friday. I’ll get us into The Rook.” She pleads and pushes, tugging away your excuses and defenses until you’re backed into a corner with nowhere to run. Finally, you opt for a different tactic, lamely. 

“Doesn’t that place have a waiting list?”   

“Oh yeah, miles long. But the owner likes me.” The owner. How does she even know the owner of The Rook? 

“I don’t know…” you linger, still bent over your tiny kitchen table, back bowed and tired, “isn’t it like, dangerous?” 

“The Rook is neutral ground or something, I don’t know. It’s perfectly fine, I’ve been dozens of times.” A litany of stories exists about the speakeasy, from its origins to the current clientele, each as unbelievable as the next, and you’ve always imagined it to be this dark den of sin and debauchery, filled to brim with hitmen and lawlessness. “You have to do something other than work and sleep; you know. You’re missing out on your whole life.” She chides, attempting to launch into the same speech she repeats over and over every few weeks. 

“Alright, alright,” you look down at your torn up cuticles and sigh, “I’ll go.” 

You weren’t wrong about The Rook being dark. 

It’s hollowed out under a club, nooks and crannies and little hallways splitting off in every direction, dim lamps and flickering candlelight casting shadows to the ceiling, bartenders dressed in all black working behind a massive, burnished wood bar along the back wall. Velvet couches, high top tables, overstuff armchairs flow in the space, and Case tells you there are more rooms if you’re keen to explore, explaining in hushed tones how there’s usually a band in one, a card game of sorts in another, a pool table somewhere, all with various styles of seating, and even another bar. It's elegant, decadent, sinful. Most of the people are startlingly beautiful, high heels and skintight dresses, perfectly made-up faces, polished onyx cuff links gleaming against expensive navy suits. 

Even the drinks are licentious. 

You decidedly do not belong here. Perched on a stool next to Case, you occasionally rub your wrists, casually wondering if it would have been acceptable to wear your braces, your carpal tunnel flaring into a swell of agony. 

Wouldn’t that be a sight. 

The bartender slides her two generous neat pours of… something, and you raise an eyebrow. 

“On the house, from the boss.” He says with a wink, and she tips her head to ceiling with a bubble of a laughter, before pressing one of the tumblers into your hand. 

“What is it?” 

“Probably bourbon.” 

“Oh, no thanks, I don’t-“ 

“Just shoot it.” She throws it back with ease, showing her teeth afterwards, a hyena leering in the lamplight. 

Fuck it. Maybe it will the throbbing in your wrists will quiet down. 

It’s thick, syrupy, hot in your throat. Burns all the way down and settles like lava in your stomach, uncomfortable until the sting ebbs into warmth, moving through your bones. 

“Not bad.” You rasp, and she smiles. 

There are more free drinks. They stick to your insides like tar, slicking you in a heavy cotton, weighing your limbs down, loosening the tension in your neck and shoulders, peeling away your layers of discomfort one by one. 

You’re surprised by how at home Case seems in this place, how comfortable she is, smiling and waving to the occasional person, making small talk here and there. She practically floats in her seat, black dress taut against every dimple and dip on her body, hair artfully twisted into something that could be considered modern art. She’s a gazelle. A heron. Something graceful and gorgeous, fine feathered and fabulous.

And you’re… a tired girl in a tired dress, counting her lucky stars that there seem to be so many generous patrons buying drinks tonight. 

“Having fun?” She whispers, nudging you with her shoulder. 

“How often do you come here?” Her eyes wander, flicking past you and then back, wistful caution etched across her brow. 

“Often enough,” She sips her drink and then folds her hands together on the bar top, looking over shoulder, “Most of these people in here… are connected to organized crime somehow.” The information doesn’t surprise you, but hearing it confirmed, knowing it’s not just some story made up, some fairytale about boogeymen, makes you shiver. 

 “Like, the mafia?” 

“The mafia is Italian, but they have a presence in the city.” She shrugs, like it’s all common knowledge. Like you’re out of the loop. “The Rook belongs to Kyle Garrick.” You shake your head, unfamiliar. “Of The 141?” your mouth goes dry. 

The 141. 

The 141 were a notorious organized crime group who ran half, if not more, of the city. You knew they owned clubs, bars, restaurants, and hotels, but you were never clear on the details of their illegitimate work, and you didn’t want to know. 

You knew, for sure: they were men to be feared. Men capable of terrible things. Destruction. Death. 

Their ongoing war with The Shadows was the reason the city was soaked in blood. 

“Don’t worry,” she rushes out, hand on your arm, “like I said, It’s neutral here. Nothing happens in The Rook.” You nod meekly, head swimming. You’re more than drunk now, stuck in a sloshing ship, floor tilting beneath your feet. The urge to get away, to disappear slams into you like a truck, and you slip off the stool. 

“Which way is the bathroom?” She points to one of those dark hallways, and you stumble through the throngs of people like a fresh born fawn, unsteady and teetering on the edge, approaching a hallway that splits into two. 

Which way? 

You pick one, sure you’ll run into someone who can point you in the right direction, but when it zigs and zags up to a polished wooden door, you stop short, confused. The alcohol has rendered you fuzzy, and your vision spins, trying to look for a recognizable placard. 

Is this the bathroom? 

It must be. 

The first thing you realize when you push the door open, is a chorus of men’s voices, stopping on a dime. You hear them, before you see them, and immediately try to backpedal, tugging the door handle towards you, trying to close it. You’re wayward, with heavy, tired feet, and the movement is slow, slow enough that an opposing force pulls on the other side and then- 

rips. 

You fly forward into the room, dragged by your grip on the handle, spilling onto your knees with a shocked gasp, and someone curses in the background, another voice barking out a name. 

Then, the room goes Sunday church service silent. 

You gape at the table of men, transfixed in horror on the two familiar faces staring back at you, the unforgettable Scot and his marble etched partner, who was just in the shop only two days ago. They’re frozen, half risen from their seats, a cigarette burning away in an ash tray filling the air with smoke. 

There’s a nickel-plated flash, and your blood curdles. 

He has a gun. 

“I…” you croak, still on your knees, unable to categorize or rationalize why you’re seeing them here, why one of them has a gun, why any of this is happening. “I’m sorry, I was lo-looking for the bathroom.” There are many men in this room, you realize. More than just the two you’re acquainted with, and your stomach rolls, nausea creeping forward, trying to bring the too many drinks you’ve consumed up through your mouth. “I’m sorry.” You say again, more clearly. 

Obviously, you’re interrupting something. 

“These aren’t the toilets, little girl.” A Russian voice booms over your head. “Unless you’re going to piss on the floor for us?” 

“Nikolai.” The blonde cuts, Manchester accent rougher than sandpaper, and you shake your head frantically. 

“N-no, I just got turned around, that’s all.” Your brain screams at you to get up, but your body is immobile, and you look away in fear. 

A warm hand takes yours, tanned skin soft and sweet, gentle touch urging your face back up. 

“It’s alright, doe. Ye’re alright.” It’s the Scot, crooning in your ear, wrapping an arm around your waist to bring you to your feet. “Let’s get ye to the bathroom then, aye?” You lean against him, breathing in cypress and ocean spray, letting him guide you out of the room, his partner right at your back. 

“We’re not finished.” Someone calls out, and the bigger man clips out a response. 

“We are now.” 

[randomdragonfires]

Parallel Lines, Act II

Text Divider by @saradika-graphics

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

PAIRING | Aemond Targaryen x Wife!Reader

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

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

WORD COUNT | 13.9k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She hadn’t either.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has she ever helped dress him before?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don’t have anyone else here.

