#ewan mitchell headcanons

[endless-ineffabilities]

some mildly spicy Ewan 'The Iceberg' Mitchell headcanons for your imaginative indulgence

I want 'em all to see you look good on top of me At this time at night, I need not one, not three Just your two hands on me like my life needs savin' Let 'em all know

a/n: inspired by the release of the song 2 hands. purely self-indulgent, purely fictional, and nothing more. no explicit bits, because I steer clear of those for rpfs. so on your marks, get set...

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✨️ He would be the most gentle partner during your first time together. Not rushing in the slightest as he prepares you, making sure you feel good and comfortable every step of the way, going down on you like it's his last meal on earth. He'd want to maintain eye contact, even as you fall apart underneath him. He would clean you up afterwards, and whisper sweet nothings in your ear as you fall asleep in his arms.

✨️ He is, of course, sweet and attentive and tender in bed. But the more you get to know him, the more he reveals his rougher, dominant side. You would find out that they were all right about him—while he does keep to himself a lot, Ewan is indeed secretly naughty >:)

✨️ There will be moments when he would be unsure, his eyes would flit all over the room then back to you, and you would know that he's biting back a question.

✨️ What is it, baby? — Hmm, nothing. — C'mon, Ewan. — I was wondering if... if I can take... pictures of you? — Of course, I mean... you already take a lot of pictures of me. — No, I mean... pictures. — Okay. Pictures. What...? — (he'd bury his face in your neck, as if ashamed) I want one where I can see my baby. Every single bit of my baby. — Oh.

✨️ And so that'll be the start of Ewan's most prized album in his phone. Suddenly, the lad will have a knack for photography. He'd capture all the right angles.

✨️ The boy is needy as hell. He'd actually whine in protest when he wants to do it, when he craves you, and you'd brush him off because you're busy working or you're in a rush to go to a meeting.

✨️ Baby, c'mon, just stay. — Ewan, I have to go to work. — I'm a successful actor, I can provide for you, baby. You don't ever have to work again. — Ewan, you're so ridiculous. — Okay, fine, fiiiiiine. But... just give me 10 minutes please. — I really gotta go, babe. — Alright, 5 minutes. Promise to make you scream.

✨️ He's a sucker for neck kisses. It tickles him a little when you nibble on the underside of his jaw, the crook of his neck. He could just lie there forever with his head tilted back and his fingers threaded in your hair.

✨️ But as much as he likes receving neck kisses, he likes doling them out even more. Hickeys stir a primal instinct in him, he likes seeing you covered—branded—in them. As if they prove that you're his and only his.

✨️ His favourite sight is watching you in the throes of climax. His second favourite is when you look up at him as you're on your knees, holding his gaze as you bring him closer to the edge.

✨️ Your bits and bobs would not be in places where you left them. The childhood photo of yours that you tacked onto the board above your desk — in Ewan's wallet. Your favourite piece of lace underwear — for some reason, in the hidden inner pocket of his trusty travel backpack. Your old hairtie — snug around his wrist, because he'd want to keep something of yours on him at all times (and! also useful in case you'd be in a new city together, for example, and you need 10 minutes and your hair neatly kept away from your face).

✨️ Ewan (the true blue cinephile) likes a cheeky fumble in the screen-lit darkness of the cinema. This means that you know to wear a skirt during your movie dates, to give him easy access as his hand wanders under your folded-up coat on your lap. He'd keep his head forward, watching the film as he buries his digits, but his darkened eyes give him away.

✨️ As much as he loves seeing you in nothing but your underwear and one of his metal t-shirts, wearing his clothes for long would be a challenge — the moment he catches sight of you like that, he's instantly turned on. That Metallica shirt would meet the floor. But... there would be times when he would want to have you with nothing but that on.

✨️ He wouldn't mind if you accidentally call him Aemond in the middle of it. It even spurs him on. He would also beg you to please call him my Prince or Prince Regent.

✨️ You would help him practice his lines. One thing in particular—he would want to fully act out the steamy scenes between Aemond and Alys with you, so he could carry that memory of you in his performance.

✨️ He would drive you both around in the old Ford he got from his dad as a gift for his 22nd. You like that he still uses the same car, even as his success continues to grow. And you would become quite familiar with every inch of that newly upholstered backseat.

✨️ If you ask him, he'll tell you he's keeping that car until it's nothing but rust on wheels. Every faint stain and tiny scratch on the leather a reminder of heated moments (fogged up windows, tangled limbs, sharp commands, gear shifts, riding) too precious to part with.