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

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

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

She didn't pray anymore.

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

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

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

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

Then she saw him.

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

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

“Make way for the King!”

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

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

“Princess, you should not be here.”

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

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

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

“What of my husband?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sleep eluded her that night.

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

What of the men we lost? The lives sacrificed?

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

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

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

Her son, her precious boy…

No.

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

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

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

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

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

“Wife, you are not dressed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Gevie.” Beautiful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another child. Another child. Another-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His wife had stayed to share his bed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No signs of terror. Or was she indifferent?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I forgive you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Besides, is this not what she wanted?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course you have.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sīr gevie." So beautiful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why? Why? Why?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He used to watch them fight.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minx.

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

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

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

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

Aerys, Aerys, Aerys.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps she’d seen enough.

MASTERLIST

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[outtacontextlitwtc]

"watch your mom get raw dogged by the devil"

[idkyetxoxo]

Daemon Targaryen - His and Only His

Summary - Daemon's jealousy flares as he accuses his wife of flirting with another man. His rage sparks a fierce, passionate encounter, driven by intense possessiveness. He believes the ultimate way to assert his dominance is to leave her yearning and breathless beneath him.

Pairing - Daemon Targaryen x reader

Warnings - Sexual content (smut!!)

Word count - 2074

Masterlist for Daemon • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

"Daemon, I find myself consistently having this conversation with you," I said wearily, my head in my hands, the room filled with an uncomfortable silence.

The night draped around us, the moon casting a ghostly glow through the window, and the candles flickered dimly as if mirroring the unease between us.

"This jealousy is unwarranted," I continued, my voice tinged with frustration. "Lord Harlan was merely being polite."

Daemon's eyes flashed with anger as he paced the room, his fists clenched at his sides. "Polite? He was practically courting you right in front of me! And you stood there, smiling!"

"He was making idle conversation," I countered, trying to keep my voice steady. "There was nothing more to it."

Daemon stopped abruptly, turning to face me, his expression dark. "Do you take me for a fool? I saw the way he looked at you. And the way you responded—"

"I was being polite, Daemon!" I snapped, rising to my feet, unable to contain my own frustration. "Must I remind you that I am not some possession to be guarded jealously?"

Daemon's eyes narrowed, anger simmering beneath the surface. "Polite? He practically leered at you, and you stood there like you enjoyed it!"

I shot back, "Enjoyed it? I was trying to keep the peace, Daemon! Not everything is a threat to you."

His frustration boiled over as he stepped closer, fists clenched. "It's not about peace! It's about respect. You're my wife, and you're letting some man shower you with attention!"

"Attention?" I laughed bitterly. "You're making a mountain out of a molehill. Do you really think I would betray you for some empty compliments?"

Daemon's voice rose, "It's not about betrayal! It's about how it looks. You're too naive to see that your actions can be misinterpreted!"

"Naive? I'm trying to navigate this treacherous court while you wallow in jealousy!" I shot back, feeling my own anger swell.

For a moment, we stood there, glaring at each other, the air thick with unspoken words. The candles flickered more violently as if they, too, were caught up in the tempest of our emotions.

"You are mine, not anyone else's," he whispered, his voice low and commanding, as he approached me with swift, purposeful movements. 

The shadows cast by the flickering candlelight danced across his face, making his eyes gleam with an intensity that sent shivers down my spine.

He gripped my face in his hands, his eyes staring down at me possessively. My breath caught in my throat, my stomach twisting and turning at his sudden intensity. His fingers, firm and unyielding, pressed into my skin, holding me in place as if daring me to challenge his claim.

"Mine," he emphasized, before crushing his lips against mine with a force that took me by surprise. 

I responded immediately, unable to resist the passion in his kiss. His tongue invaded my mouth, demanding and insistent as if he were branding me with his touch.

"He does not get to have the pleasure of even looking at you," he declared, his hands moving to tear the fabric of my dress from my body. 

The sound of ripping cloth echoed in the room, mingling with the heavy breaths and the rapid thumping of our hearts.

His eyes roamed over my exposed skin possessively, igniting a fierce desire within me. With a defiant smirk, I swiftly removed his clothes, my hands eager and knowing. I could feel his muscles tense beneath my touch, his skin hot and inviting.

Our lips found each other again with urgency, and without hesitation, he lifted me and carried me to our bed. He placed me down roughly, hovering over me before swiftly entering me. 

A gasp escaped my lips at the sudden rush of pleasure coursing through me.

The anger had now turned into a fierce need, as if he was trying to reclaim what he feared losing.

"You're so desperate for me," he growled, his voice thick with desire. "Already so wet and aching. Something he could never do."

"I bet he dreams of having you like this," he whispered hoarsely, his voice thick with desire, punctuating his words with deep, forceful thrusts. 

My hands grasped his back, my nails digging into his skin in response to his forceful movements. 

His fingers tangled in my hair, pulling possessively as he continued to move within me. The sting of his grip was a delicious counterpoint to the pleasure flooding my senses, each sensation amplifying the other.

"No one else is allowed to imagine you like this," he declared firmly, his words laced with possessiveness and primal need. 

All I could manage in response was a fervent nod, my senses overwhelmed by the intensity of our connection, the raw passion that bound us together in that heated moment.

"You are mine," he repeated, his voice low and commanding, as he lifted my legs over his shoulders to give him better access. His thrusts grew deeper and quicker, each movement eliciting cries of ecstasy that filled the room.

"Say it," he commanded, his hands firm on my hips, steadying me as he took control. 

The intensity of his movements left me breathless, the world narrowing down to the rhythm of his body against mine.

All I could manage was a whimper, overwhelmed by the intensity of our encounter, words caught in my throat. My body responded instinctively to his demands, arching towards him, seeking more.

"Say it," he demanded again, his voice tinged with desire and dominance. His eyes bore into mine, demanding surrender, craving affirmation of my submission to him.

I opened my mouth, breathless and desperate, finally whispering, "I am yours."

A satisfied smirk crossed his lips as he heard my confession, his eyes smouldering with satisfaction and possessiveness. The look in his eyes made my pulse quicken, and I felt a thrill of excitement course through me.

With a sudden, fluid motion, he effortlessly shifted our positions, flipping me beneath him with a display of strength that left me breathless. 

Now on my hands and knees, his hands found their way to the small of my back, holding me firmly in place. His grip was possessive, yet reassuring, a silent promise of what was to come. His fingers pressed into my skin, anchoring me to the moment.

He realigned himself, entering me again with a controlled force that made me squirm with a mixture of pleasure and anticipation. Each movement was deliberate, his body moving with a primal rhythm that resonated through me. 

The sensation was exquisite, a blend of control and wild abandon that left me gasping for more.

"So beautiful, so perfect," he murmured, his voice husky with desire, as I arched my back instinctively, inviting him deeper. 

His hands explored my body with a possessive hunger, fingers slipping underneath to caress and squeeze my breasts.

His touch was skilful and knowing, each squeeze and knead sending ripples of pleasure through me. I gasped and moaned softly, lost in the intoxicating mix of sensation and emotion that he effortlessly stirred within me.

His movements became more urgent, more insistent as if he was as lost in the moment as I was. The room seemed to pulse with the energy between us, every sense heightened, every touch more intense.

"Do you feel that?" he growled, his voice thick with need. "That's what you do to me. No one else can make me feel this way."

Suddenly, he pulled out and flipped me over onto my back with a swift motion, his eyes blazing with an intense fire. Before I could catch my breath, he lifted my legs and positioned them over his shoulders again. 

I cried out in a mix of surprise and pleasure, the sensation more intense than before.

"You belong to me," he growled, his voice a rough whisper against my ear. Each word was punctuated by a powerful thrust that made my body quiver with anticipation and need. 

His hand moved between us, fingers finding that sensitive spot that made me see stars. The combination of his deep, forceful thrusts and the skilful touch of his fingers pushed me closer to the edge. My body responded to his every move, arching and trembling under his touch. 

"Daemon, I'm close," I managed to gasp out, feeling the tension coil tighter within me. 

He grunted in response, his movements becoming even more deliberate and intense. Each thrust seemed to drive deeper, each touch more insistent, pushing me to the brink of my endurance.

"Not yet," he growled, his voice rough and commanding, urging me to hold on. 

His fingers increased their pressure, skillfully prolonging the sweet agony, pushing me to the brink without allowing release. The frustration mixed with pleasure was almost unbearable, leaving me desperate for the climax he withheld.

My breath came in ragged gasps as he continued to thrust deeply, each movement perfectly synchronized with the expert touch of his fingers. 

The combination was maddening, every nerve ending alight with pleasure, teetering on the edge of an explosive climax. I could feel the heat building, threatening to consume me completely.

"Hold on for me," he urged, his voice a mix of demand and desire. 

His eyes bore into mine, the intensity of his gaze grounding me even as my body threatened to spiral out of control. "I want to feel you fall apart for me."

His words sent a shiver down my spine, the possessiveness in his tone amplifying the sensations coursing through me. I could feel myself teetering on the edge, desperate for release but held back by his firm control.

"Please," I whimpered, my voice barely a whisper as I struggled to hold on, every fibre of my being craving the sweet release he was denying me.

"Not yet," he repeated, his voice a rough whisper against my ear. The words were a command and a promise, urging me to surrender completely to the intensity of the moment. 

My body trembled, the tension coiling tighter and tighter until I thought I might shatter. The pleasure was almost too much to bear, a constant wave that left me breathless and on the verge of tears. 

Finally, just as I thought I could endure no more, he growled, "Now, let go."

His fingers pressed harder, his thrusts deepening, and the combination sent me spiralling over the edge. The release was explosive, a burst of pure ecstasy that left me gasping and crying out his name. My body convulsed every muscle tightening as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over me. 

He held me through it, his release following closely behind, a deep groan escaping his lips as he found his own climax. The intensity of our shared release left us both trembling, our bodies entwined and slick with sweat. 

In the aftermath, he pulled me close, his arms wrapping around me protectively. I nestled against him, my heart still racing, feeling a profound sense of belonging and security in his embrace.

"I'm going to fill you again and again until your stomach swells with my child," he murmured, his fingers gently stroking my hair. 

The promise in his words was both a threat and a vow, each syllable tinged with the raw possessiveness that had consumed us moments before.

As our breaths began to steady, he leaned in, his lips brushing against my ear. 

"Consider this a warning," he murmured, his voice still thick with dominance and passion. "If he ever mistakes your kindness for want, if he ever thinks he can have even a piece of you, I'll remind him exactly who you belong to."

His words sent a final shiver through me, the possessive edge in his tone leaving no room for doubt. I was his, completely and utterly, and there was nowhere else I would rather be. 

His hands continued to caress my skin, a tender contrast to the intensity of his words. Each touch was a reminder of his claim on me, a gentle yet unyielding assertion of his control.

At that moment, I knew that our bond was unbreakable, a fierce and consuming connection that no one else could touch. 

The possessive fire in his eyes, the raw passion in his touch, and the commanding presence of his voice all combined to make me feel utterly and completely claimed. 

"No mistakes will be made around here," I murmured softly, my voice carrying a quiet determination. He smirked, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. The gentle kiss he placed on my forehead told me everything I needed to know. 

I was his, and nothing and no one could ever change that. 

A/n - when in doubt, make sure your arguments are as intense as your make-up sessions!

[navybrat817]

Hold You Tight: Part 4

Pairing: Club Owner!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Fic Summary: The owner of The 107th wants you to be his girl whether you like it or not.

Part 3 | Series Masterlist | Part 5

Chapter Summary: You try to continue the date like "normal" after Bucky's promise.

Chapter Word Count: Almost 3.4k

Chapter Warnings: DARK AU, unease, tension, possessiveness, mental and emotional whiplash, reader is trying to stay calm, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?), more warnings to come.

A/N: More Hold You Tight! Hope you lovelies enjoy and thank you again for the feedback so far! Bucky edit by the beautiful @nixakimbo. ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @whisperlullaby , but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @firefly-graphics . I no longer do taglists, so please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

“You’ll be out of your apartment before the end of the month.”

The statement played on a morbid loop in your mind as Bucky pulled you up from your chair. The guard gave you two plenty of room to enter the penthouse again. You looked at him, trying to convey in your expression that you needed him to do something. Anything. The man gave you nothing in return. It was pointless to try. He worked for Bucky, not you. He wouldn't care.

“Did you mean what you just said? Your promise?” You asked as you followed Bucky to the dining room table. You wanted him to take it back, to tell you it was a joke. He couldn't make you leave your home by the end of the month. He had no right.

“I think you know the answer,” he said, pausing when you yanked your hand away and crossed your arms.

“And I think you have a lot of nerve,” you uttered as he pulled out your chair. “Where the hell do you get off? And how do you even plan to get me out of my home? It’s not like you own the building.”

You had no idea how deep Bucky’s pockets ran. There was a chance he could buy the building tomorrow or bribe someone into evicting you. Would he stoop that low?

“I adore you, Kotyonok, but I’m not going to tell you and ruin the surprise,” he smiled, gesturing for you to take a seat. “And you haven't seen me get off yet.”

You ignored his comment as you sat down and stared into the flame of the candlelight. The familiar scent of the meal drifting from the kitchen put you at ease for the most part, but your stomach turned. Would this really be where you'd spend your meals from now on? It didn't matter that the penthouse was beautiful. You had a home. Maybe it wasn't as nice as this, but it was still yours.

Did Bucky care about your distress at all?

You blinked when you saw your wine glass on the table. The guard had grabbed both of your glasses from the balcony. For a man of his size, he sure as hell moved quietly. “Thanks,” you whispered, taking another swig to help calm your flaring nerves.

“You’re welcome,” he said.

“You know, I was so excited to have you in our home I don’t think I introduced the two of you,” Bucky said as the man stood tall. “This is Raymond, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you call him Ray since you’ll be seeing a lot of him.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. Bucky said “our” again. Not “his”. You wanted to go back to bed and hide under your covers. “It’s nice to meet you. Is it okay if I call you Ray?” You asked, not wanting his boss to speak for him.

How and why did he work for him anyway?

His eyes were a brighter shade of blue than Bucky’s, but still had a touch of coldness. Though his expression did soften a fraction as he considered your question. “You may. And it’s nice to meet you, too,” he replied, nodding toward the kitchen before he stepped back.

The chef walked over seconds later with plates in hand, a large smile on his face. “Here we are. We have the…” You tuned him out as the dish was set in front of you, your eyes on Bucky across the table. He didn’t look at the chef either, your gazes locked in a silent battle. Your hand began to ache before you realized you were gripping the handle of your knife. You released it and looked away, but you caught his smirk anyway.

He won.

“Enjoy!” The chef finished, clasping his hands together.

Bucky shot him a look before he could walk away. “I’ll enjoy it once I know she does,” he said, his smile soft as he turned his attention back to you. “Dig in.”