✨️ Not to mention, that backseat is his favourite location to do it in. And it's yours too ;)

[female-hysterics]

https://www.tumblr.com/female-hysterics/756038982429753344/aegon-ii-and-aemond-are-both-the?source=share

YOU CAN'T JUST SAY THAT AND LEAVE 👁️👁️

Let me try and explain my reasoning from this post a little bit. (Won't go into to much detail unless otherwise asked)

Warnings: Dub-con/Non-Con; Aegon is his own warning tbh

Aegon, the little shit, would say and do anything to get underneath your dress. Anything. And he's arrogant enough to ignore your cries of outrage when you feel him slipping more and more inside you. Would blatantly ignore you, holding you down if he must, and tell you how much you both want it and that you feel too good to stop. That a King doesn't take orders. By then it's too late and he's buried to the hilt and grinning down at you with a charming smile

"There. That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Aemond on the other hand would whisper sweet nothing's in your ear that would actually be true, hold you even closer as you feel him ease deeper inside you as he gets lost in the feel of you, and gently shush you as you whimper and try to pull away. Of course he wouldn't like that and would tighten his grip on your hips. Would bury his face in the crook of your neck and whisper absolute filth until he's ball's deep and your helpless underneath him.

"There we go, pet. Feels much better like this"

[citysuk]

so in love | aemond targaryen

pairing: dark!aemond targaryen x velaryon!reader (rhaenyra's daughter)

summary: some headcanons of aemond with his obsessive behavior over you

notes: I'M BACK!!! i just know that when this man is fixated on something, he won't stop until he gets it. he's so crazy! i think i wanna have his babies 🤭🤭🤭

warnings: targcest. violence. hate. kinda yandere aemond, he daydreams A LOT. but he my pookie <3 he's not bad, he just wants to be himself!! no proofread. no use of y/n and no oc neither.

Aemond Targaryen, a prince of great ambition and power, found himself falling hopelessly in love with you, Rhaenyra’s only and oldest daughter. It was a love twisted by fate and circumstance, but one that burned brighter than a thousand suns.

His gaze was always drawn to you. He watched you from across the room like a hawk, his intense eyes taking in every detail. He longed to touch you, to feel your soft skin and bury his face in your hair. But he knew it was a forbidden love, one that could never be. His mother would never allow it.

Aemond found himself dreaming of spending time with you, stealing moments away from the prying eyes of the court. He would imagine taking you on long walks through the gardens, their hands entwined, their bodies pressed closely together. He would dream of you flying alongside him on your dragon, the wind whipping through your hair as you soared through the endless expanse of the vast world below.

During the council meetings, Aemond would find his thoughts drifting to you, his mind unable to focus on the discussions of warfare and politics. He would fantasize about the future, about a world in which they could be together. He would day dream about walking down the aisle on their wedding day, vowing to love and protect each other for the rest of their lives.

In quiet, hidden moments, Aemond would find himself scribbling your name in his journal, as if writing it down would somehow bring you closer to him. He would sketch your face from memory, trying to capture your likeness on the page. He would pour his heart onto the parchment, writing poems and love sonnets, each word dripping with the fullness of his affection.

Aemond found himself drawn to the things that reminded him of you. He would seek out the things that made him think of you: a certain flower, a specific scent, a particular piece of music. He would find himself stealing a glance at jewellery and clothing, picturing you wearing them, imagining the way they would fit your body like a second skin. He would find himself stealing a strand of your hair, tucking it away in a hidden pocket, so that he could feel a piece of you close to his heart.

He would watch you at feasts, his heart aching in his chest, his desire burning like a raging fire. He would watch as suitors danced with you, his hands curling into fists as he had to watch them touch you, to see their hands on your hips, to watch them lean in too close. He wished it was him, his hands on your body, his lips close to your ear, his breath on your skin.

Aemond would find himself searching for any opportunity to be near you. He would attend meetings where he knew you would be present, just for the chance to hear your voice and see your face. He would find excuses to walk by your chambers, hoping to catch a glimpse of you through a cracked door. He would find himself listening for the sound of your footsteps in the halls, his body tensing with anticipation.

Sometimes, when the castle was quiet, Aemond would find himself outside your windows, standing in the shadows and looking up at your rooms. He would imagine you sitting at your desk, studying or sewing. He would imagine himself climbing through the window and sneaking into bed beside you, holding you in his arms and shielding you from all the hardships of the world.