A beat passed and all eyes were on you, waiting for you to have the first taste. It was unsettling to say the least as you blindly grabbed a piece of flatware to take a bite. You slowly chewed the food and wished you could've appreciated the additional flavors the chef added to make your favorite meal that much better, but being under the scrutiny of the entire room took away the delight.

“It’s delicious,” you announced, bringing another piece to your mouth. The chef’s audible sigh made it hard to swallow. What would Bucky have done if you didn’t like the food? “Thank you.”

“Yes, thank you,” Bucky added, still gazing at you like you were the center of his world. “Ray, would you show him out please?”

The chef didn’t have to be told twice as Ray wordlessly led him away.

You didn't miss the way Bucky's eyes followed your motions as you continued to eat. They told you he’d rather have you for the meal. That he’d reach under the table at any moment and part your thighs to gather the taste of you on his fingers. You firmly pulled your legs together.

“Are you not hungry?” You asked. He hadn't touched anything on his plate. Too busy staring at you. Why was he so fascinated with watching you do something as mundane as eating?

“I wanted to make sure you ate enough before I dug in,” he answered, finally taking a bite. He groaned as his eyes slipped shut, the sound making you press your legs even closer together. Being handsome didn't excuse a thing and you refused to let him get to you. “You're right. This is delicious.”

You averted your eyes when he ran his tongue over his lips. “Well, you hired him, so I imagine he's an amazing chef.”

“He is. I’m not a bad cook, but I don’t cook as often as I'd like.”

You nodded. Running a club likely kept him busy, but he could've used his free time cooking or doing something else instead of looking into your life. You ranted about that already though.

“Maybe we can have a day of the week where we make a meal together. We’ll take turns picking different meals to try, like pizza. We’ll have to make a pizza together,” he said, leaning forward as his eyes lit up. “I could even set up a projector on the balcony if you wanted to cuddle outside and watch a movie. Or we could do something indoors.”

“What if I don't want pizza? Or a movie night?” You asked, trying to gauge his reaction since you actually enjoyed pizza and movies.

“If that isn't what you're in the mood for, we can figure it out together,” he offered.

“Can we?” You asked, pushing a bit of the food around with your fork. “Or will you just make the decisions for me?”

You were speaking as if you planned to continue with his delusion. That you would actually have dinner dates and movie nights and cuddle. Things you always wanted with the right partner. The one you chose.

He twirled the knife in his hand before he pointed it at you. “I told you I don’t want to control you.”

“Yet you’re putting me in a cage.”

“You have a lot of freedom,” he retorted, taking another bite. “It’s not like I’m telling you to stop spending time with your friends or not have hobbies. I just want you close by. And about your job-”

Your eyes flashed. “If you’re about to tell me I have to quit, I will throw wine on you.”

“Thought you said it was too delicious to waste.”

“I’ll throw your glass on you and enjoy the rest of mine,” you said, warmth creeping up your neck when he chuckled. “Don’t laugh. I’m serious, Bucky. I’m not going to quit my job. I don’t care how much money you have. I love what I do.”

He laughed still, but held a hand up on surrender. “Kotyonok, I won’t make you quit your job. I know you love being a florist and I’m not about to take something away that makes you happy.”

You reigned your inner claws in. “So, I can keep working like normal? And why are you calling me Kotyonok? What happened to doll?”

“Doll, Kotyonok, you suit them both.” He reached up and ran a hand through his hair, looking every bit like the king of his castle. “And you can.”

“Oh. Well. Thank you,” you said, wishing you didn’t feel the need to thank him when it shouldn’t be his decision to begin with.

The two of you ate in semi-comfortable silence after that. You wanted to trust that he wouldn’t mess with your job, but he was interfering in the rest of your life. Maybe it wasn’t a cage he had you in after all, but he did have you on a leash.

Either way, you were his pet.

“Dance with me,” he stated once your plates were clear.

“There’s no music,” you said before a soft melody began to play in the room. You glanced around and tried to find where the speakers were. Ray must’ve turned it on.

You allowed him to help you up from your seat to hold you close. You bit back a protest when he guided your hands to rest at the base of his neck. There was hardly any room between you as he rested his hands on your hips and helped you sway to the slow beat. It contrasted with how your heart raced and you had to close your eyes to escape his gaze.

“I felt like I’d been asleep for a long time until you came along. You woke me up. Made me feel,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your forehead. “We’ll be happy together.”

His words had you catching your breath. He wasn’t the kind of predator who went right for the kill or the kind that merely stayed in the grass to bide his time. This was a cat and mouse of sorts. He caught and released you. The scary part was you didn’t know how long he’d hold onto you before he sank his teeth in or how long he’d let you run before he caught you again.

“I really want to kiss you,” he murmured, your heart thudding more as he rested a hand on your cheek.

“Not on the first date,” you said, hoping it sounded more like a tease than a complete refusal.

He chuckled and brought his lips to your ear. “What does our second date get me?”

You didn’t want to say the wrong thing, especially since he was playing along. But how long would you be able to fight off his want for you? “I guess we’ll play it by ear,” you answered.

“Making me work for it. I respect that,” he said, checking his watch as the song changed. “Speaking of being respectful, I should probably get you back to your place.”

As eager as you were to leave, you still asked, “No dessert?”

His heated eyes swept over you as he traced the diamond necklace with his finger. “I want you for dessert, but I’m trying to be good,” he replied, his voice husky as you held your breath. “I also made sure we’d have dessert to share in the car. Why don’t you go get your clutch and we can go?”

“Sure,” you said, taking one last look around the place as you went to get it. Bucky went to Ray and whispered something you couldn’t make out, but you went to the door instead of trying to eavesdrop. You didn’t want to know what the conversation was about. If it didn’t involve you, well, it wasn’t your business to begin with. And if it involved you, you were bound to find out anyway and you were too tired and mentally drained to deal with it.

A bath and more wine wouldn’t even help.

“I hope you like it,” Bucky smiled, holding up a small container as he joined you with Ray right behind him.

“Let me guess,” you said, taking the container from his hand. “It’s my favorite.”

“Of course,” he said, opening the door and putting an arm back around you.

You looked back when Ray didn’t follow you into the elevator, wishing he’d join you so you wouldn’t be alone with Bucky in there. You supposed it didn’t matter. Would he stop his boss if he tried anything or just look the other way?

It was surreal to leave the penthouse. You half expected him to go back on his word and not let you go. You glanced at him as the elevator went back down to the garage. Besides being a walking red flag, he was still a mystery.

“You said your mom would’ve loved me. Past tense,” you said, seeing his jaw clench. “Did something happen to her?”

He tightened his arm around you as the elevator stopped. “She’s gone and that’s a topic for another day,” he said, pausing to give you a tender smile. “But thank you for asking.”

The man had issues, but you hadn’t meant to touch on a sore topic. Why were you asking personal questions about him anyway? You weren’t his girl. He wasn’t going to be your guy. This wasn’t a fairytale. If it was, he would be the villain disguised as a king.

Bucky helped you back into the car, once again not waiting for the driver, and got in beside you. He barely had the door closed before you pulled you into his lap, the container almost falling from your hand as the other went to his chest. “Bucky, what are you-”

“I said you could sit in my lap after dinner,” he smirked, running a hand along your thigh. Your body went rigid as his hand trailed higher. “I won’t do anything except feed you.”

You stayed perfectly still as he moved his hand away and opened the container. He promised he wouldn't force anything tonight, but you didn't want to throw fuel on the fire by shifting and inadvertently teasing him. It would be fine. A short drive and you’d be back at your apartment.

“Open,” he ordered. You obeyed, your mouth opening up for him to place a piece of the dessert on your tongue. He swore under his breath as you closed your mouth to chew and his hand found its way back to your thigh. “Swallow it, Kotyonok.”

You were lucky you didn’t choke, the normally sweet treat sliding bitterly down your throat. He probably imagined saying those exact words to you in a very different sort of scenario. Feeling his hips move slightly beneath yours, he was likely imagining it right this second.

“Good girl,” he sighed, feeding you another piece before he buried his face in your neck. “I can't wait until you're really home.” His breath tickled your skin. “I won't have to say goodnight and watch you walk away. You’ll be beside me and fall asleep in my arms.”

“In your home,” you whispered, tilting your head to give you some space, but he followed.

“Our home,” he corrected you. “End of the month.”

Your chest ached, but you breathed evenly. You were almost home and could panic once you were alone. “It’s too soon. You understand that, right?”

“I went too long without having you by my side. You understand that, right?” He asked, cupping your cheek to make you look at him. “You went too long without me, too.”

It wasn’t fair that he was trying again to prey on your loneliness. “Bucky, you have to give me some leeway here.”

“We can figure it out together,” he said, the same thing he said during dinner. Dismissive. He thought he was going to get his way. And he would, wouldn't he?

“Well, we aren’t figuring that out tonight,” you said, pushing off his lap when the car came to a stop and fixing your dress since it rode up. “Good night.”

He stopped you from getting out. “I have to walk you to your door.”

“I’m not letting you in,” you warned. You needed your space.

“You do remember that I can get in your place without you opening the door for me, right?” He cupped your cheek again when your eyes rounded. “But I won’t do that tonight. I’m just making sure you get in safely.”

“That’s ironic coming from you,” you mumbled.

He chuckled and helped you out. Your building normally looked like a safe haven, but it was like there was a clock overhead counting down the moment until it was no longer yours. “I really do love how sweet you are, but I love your claws when they come out.”

“Careful. I just might scratch you.”

He groaned, leading you inside. “You know, you’re welcome to scratch up my back. Leave your mark on me and I’ll leave one on you.” He winked when you caught his eye. “And in you.”

He caught you when you stumbled. “Stop saying stuff like that, please,” you begged, straightening yourself out. You weren’t sure how much more you could take tonight.

“I can’t help myself,” he said, taking your phone from his pocket once you got to your door. “I had a really nice time tonight.”

His fingers touched yours as you took your phone back. “I had a nice time, too,” you said. Under normal circumstances, a romantic dinner and diamond necklace would’ve been a dream come true. “Good night, Bucky.”

He lingered as you unlocked your door. You turned to remind him that you weren’t inviting him, but you couldn’t speak when he leaned in. His lips brushed the corner of yours, all too gentle and intimate.

“Sweet dreams, Kotyonok.”

You ducked inside without another word and locked the door, listening for his footsteps. It took a moment, but you heard him walk away before you slid to the floor. It felt like you could finally breathe again since you were home and he wasn’t going to bother you again tonight.

Your heart sank though when you checked your phone and saw a message from Addison.

“Change of plans for tomorrow and I’m so sorry, but Brady somehow got us a reservation at The Terrace. Can you believe it?! Maybe we can hang out the day after?”

Tears burned your eyes. You were looking forward to seeing her. It would've been nice to pretend that everything was normal. Or maybe you would've told her at least something about your situation.

Your mind drifted to Bucky. The Terrace was one of the best restaurants around and usually booked a couple of months in advance minimum. Was it a coincidence that Brady somehow got them reservations on the day you were supposed to hang out with Addison or did your new suitor have something to do with it?

Speak of the devil, you received a new message from the man himself.

“Thank you again for the wonderful date. Are you free tomorrow night? I’d love to introduce you to some of my friends.”

Your eyes narrowed. The second you see that your plans are broken, he messages you? If you didn't think he meddled before, you certainly did now.

“I don’t have anything to wear.”

He messaged back seconds later. “Yes, you do. I can have it sent over or have it ready for you here.”

You huffed out a laugh before a couple of tears fell. Meeting Bucky’s friends would be another step in his plan to make you his. If they didn’t like you, maybe they’d sway him into forgetting about you. It was wishful thinking. Because you knew in your heart that Bucky wasn’t going to let you go.

But if he was going to play, maybe you could find a way to throw him off his game.

“I actually have plans. Maybe another time.”

You didn't bother looking to see if read the message or if he responded. Your life was your own. Bucky would have to deal with it. But knowing how he handled things so far, he’d find a way to have you on his arm tomorrow night.

Yay to @targaryenvampireslayer for guessing who the guard is! And what's Bucky going to do since you declined meeting his friends? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

The Coldest Blue

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x twin sister!reader Warnings: Angst. Word count: ~2.1k

Summary: When her husband returns unexpectedly from the ongoing war, she is elated. However, the sinister news she receives in the days that follow threatens to shatter her happiness.

Author's note: Happy Halloween! No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

She startled as a cold hand was placed gently upon her arm, the sensation tugged her violently from the warm and blissful comfort of slumber that she had been about to succumb to. As she turned over in the bed, her heart felt as though it ceased beating in her chest, and her eyes widened in shock as she took in the unexpected sight of her husband.

“Aemond!” She gasped, all traces of sleep suddenly cleared from her mind.

She reached out to touch him, and immediately he clasped her hands in his. The contact sent a shiver down her spine - he had always had that effect upon her, the simplest brush of his fingers against hers often caused butterflies in her stomach. It had been that way ever since their mother had informed them they were to be married. However, the juxtaposition of the chill of his skin against the buttery-soft warmth of the crisp, white bedding was jarring.

He must have come straight to her after having dismounted Vhagar, and his skin was still chilled from the night air of the flight – all the way from Harrenhal – a place that had torn her twin, her husband, away from her for months. It was no surprise that he felt shockingly unfamiliar, the last time they had touched felt like a distant memory.

She had made a home in loneliness, the ache of his absence, alongside continuous fear and uncertainty had become so familiar that it felt like slipping on an old pair of slippers. No longer would she pine for the weekly raven that delivered news of his well being, and declarations of his love and loyalty to her, instead she must now grow accustomed to his presence by her side, though it was an adjustment she was all too happy to make.

“I did not know you would be returning,” she said softly, a twinge of guilt in her tone – had she known then she would not have been abed, she would have prepared for his return, provided a warmer welcome. A man that had spent months away at war did not deserve to return to the sight of his wife’s sleeping back. “You did not send word.”

She propped herself up on her elbow, releasing his hands as she leaned against the pillows gazing down at him. Even in the dim candlelight that burned low upon the bedside table – she had taken to sleeping with a lit candle when Aemond had departed, unable to bear sleeping alone in the dark – his eye was still as vibrant as ever. At least that still feels familiar. Eyes of the coldest blue, that stared into hers with such intensity she was often torn between wanting to lose herself in it, or turn her face away for fear of that very thing happening.

“I just wanted to see you,” he replied quietly, as though it was the simplest thing in the world.

Her mind reeled with a thousand questions and he laid there patiently, watching her impassively, as she sorted through her thoughts, deciding upon which she would ask first.

Does mother know you’re back? Aegon? How are you feeling?

“Is it over then? Have you come back to me?” are the questions she finally settled upon.

“Mmm…it is over,” he told her, “Daemon is dead.”