Aemond would watch you, studying your face, the way you moved, the way you spoke. He would memorize every detail, every nuance, every little quirk. He would notice small things about you, like the way you bit your lip when you were nervous or how you twisted your hair when you were deep in thought. He would study you as if you were a work of art, like a sculpture in the godswood, perfectly sculpted in a way that only a higher power could create.

Aemond would also observe subtle things about your character. He would see your empathy towards those in need, your kindness towards your handmaids, and your strength when faced with adversity. He would notice the way you cared for your siblings, your loyalty to your family, and your love for your mother. He would see how you stood your ground against those who sought to undermine you, your determination and tenacity. He would see all of these things and love you more because of them, knowing in his heart that he had never met anyone quite like you.

Aemond would also feel a sense of guilt for his feelings. He knew that it was wrong to desire you, that he was supposed to be loyal to his brother and to his family's alliance. He would argue with himself in his mind, trying to convince himself that he was being foolish, that his feelings were just a passing fancy. But no matter how much he tried to reason with himself, his heart would not listen. It beat wildly in his chest, as if it was trying to break free and fly to you.

Despite the challenges and conflicts that came with his affection for you, Aemond would also find moments of tenderness and vulnerability. Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly emotional, he would imagine confessing his feelings to you. He would picture telling you everything he felt, laying his heart bare and hoping for your understanding. He would imagine the look on your face, the shock, the surprise, and maybe even the realization that you felt the same way.

But Aemond would also fear the consequences of his confession. He would dread the rejection, the possibility that you would not feel the same, that his love was unrequited. He would worry about the judgement of his family, the disapproval of his mother. He would fear the consequences of acting on his feelings, the possibility that he could lose everything he had worked so hard for, all for a chance at happiness with you.

Aemond would also find himself struggling with his own insecurities. He would compare himself to the other men who sought your attention, and find himself lacking. He would question if he was good enough for you, if he was worthy of your love. He would doubt his own worth, his own prowess, and his own ability to protect and provide for you. It was a constant internal battle, one that he fought alone, in the darkest corners of his troubled mind.

Despite his insecurities, Aemond would also find moments of confidence. He would see the way you looked at him, the small smiles you would give, the subtle nods of approval, and it would give him a sense of hope. He would feel a burst of courage, imagining that maybe, just maybe, there was a chance that you could return his feelings. He would find himself taking small risks, standing a little closer, making a joke, just to see if he could make you smile.

If he was feeling courageous he would steal glances at you across a room, hold your gaze a moment too long, or brush your hand with his, feeling the electricity shoot through his chest. He would find himself standing closer to you than was strictly necessary, taking in your scent, breathing in the air around you, like a man drowning and desperate for air.

Aemond would also find himself trying to impress you. He would find himself showing off during training, using more impressive moves, or taking on more challenging opponents. He would try and draw your attention to him, using his swordsmanship like a weapon in his pursuit of your affections. He would also try and display his intelligence, making clever observations, or offering thoughtful insights during council meetings. He wanted to show you that he was more than just a skilled warrior, that he had a brain to go along with his brawn.

After Viserys' death and the start of the war, Aemond would become more resolute and determined than ever. He would see the conflict as a chance to prove himself, to show the world what he was made of. He would channel his energy and his anger into the war effort, throwing himself into the fray with a newfound fervor.

He would also find himself taking on more responsibility, taking command of troops, making strategic decisions, and leading men into battle. He would become an even more fearsome warrior, fighting with a ferocity that was almost feral.

During the war, Aemond's feelings for you would only become more intense, even though you were on opposing sides. He would find himself thinking of you constantly, worrying about your safety and your well-being. He would hear news of your battles and victories, his heart torn between pride and worry.

His feelings would translate into his actions on the battlefield. He would fight with a reckless abandon, seeking out the most dangerous missions and the most challenging opponents, as if courting death would provide some sort of relief from his torment. He would throw himself into battle, hoping that tiring himself out with fighting would be a distraction from his aching heart.

He would also find himself looking at the sky, hoping to catch a glimpse of you and your dragon soaring above, wondering if you thought of him as much as he thought of you.

Despite his intense feelings, Aemond would find himself in a moral dilemma. On one hand, he loved you with all his heart, and the thought of raising his sword against you made his soul ache. But on the other hand, he was fiercely determined to get the throne.

If Aemond were to ascend the Iron Throne and rule the Seven Kingdoms, he would make sure that you were by his side. He would want to keep you close to him, to have you as his queen, his partner, his confidante.