Her breath caught in her throat as happy tears filled her eyes, not quite able to believe what she had heard. “I have missed you so,” she whispered in a trembling voice, “you cannot imagine how much it gladdens my heart to have you back.”

“You should sleep, my love,” he murmured.

“What?!” she demanded, outraged by the notion. Her lips parted and her brow furrowed as she stared at him incredulously. She had not seen him for months, how could he simply appear in their bed without warning and then just expect her to fall asleep?

“I have not known peace in such a long time,” he explained softly, “I just want to watch you as you sleep. I did not mean to wake you, I just could not resist touching you.”

“We need to tell mother that you are back,” she argued, reaching for him again. Once more, he took her hand in his, his slender fingers chilly against the soft skin of the back of her hand. “Aegon must know you have returned.”

“Later,” he insisted, “sleep.”

Despite the commanding nature of his request, his vibrant, blue eye held within it a silent plea that she could not ignore. She sighed, turned onto her side, and closed her eyes. There was a part of her that had daydreamed that Aemond would ravish her upon his return, eager for the closeness and intimacy that only she could provide, after such a long separation. She was more than a little disappointed that he had made no such attempt, though she supposed he was tured after his journey home. 

She had expected the excitement of the past few moments to prevent her from falling asleep. To her surprise, the pull of sleep dragged her under swiftly, a comforting, inky blackness enveloping her. Eyes of the coldest blue filled her dreams that night.

When she awoke the next morning, her tired mind was convinced she had dreamed Aemond’s return, especially as when she turned to his side of the bed, it was empty, utterly unrumpled as though it had not been slept in. Her heart sank, disappointment settling upon her chest like a stone that threatened to crush her. The mere act of throwing the covers back and climbing out of bed felt like an effort, her bones felt heavy with sadness.

She padded barefoot, slowly, to the adjoining nursery, stopping in her tracks when she saw the back of Aemond, stood in his riding leathers, looking over the cradle of their son, Rhaegar. The warm wave of relief that washed over her almost made her knees buckle, such was the elation that she had not imagined the return of her beloved twin and husband. Her cheeks almost ached under the strain of her smile, she had not expressed such joy in a long time.

Rhaegar had been a tiny babe when Aemond had pressed a soft kiss to the top of his head in farewell all those months ago. Now, he was approaching his second name day, and growing to resemble his father more with each passing day, his features possessed a sharpness that was uncanny to Aemond’s.

The infant babbled happily as he sat in his cradle, chubby fists clenched around a wooden dragon toy.

“Are you pleased to see your father?” She cooed as she came to stand beside Aemond.

Rhaegar squealed upon seeing her, waving his toy vigorously.

“You may hold him if you wish,” she urged her husband gently.

Aemond shook his head. “He seems happy enough, I do not wish to disturb him. My boy…he has grown.”

She hummed in agreement, nodding. “He looks more like you with each passing day.”

Aemond reached out a hand towards the child, stopping short of touching him. His expression became pensive, a faraway look in his eye, before he pulled his arm back, letting it drop back to his side.

His behaviour in the short time he had been back was puzzling to her, yet she knew that war changed people. Hopefully, as time passed, he would return more to himself, and be the man she married once more.

He turned and walked from the room as the nursemaid entered and lifted the child from his cradle in order to wash and dress him for the day.

As she returned to her own chamber, she noticed that bread, fruit and cheese had been laid out upon the table, by her chambermaids, for her to break her fast. Aemond had taken the armchair beside the fireplace, his favourite place to settle before he had left to defend Aegon’s claim to the throne.

“Will you join me for breakfast?” She asked hopefully.

“No,” he responded, “I have little appetite.”

She pursed her lips. She wanted to press the issue, he needed to eat, to maintain his strength, yet she did not wish to nag and cause him any additional torment after he had already endured so much.

“We will have to take Rhaegar to see Vhagar now you are back,” she said, attempting to lighten the mood, as she seated herself at the table and placed grapes upon her plate. “He is big enough now that he can actually comprehend what she is.”

“Vhagar…did not survive the battle,” Aemond uttered, staring off into the unlit fireplace, his tone sombre.

No wonder he seemed so different. Losing his dragon would have been a devastating blow to Aemomd, after all he had endured to claim her. She was his most prized possession.

“I am sorry, my love,” she murmured, rising from her seat and approaching him. “How…how did it happen?”

“Caraxes and her were surprisingly well matched. They both now rest at the bottom of the God’s Eye…alongside Daemon, and…”

He stopped, shaking his head and lifting his gaze to meet hers. The sadness within made her want to cry. As she stepped towards him, he held his hand out, the coolness of his skin enveloping the warmth of hers.

“And what?” she pressed quietly.

“It does not matter. At least I am reunited with you, I got to see you.”

She was about to respond when a knock at the door interrupted her. She sighed, calling out for them to enter.

A page boy opened the door, just enough for him to slip through the crack, before bowing to her. “Princess, the King has requested that you go at once to the Small Council chamber.”

She frowned, scoffing as she replied, “can it not wait until I am dressed?”

“Apologies, princess,” the page boy said, not meeting her eye, “the king insists that it is urgent.”

“Very well,” she huffed, tying her robe tighter around her nightgown, “I shall be there momentarily.”

The page boy bowed, leaving the way he had come.

“I suppose we could not avoid it forever,” Aemond said wearily, rising from his seat.

He trailed after her as they walked to the Small Council chamber, his steps quiet behind hers.

“Do not forget that I love you, I always have,” he told her softly as they approached the heavy doors.

“And I love you,” she said in turn, her heart fluttering as the coolness of his fingers briefly entwined with hers.

She did not knock, simply pushed open the door and stepped in. Only Aegon and their mother stood at the long, wooden table.

Her mother’s big, brown eyes were tearful, as Aegon leaned over a parchment that was rolled out before him, his features pinched in anguish. His bottom lip trembled in a manner that only occurred when he was angered to the point of near hysteria.

She had expected them both to be overjoyed to see Aemond, considering he stood at her side, but both seemed too engrossed in the contents of the letter they were reading.

“Oh, my dearest love,” her mother whispered tearfully, clutching a handkerchief as she stepped towards her and embraced her tightly.

“What? What is it?” She asked, and pulled back, brow furrowed in concern as she looked at her mother and then Aegon.

Alicent kept her arms around her, stroking her hair gently, as Aegon looked up from the parchment. His voice was quiet, almost croaky, as he spoke. “News from Harrenhal.”

What more could there possibly be?!

“So?” she asked in exasperation, “what is it?”

“There was a battle between Aemond and Daemon above the God’s Eye…”

I know this, I know this, I know this!

She wanted to scream in frustration, he was not telling her anything she did not know already. She pulled her shoulders up towards her ears momentarily, an impatient gesture for him to continue.

“Daemon is dead,” Aegon said, swallowing thickly, “and so is Aemond.”

She almost wanted to laugh. No, he was not! What a ridiculous thing to say.

“No, he is–” she reached out to Aemond, grasping the front of his riding leathers, her breath hitching as her hand passed straight through him.

Her blood ran cold as her horrified eyes lifted to meet his.

“I just wanted to see you,” he murmured, eyes of the coldest blue looking straight into hers as he faded away to nothing.

“...he’s gone,” she whispered tearfully. The painful clenching of her heart dulled every other sensation, and she did not even feel it when her mother wrapped her arms tighter around her.

Eyes of the coldest blue, let me see into you.

He had returned to her one final time, and would never again.

[ja3hwa]

♡ 𝐄𝐱𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐞 | 𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐳 ♡

Day 26 - Vampire/bloodplay (kinda)

【Synopsis】 : You were saved by them. Taken cared for by them. Everything you could ever ask they provided to the best of their abilities... but why?

『Word count』 :  2.96k

-> Genre: Supernatural. Dark romance. Smut

Pairing: Vampire!Matz x HumanMaid!Reader

[Warnings] : 17th-century talk. old-time themes. blood drinking. filth flirtation. dirty talk. master kink. pet names. no use of Y/N. ripping of fabric. Oral (F rec). Nipple play. Fang play? Biting and marking. Fingering. Unprotected sex. Multiple orgasms. Swearing.

Note: I tried to write in a poetic sort of old Victorian way, and I feel like I've done miserably. So please ignore the terrible descriptiveness. Also, thank you again, my baby, @skteezcursed , for the help ♡ my angel ♡

Networks: @k-vanity @wonderlandnet @illusionnet @cromernet

Masterlist | Navigation | Kinktober list | Tip Jar ♡

In the flickering candlelight of the old manor, you swept through the grand hall, the soft swish of your skirts echoing against the stony walls. The aristocratic dwelling, owned by masters Seonghwa and Hongjoong, thrummed with an air of old-world sophistication, yet it concealed secrets that clung to the air like shadows. The two aristocratic men were an enigma in themselves wrapped in mystery and old riddles, moving with the grace of spectres, captivating the esteemed socialites of 17th-century Europe. Your days were draped in an uneasy stillness, where sunlight cast long shadows through the tall windows, and the scent of dust mingled with the cool, untouched air. Ever since you had lost your family to the fire four years ago, the two men had taken you in, treating you with nothing but kindness and care. It felt like a rarity in this world, the gentleness of both of them. It made you feel safe.

Their habits were peculiar. While the other households bustled with morning activities, you often found yourself tending to the mansion alone during the day, along with any other workers who tended the grounds. In the twilight hours, when the world around thrummed to life, your curiosity began to blossom into something deeper. As you observed the peculiarities of your masters; how they thrived only in the night, how their laughter danced with the shadows, and how a lingering chill seemed to embrace them when dawn broke. Your evenings were spent serving them at lavish gatherings, serving goblets of dark red wine that had a peculiar sweetness to it, something richer than mere grape juice.

And it was one fateful evening under a blood-red moon, its light casting an eerie glow upon the manor, that all your questions, all your theories were put into a realisation. The air shimmered with a haunting energy as you approached the pair, their silhouettes framed by the flickering candlelight. But it was Hongjoong who drew your gaze at first, a sinister elegance to his movements as he leaned over a glass filled with a dark, viscous liquid. You couldn’t repress the shiver that danced down your spine when his gaze met your feverishly. It was then when you caught the crimson hue of his almost pitch eyes, burning with hunger that sent your heart racing a mile.

His chuckle was low as he downed the remaining contents of his glass, the corner of his lips curled into a devilish smile while a drop of liquid dripped down his chin and jaw.

At that moment, every tale whispered among the townsfolk came rushing back—the stories of shadow princes, of creatures that drank from the veins of the living, of monsters that walked among men. Horror and fear tried to grip your heart, but yet it was like a strange sensation, mingled with a burgeoning desire you could not understand suddenly came over you, like a lulling of daringness, and curiosity. 

“Master Hongjoong?” You called, Your voice steady despite the flutter of uncertainty in your chest. An uncertainty that both undead men could hear clearly. The moment he turned, revealing a sharp smile that hinted at something predatory, you felt your heart skip and a tingle form in your gut. His canines peeked from beneath his lips, pronounced and eerily captivating.

“Do you wish for a drink, angel?” he asked, the pet name he gifted you the first day you met rolled off his tongue differently than it had in the past. His voice was smooth as velvet, yet there was a hint of something darker lurking just beneath. “This is... exquisite.”

“Is that... blood?” The word left your lips before you could stop it, having no clue where the sudden confidence came from. With a nod, his grin widened, and your breath suddenly caught in your throat. A shadow prince. A vampire. Just like the towns folk had said. The realisation wrapped around you like a silken web of understanding.

Staying rooted in place as if you had lost your ability to move. You watched them stare at you no longer as a companion but as a piece of meat. These two vampires had taken you into their home, filling the void left by your family with warmth and care when they could easily have consumed her instead. Suddenly, in the face of the truth, fear melted away like wax, you didn't know whether you wanted to run for the rills or stay right where you were at that moment. But then as Seonghw took a step closer to you, his intoxicating scent began to calm. The smell of fresh berries and vanilla with a hint of cinnamon. It was a smell you grew to crave. He quickly closed the gap between you and him leaving only desire that shivered through your body. You felt reckless for wanting such a monstrous creature. But you couldn’t help but gulp as his clawed hand found your waist.

“Do you fear us, Bunny?” Seonghwa’s voice was quiet, barely above a whisper. His fingers gripped your chin so delicately leaving your mind to spin. You shook your head, replying with a quick ‘no’ but as soon as the word left your lips you felt wind brisk against your legs up your thick dress before blinking to see Hongjoong had disappeared from his spot in mere seconds to now being snug behind you.

He leant down to your ear, his hot breath that smells of iron tickled your cheek as he chuckled. “Are you sure about that, angel?”

“Yes... I do not fear either of you... M-masters.” You gulped feeling the tingle in your gut creep back as your thigh clenched tightly beneath your petticoat. Both creatures could hear the way your heart fluttered, and smelt the way your blood heated up under your skin. It left a grumble in both of their throats wanting nothing more than to sink their fangs into you. “I don’t fear you because you didn’t ask for it…” You murmured, feeling Hongjoong’s hand brush against your neck, the pulse of life vibrant against his fingertips. “You both have to hide, to live among humans. You deserve more than secrecy…”

“Hmm, is that what is going on in your head? Pity for us?” Seonghwa’s sadistic grin made your eyes widen as he bared his fangs to you. “You feel sorry for us?”

“No..that's not wha━Seems like our girl here thinks being a vampire is all but pleasurable.” Hongjoong interrupts you, his hand snaking up to your neck, holding you in place. Seonghwa finally lets go of your chin, letting both of his hands rest on your hips, squeezing you lightly. “Do you trust us?” Hongjoong whispered, stepping slowly with you slowly walking backwards, with him having no clue where he was taking you.

But with your eyes never leaving Seonghwa, you breathed out a shaky, “Always…” Your pulse racing, while your heart played a wild symphony.

With a shared glance, the two vampires came to a silent agreement, and at that moment, the world around them faded until it was just the three of you—the warmth of the fire, the echoes of their breaths mingling like harmonious notes and the quiet click of heels as Hongjoong finally stops to where he wanted you. Seonghwa leaned in, his breath ghosting over your skin with a smirk. “We will be gentle,” he vowed but in truth, a part of you knew these words were nothing more than mere white lies. So you chose to play along…

“I want to know what it’s like…” You shook your head, your eyes fixed on the tall man's fangs, now fully extended. “I want to feel everything…” Your whisper, hoarse and filled with desire.

Seonghwa stood up, his movements, graceful yet predatory. "Oh, you will, Bunny," He promised, circling around the table that was now behind you. You hadn’t realised Hongjoong had backed you up until you were an inch from the dining table. Looking over you can see the large table almost at the curves under your ass. Cups, serving plates and other cutlery still decorating its face, the eerie silence of the large room was quickly filled with your three’s presence bringing life in the wake... "We'll make sure this experience is one you'll never forget."