But your loyalty to your mother, Princess Rhaenyra, would be unwavering. Aemond would know that you would never betray your mother.

He would also be worried about the political repercussions of your loyalty. He would know that your family on Dragonstone would never agree to you being his queen, and he would be aware that they would do everything to try and keep you from him.

Aemond would be furious when he learned that you were being betrothed to Cregan Stark. He would feel like someone had ripped his heart out of his chest and stomped on it. The thought of you being married to someone else would make him feel like he was drowning in a pool of molten lead.

He would also feel betrayed and angry, as if the world was conspiring against him, toying with his heart, making a mockery of his love.

Aemond would be a man possessed. The thought of losing you to another would drive him mad, and he would be willing to do anything to prevent it. He would start to lose his grip on his sanity, seeing no other way to have you than to burn the world to the ground.

He would fantasize about setting the Red Keep ablaze, watching it burn like a pyre of the damned, feeling the heat of the flames on his skin like the fires of his rage. He would imagine bringing down the entire world, reducing everything to ashes, if it meant he could have you.

He would also want to destroy the man who stood in his way, Cregan Stark, the man who would take you from him. His thoughts would be consumed with revenge, with a desire to end Cregan Stark's life, to make him pay for stepping between him and you. He would relish the idea of watching the light fade from his eyes, and would dream of the moment he could hold you in his arms once more, the body of your betrothed at his feet.

Aemond's love for you would be like a wildfire, consuming him from within. He would be driven by a primal force, and nothing would be able to stop him, not the law, not the gods, not anything in the world. He won't stop until you are his.

autor's note: do you guys want a part 2??? 👀👀 please like and reblog if you liked it, comment your thoughts!!

[averagewriter-inthedark]

The Muse 🖌️| Ameond Tagaryen Headcanon

GOT/HOTD Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen marrying a noble who sketches/paints would look like:

To no surprise, your union to Aemond was a political alliance between your houses. Therefore you put on a brave face, accepted your duty, and courted the Prince for a short time before the wedding. In that time you learned a few things about Aemond, as he was rather reserved in the beginning, and you were the same. Civilized conversations, setting boundaries and expectations of the marriage, and promising not to cross the others line. 

Having fell in love with art at a young age, you were always sketching in your notebook when alone--as your father discouraged your hobbies and expected you act like the rest of the people in court. So, hidden behind the walls of your chambers or in an empty courtyard with a quill or charcoal in hand, you sketched the beauties around you. The Godswood, the Blackwater Bay. The Septa Baelor and the Red Keep. Committing the image of the Iron Throne to memory, you inked a page with the mighty chair. 

Beneath your bed you kept a trunk filled with oil paints, brushes, canvases, and other supplies you'd manage to accumulate by sneaking out to Flea Bottom with the one maid you trusted. (Not to mention you paid her a descent coin to keep your secret). All you sketched in your notebook soon took claim to a canvas. Capturing the beautiful scenery of King's Landing, you painted ships sailing in with a dragon flying in the background. Standing for hours from your bedchamber balcony, taking days or even weeks to finish the masterpiece. 

With each finished portrait, you yearned for the next. Spending all your coin and pawning off materialist things given on namedays to rather buy supplies. Soon the only person besides your maid who knew of your secret hobby/talent was Helaena. You'd often spend time with the Princess and her children that one day, when asked about things that made you happy, you told her about your art. She instantly became intrigued, requesting to see the sketches/paintings and after thinking about it you eventually did show her. 

Helaena was in awe of your work. "I've seen many paintings in the castle, and none have captured the King's Landing the way you do. You have an eye for beauty---I think you'd paint the family portraits better than the man they always hire." Soon your meetings evolved to you sitting by the windowsill sketching while Helaena focused on her embroidery while the children played. As a surprise nameday present for the Princess, you gifted her a portrait of her and the twins flying upon Dreamfyre. "This is the most thoughtful gift I've ever received. I shall cherish it forever and pass it on to my daughter when she's older." 

Around this time, you and Aemond's relationship progressed. You two went on walks, talked more and more with each day, and accompanied him to tourneys and banquets. Your admirations for him grew, turning into genuine love roughly four moons into your marriage. Long hours in the library, watching him train, and waiting for the other to arrive at the table before diving into your meal. Quality time became the thing you both valued in your relationship. Growing to compliments and light kisses to the cheek. 