Hongjoong joined his companion, and together they cornered you completely against the wall. You could feel the heat radiating from their undead bodies, their presence overwhelming yet captivating. Strange, you had thought vampires would be colder than they were, but maybe it was the warm summer air that had them heated. Seonghwa reached out, gently caressing your cheek with the back of his hand. "Your scent is intoxicating, my love. I can only imagine what your sweet blood must taste like.”

Your body trembled as their words sent shivers down your spine. You wanted them, wanted to feel their fangs piercing your skin, wanted to know the pleasure and pain they could inflict on your fragile human body. "Please," you begged, your voice barely audible. "Take me..."

The vampires needed no further encouragement. With swift movements, they had your dress ripped open, grabbing the laced corset before tearing at the fabric and boning as if it were nothing.

It exposed your delicate white bra and panties as all the materials piled to the floor around your ankles. Your breath caught in your throat as Hongjoong's cold hands cupped your covered breasts, his thumbs teasing her hardened nipples through the fabric. Seonghwa, on the other hand, dropped to his knees, his breath hot against your thigh as he pulled your panties aside without even looking at you for approval.

"So wet already, bunny. I could smell you dripping when you first found us" Seonghwa growled, his fangs grazing your sensitive inner thigh as he gifted you light kisses. "Do you know what we're going to do to you?"

You could only whimper in response, your body already on the brink of ecstasy. You couldn't help but stutter your hips as you watched the monstrous man knelt in front of you.

Seonghwa's tongue darted out as he finally looked up at you. You could see the crimson dance in his eyes, glowing lightly as he dived in, licking your throbbing clit. The felt made you gasp and your back arch. He sucked and teased you, bringing you closer and closer to the edge, all the while Hongjoong continued to torment your breasts, pinching and twisting your nipples just so he could watch you squirm.

"You're so responsive," Hongjoong whispered in your ear, his fangs grazing your sensitive skin. Your body was begging for more, hips bucking against Seonghwa's devilish tongue while your gasps and whines were drawn out by Hongjoongs relentless teasing. "We haven't even started yet."

Seonghwa's fingers joined his tongue, pushing into your tight pussy, stretching you out as he prepared you for what was to come. Your brows knitted as you cried out, your body beginning to convulse as he hit just the right spot. You were close, so close to tipping over the edge, but the vampires showed no mercy, drawing out your pleasure in their time, pacing it to cause your body to beg and crave for them and only them.

With your ears ringing you could barely hear the low chuckle from Hongjoong. It was when he removed one of his hands on your breasts to slide his along your frame until he found your soaking cunt, slipping a finger inside you, joining Seonghwa’s. They worked in perfect unison, thrusting in and out while one of them pressed a firm finger on your clit driving you crazy with lustful need. “M-masters argh. Please.”

Seonghwa growled at the title, his voice hoarse as he continued to lap up your juices that spilt out of your clenching hole. “That's it Bunny, let Go. Come all over our hands like a good little human.”

Your body exploded into a world of pleasure, your slick flowing freely as you finally let go. Your mind had completely fogged over, heart racing for a moment to breathe. But the two vampires didn't let up, continuing their relentless assault on your senses. As your orgasm subsided, Hongjoong claimed your mouth in a feverishly rough kiss, his tongue mimicking the actions of his fingers, possessive and demanding as it slipped down your throat almost making you choke.

Seonghwa, still on his knees, gazed up at her with lust-filled eyes watching his friend abuse your mouth. "I think it's time for the main course, hmm."

Your heart pounded in her chest as you realised what he intended. You wanted it, needed it. Craving the connection, the intimacy of their bite. Seonghwa gently guided you down onto the dining table that was behind you, your legs spread wide, exposing your glistening pussy to him completely. Hongjoong swept away anything in their way. Glasses, plates and other assortments flew in the air before shattering on the ground, before positioning himself between your thighs taking Seonghwa's place. His hard cock pressed against your entrance. You didn't even see him undress his lower half let alone Notice his cock hard and angry next to you.

"Are you ready for us?" Seonghwa asked, his breath hot on your neck as he took Hongjoong old spot but this time with you lying down on the table he could cage your top half kissing along your exposed skin. You nodded, your eyes fluttering shut as you felt Hongjoong's cool, hard length pushing into your sensitive cunt. He entered you slowly, inch by inch, taking his time to fill you up completely. Your moans were music to their ears as your body adjusted to the new sensation.

Hongjoong's hands gripped your hips, his nails digging into your flesh as he tried to calm himself down. He held you steady as he began to move, withdrawing almost entirely before thrusting back into you with purpose. His eyes screwed shut as he basked in the way you clenched around him tightly. He looked eternal, the way the beads of sweat dripped from his sheen-pale skin. The way his muscles flexed as he held you in place. He was perfect in every way.

"Look at me, little one," Seonghwa commanded, his voice laced with authority as he gripped your chin, tilting your head in his direction. Your hooded eyes widened, meeting Seonghwa's intense gaze. His fangs were fully extended, glistening in the dim light. He wanted you to see him before he drank from you. You offered yourself willingly, a slow, deliberate inclination of her neck. The night deepened around them, and you felt the warmth of their souls intertwining with your own, a tapestry woven of dark desire and cherished affection of lust and desire.

It was like a fire had consumed you from the inside out. And in the instant his fangs sank into your soft flesh, a wave of rapture surged through you, melding your essence with his, breaking the boundaries of mortality as love and darkness converged into one. You cried out, a mix of pain and pleasure as you felt your blood begin to flow into Seonghwa's mouth. Hongjoong's thrusts had become more urgent, his cock pounding into you as he, too, sought release. Your body was overwhelmed with sensations—the throbbing of your pussy, the suction of Seonghwa's bite, and the intoxicating feeling of your blood being taken. It was too much, and yet not enough at the same time.

As Seonghwa drank from her, his fingers found your clit, rubbing and teasing it, driving you towards another orgasm. Leaning down over you to your still-covered chest using his clawed nails to break the fabric in the centre, letting your breasts spring free. His thumb rubbed over the buds, watching how your body reacted under his touch. Hongjoong chuckled lowly before his fangs replaced his fingers, biting down on your sensitive nipple, drawing your hot blood into his mouth. Your body trembled, your vision blurring as you surrendered to the overwhelming pleasure that mixed with delicious pain.

"Oh fuck," you screamed out, your voice raw and shaky.

The two monstrous creatures showed no signs of stopping, their hunger growing more and more insatiable with every drop of your sweet blood. Hongjoong's release was imminent, his cock throbbing inside you as he filled you with his hot seed without another thought. Seonghwa continued to drink from your neck, his fingers working their magic, pushing you towards another mind-shattering orgasm as he circled your clit sharply.

As your body convulsed, Seonghwa finally released her neck, licking the wound gently, his eyes never leaving your teary ones. "You're even more delicious than we imagined," he whispered. You laid on the table, your body spent and content, but your mind alive with new desires and sensations, craving for more. The vampires had claimed you, marked you, and you knew your life would never be the same again. And as your breath caught, you couldn't help but wonder what other pleasures and dark desires awaited you in the company of these seductive vampires.

The exquisite pain of longing, the ache of connection, and the blissful surrender to becoming one with the shadows. You were no longer just a maid for them nor were you a mere friend, you were part of their night, their eternal dance, woven into the fabric of their cursed fate. The night was far from over, where the boundaries between pleasure and pain, life and immortality, would blur and intertwine in the most exquisite ways. You had discovered the intoxicating freedom that came with embracing what it meant to love and be loved in a world painted in shades of deep crimson.