Aemond had no idea of your talent. Yet he did often wonder where you'd disappear to for hours. He'd see the ink on your hands and assume you were writing letters back home. Then he noticed charcoal stains and oils on your clothes. Since your chambers were still separate, he had no knowledge of your supplies hidden under your bed or how there was an easel on the balcony where you often painted. 

It wasn't until he caught sight of the painting in the nursery that Aemond discovered your knack for the arts. Helaena had been embroidering while the children played, and you were having tea with the Queen, when Aemond asked his sister where she got the painting commissioned. Not realizing you hadn't told her brother, Helaena responded with, "Your spouse surprised me with it on my nameday. They painted it themself---Isn't it lovely?" To say he was stunned was an understatement. Aemond's jaw had dropped, scanning over the canvas with intensity, muttering so low Helaena barely heard him, "It is...exceptional."

On a mission to find you, Aemond hurried the halls with haste, now aware why you always had stains on your clothes and ink on your hands. Why you spent hours in the gardens and looked tired at breakfast. When he did eventually find you, Aemond simply said, "Why did you never tell me you liked to draw and paint?" Of course you were caught off guard, becoming nervous and shrunk under his gaze, "I did not think it was important. I was always told arts and music was not for someone of noble rank like us. I feared you'd be disappointed with me." 

Aemond was a little hurt you kept your love for art hidden but understood. And from then on he made it his goal to learn everything he could about the subject. Trading gifts of jewelry for oils, charcoals, and inks. Making sure you had enough parchment and canvases. Aemond never pressured you to show him your work, knowing how personal it is for an artist, and instead asked about your progress. Beaming at the way you instantly light up and spoke with pride. 

He had a feeling you sketched him in your notebook. Catching you glancing up at him multiple times when he reads in the library, your hand scattering across the page with ease. Aemond would purposefully maintain his position even when he's finished the book, as to not move and make you mess up. Smiling at the charcoal staining your fingers and silently hoping one day you'd allow him to see what inked your parchment. 

Completely unaware he became your source of inspiration. Your muse. You not only sketched Aemond reading, but him training in the yard. Him speaking to his mother, his brother. Aemond with the twins. Aemond watching Vhagar patrol the skies and feeding his horse. You were mesmerized with everything about him. The Prince who conquered obstacles that made you feel like you were the only person on the planet. Aemond was your heart and soul. He was your muse. 

And so on your 1-year anniversary, you surprised your husband with a gift he never would've expected. A painting of him and Vhagar. The one-eyed prince, known for his stoic nature, was nearly reduced to tears by the emotion consuming his entire being. His finger trailing over the scales of his dragon, the details of his riding gear and scar. How you managed to make it look like they were flying in the sky. You pressed a kiss to his cheek, "One day, if you allow me, I would love to have you sit for me for a portrait." 

And when that time came, Aemond sitting in his pristine clothes, bearing his sapphire eye to you as a proclamation of his love and trust for you, you brought out your finest oils and brushes. Painting the man you loved the way you saw him, a beauty in the eyes of the beholder. A muse to an artist. 

[rhaenyra-storms]

ewan saying in an interview that aemond needs to be fixed and he just wanted someone to love him… i can’t do this anymore

[peterparkersnose]

Spoil

pairing: Prince Regent!Aemond Targaryen x reader

word count: 3.6k

warnings: lowkey dark!aemond, alys river type themed, reader’s family gets killed, reader is a plaything, sexual themes and descriptions (not a smut), fluff at the end :)

a/n THAT GIF OML uuhhh this came to me in a fever dream apologies.

summary She’s his spoil of war, and his new found confidant.

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read time: 13 mins 26 seconds

A spoil of war. 

Is the one thing you had been demeaned down to. From a visiting Lady to Harrenhal, a betrothed to one of the Strong sons, and now to nothing. A spoil of war. 

The first time you ever saw him was weeks after the fateful night that your life collapsed. You still remember the cool breeze in your nightgown and the loose hair around your shoulders. How the moon shone so brightly, but only in the early evening before the fight began. Smoke then filled the air as your new home was captured. 

And then they were gone. 

The Blacks had just packed up everything and… left? The castle you once knew to be lively, despite its cracks, was suddenly sullen and empty. Few staff remained from the ones who fled. You clung to your betrothed along with the rest of his family. Life felt like a ticking time bomb. 

It was midday when you heard the roar of the great dragon, Vhagar. A strange time to invade, but there wasn’t much to do. A glimmer of hope, you thought. A glimmer of hope. 

Hope is only something a fool would believe in now, you truly believed. 

The Strong family was rounded up by the one-eyed Prince. You had heard of him before and knew what the people whispered about him. Kinslayer. Evil. Egotistical. Irrational. 

A plea for help, you thought. How foolish you feel now. The Kinslayer swiftly went one by one, killing every single last Strong, down to the grandchildren. All you could do was scream. Your betrothed was gone, and so was his family. The women and the children were all gone. And all that was left was you. 

The worst death of all, you supposed. It was certain now, you were the last one on your knees pleading for your life. Perhaps in another lifetime, you deserved this. Watching your new family die one by one, knowing of your fate. As the Kinslayer approached you, his sword bloodied in his hand, blood splattered all over his armor, and his face, his white hair matted with the blood of your betrothed. His facial expression was unreadable as you stared him dead in the eyes. A soft prayer came from your lips as he looked at you like you were the most disgusting thing he had ever seen now, as a scowl moved to his lips.

His hatred for the Strong family was inconceivable. Why did such a man hate a family that much? 

He stared you down, taking in every single inch of you. An evil snarl approached his lips as he grunted. “Mmm…”

“She’ll do.” he called out to a man in armor, an older one than the Prince and with Dornish features. 

She’ll do? What in the Seven Hells is that supposed to mean?

The Dornish Knight took you by the shoulders and forced you off your feet and whispered into your ear softly as he was escorting you to horseback, his hand resting on the small of your back. “Just be quiet and listen. Pledge your allegiance to King Aegon. Then you’ll be fine.” His words were far from comforting as he intended them to be. Your betrothed blood was still fresh on your hands. 

A war camp was your new home. One of the dirtiest places on earth, not for a Lady such as yourself. Men were constantly poking and prodding at you, calling and shouting at you all sorts of terrible names. When you first arrived, you were brought into a quiet tent away from the evil eyes of the soldiers. The Dornish man sat with you and spoke softly. He seemed as if he didn’t want to scare you, but he still did nonetheless. You pledged your allegiance to King Aegon and kept quiet, listening to the first piece of advice he gave you. He introduced himself to you as Ser Criston Cole. You feared for your life, and the only thing seemingly keeping it here was this Ser Criston Cole. 

After a while, Ser Criston left you alone. And for a while, you sat confused as so many things were running through your head. Your cries continued as well did the trembles in your hands, the hands you couldn’t pull your eyes from as they were covered with your love's blood. 

A maid who was silent the whole time came in with a tub and began to bathe you after you were alone for a while. Why? You had no clue. A bath did seem nice though, you wished to be rid of the horrors that painted your body. You cried as the maid washed you, traumatized by the events of that day. The clear water turned a murky brown as your old life was washed away. A new dress was gifted to you. One of a deep green and a sinch in the middle, tied with golden strings. It was long-sleeved and floor length, keeping you warm in the harsh, cold, rainy environment where the camp was located. And along was an optional green coat of fur, embroidered with beautiful designs. Something you would never normally choose, but there wasn’t really a choice. The dress was soft and felt a bit snug around your body, but you didn’t feel like complaining would be a good idea at the moment. 

Your hair was combed by this maid as her quick hands moved through your locks. It reminded you of your old life and your old Lady maid. Who you thought must be dead by now. The soothing words of your old Lady maid calmed you for a bit, as you closed your eyes and pretended you were simply not there. 

The maid dressed you and quickly left. You didn’t know the Dornish man was guarding this tent until the maid left, and you saw a glimpse of his armor from the flap of the tent that was exposed when she left. 

Ser Criston returned and looked you up and down. It was not in a perverse way though, more of an inspection. Like you were some… some item being prepared. He sighed. 

“He’ll be happy.” Ser Criston stated, crossing his arms. 

“Who, may I ask?” you finally spoke. 

“Prince Aemond.” Ser Criston replied, giving you one last look up and down. “He spared you for a reason, my Lady. You should be eternally grateful for him and his grace when it came to you.” 

Prince Aemond? Having grace? 

Ser Criston escorted you to another tent. The men whistled and whooped as you walked by, looking like a fresh piece of meat to the soldiers who hadn’t felt the touch of their ladies for weeks. Heat rose to your cheeks as you looked at your boots, praying this nightmare would end. But oh, it had just begun. 

Prince Aemond sat in his tent. It was identical to every single one each soldier had on the outside, but on the inside, it was quite different. The delicately carved chairs and a large bed of hay with many pelts over it caught your eye before the Prince did. You didn’t even notice Criston leaving your side until you turned to speak to him, and he was gone. 

He was sitting in front of the fire. His armor was gone, and his hair was cleaned. His stockings were hung by the fire as they seemed to be drying as he sat in a chair, not looking in your direction. You stood still, fear wracked your body as you tried to think of something to do. Should you speak? Just stand there? Wait for him to approach you? 

“Come,” he said commandingly as he flicked a few of his fingers towards you, beckoning you over to his side. The Prince didn’t even look your way. His voice was much calmer than it was at Harrenhal. You listened, approaching him with hesitance. 

He looked up at you, taking in your features with the same blank look as he did at Harrenhal.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked harshly as you stood next to his chair awkwardly. You nodded. “Mmm…” he hummed once again, moving his hand in a way to ask you to sit in the opposite chair. The chair creaked a bit as you sat, giving an unexpected chill down your spine. 

“When I speak to you, you respond to me in words. No nods. Understood?” he scolded you, his tone of voice making you twitch. 

“Yes.” you squeaked out, almost silently. 

“Yes, what…?” Prince Aemond asked you, testing you to see your limits. “Yes, my Prince.” 

“Good girl. You learn quickly.” he purred, standing up from his chair to approach you. You froze as he did, not wanting to mess up. This was your only chance at survival. The Prince circled you, almost as a lion did to its prey not once, not twice, but three times. You couldn’t meet his gaze. 

“What is your name…?” he asked, now standing in front of you. You answered him swiftly with your name and your house. 

“Your father bent the knee to the Princess Rhaenyra, is that correct?”

Your heart skipped a beat. He had? You genuinely had no clue, as you were already living in Harrenhal with your betrothed as the war broke out. 

“M-my father, your grace, I have not seen him in many moons.” you quivered, your eyes fixated on the brick of the fireplace. 

“But yet you are his kin…” Aemond sighed, picking up a lock of your hair in his hands. “Such a shame. Ironic, isn’t it? He had pledged his allegiance to Rhaenyra, and yet you are mine.” he chuckled. His laugh sent chills down your spine. You stayed silent.

“How old are you?” he asked, dropping your piece of hair and looking down at you menacingly. 

“Twenty, your grace.” you replied hastily, afraid of his presence. “And I suspect you were betrothed to a Strong boy, is that it…?” 

You nodded.

“Use your words,” he said demeaningly, his long lanky fingers meeting your chin as he pulled your sad eyes up to meet his gaze. “Yes, my Prince.” “Good girl.”

His words went straight between your thighs. “I think I’ll like you,” he says, letting go of your chin. Tears brimmed your eyes. “Do not worry. I will not touch you tonight.” he says somewhat softer, as he grabs your hand. You didn’t even realize they were shaking. “Touch me?” you asked, looking up at him. 

“Oh yes. Don’t you understand what this is…?” he asked, making her feel like an idiot. The way he spoke was so demeaning, making her feel like she was the stupidest person alive. How had she not figured out what this was yet? “No.” she whispered. It was all making sense now. 

“You are mine. Mine to do with what I please. My spoil, as some say. You will do as I say, won’t you?” he asked, letting go of your shaking hand. You felt like your tongue was numb as he spoke. No emotion was shown on your face as you felt him kneel down in front of you. He placed a hand on your thigh. 

“Are you afraid of me?” he asked after a while. You met his gaze as he looked up to you, he seemed like an evil spirit had possessed him. His face was different, his lips curled into a cruel smirk. You were speechless again. Aemond was getting obviously annoyed by your lack of response. “You should be,” he said, his grip on your thigh tightening as your breath quickened. “Tell me, my Lady. Are you going to be a good girl and listen to me? Be my plaything, my lover, my company… or would you rather join the Silent Sisters? I cannot kill such a beauty as yourself.” 

His other hand moved to caress your cheek. He awaited your answer. 

“I-I…” you stuttered. The Prince grew impatient. “Answer me, now!” he yelled at you. You finally cracked.

“Yes, yes, I’ll listen, I'm sorry.” you cried, cringing at the sudden raising of his voice. His cruel smile only widened. “Good girl.”

-

He was gentle to you at first, but every time after grew harsher and harsher. He often prided himself on seeing you at his mercy, his hand on your stomach as he fucked you slowly. He liked the way you muttered his name as he held you in his arms as you were about to reach your peak. He enjoyed watching you leak his seed out on your thighs as you rested in bed after a long night of pleasure. 

Even if he was rough, he never treated you as his whore. He would often put your own pleasure above his, which was quite unexpected. In many senses around the camp, you were seen as his Queen. Even if that was far from the truth. 

He never liked it much when you spoke. He had no desire to know about your life, your dislikes, and interests, or anything remotely personal about you. He used you. He took and took and gave nothing in return, besides a mutual pleasure for each other. He took your company, as you would sleep next to him in his bed every night. He never held you or whispered sweet nothings to you as you fell asleep. He took your time, as you waited around for him all day. You had grown quite lazy and bored, with close to nothing to do. He took your worth. Yes, he didn’t treat you as his whore. But he would call you names that made you feel like one. You figured it made him feel better about himself, making you beg for his cock and calling you a slut afterward. Aemond would often tell you mid fucking about how beautiful you would look bearing his bastards. Or how good you looked with him buried inside of you. 

Aemond had returned for the night. You had gotten used to the angry footsteps and the sudden whooshing open of the tent door flap when he would return from his days. You hadn’t seen him for five days. You heard of his return to the camp by a few passing soldiers and expected his presence in your chambers tonight. But tonight seemed different. It was eerie how quiet he was. He was usually eager to get his armor off and to fuck you, but tonight was more solemn. He angrily threw his eyepatch on the floor and kicked his armor. It startled you a bit as you watched him seemingly throw a tantrum. Mentally preparing yourself for a night of torture, you began your routine as you had in the past few weeks and began undressing.

“No,” he said, emotionless, not facing to look at you. You stopped. This had never happened. He took off his armor and set it aside, and made his way slowly to the bed in his underclothes. You sat on the bed, unsure of what to do. He couldn’t look at you. Aemond could sense your confusion and your uncertainty. 

“Not tonight.” he said, his voice sounding weaker and weaker with each syllable. “Oh.” you said quietly, adjusting your nightgown back on comfortably. You sat in bed next to him. 

He reached up a hand and took a lock of your hair in it and twirled it in his fingers. He hummed. You just looked down at what he was doing and watched his fingers, then looked into his gaze. He seemed to have revealed an emotion, for the first time in weeks. Sadness. 

You wanted to ask what was wrong but decided to keep your mouth shut. He didn’t like when you talked. 

He waited a long time before he spoke. He sat there, not moving, and seemingly staring into space. Groups of soldiers marched by, the only sound breaking the deafening silence between the two of you. You knew better than to speak. 

“How has Hilda been treating you?” he asks quietly, still not meeting your gaze. 

“Hilda?” you asked, confused. “Your maid.” he said annoyed that you didn’t know what he was talking about. His tongue had a sharp, defensive tone to it. 

“Oh,” you replied, confused as to why he was making conversation. He never usually did. “She’s been kind.” 

Aemond nodded. He was trying. So hard. He just didn’t know how to approach you with what he really needed tonight. Kindness was something he had not equipped in a while. 

“Come,” he said, placing a hand on your back suddenly. You were hesitant. “I won’t hurt you.”

You listened to him and scooted over in the bed, lying next to Aemond as he wrapped his arms around you in a sudden movement. Your stomach was filled with butterflies and fear as he did, he pulled you closer to him. You had so many questions, questions you wished to ask and knew you couldn’t. And you stood still as touched you, confused as to what he wanted from you.

“Do you want me to embrace you?” you asked softly. He nodded, burying his head near your chest and the crook of your neck. You could feel his warm breath on your neck.

What the fuck was this…?

One of your hands wrapped around his head and cradled it as the other moved to his back and gave him some small circles with your fingers. He let out a long sigh. 

He looked up at you as he rested in your arms. His eyes were wet and his face was one you had never seen before. Aemond seemed like a complete stranger at that moment. “Do you love me?” he asked her with a tired voice.

She most certainly did not. But that was not the answer he was currently seeking.

“I do,” she said, caressing the side of his face and moving stray strands of hair out of the way. He just held her tighter and placed his head back on your chest, his breathing becoming shallow as he tried to hold in the tears. You were so utterly confused. He knew she truly didn’t love him. But he needed to know if she was obedient enough to lie for him. To hold his secrets, to be an extension of just his thing to toy with. He needed somebody desperately right now, and the only thing he craved was touch. Touch and your attention. He didn’t love you and you didn’t love him. But it hurt nobody to just play the part they were supposed to that night. He was in need.

“I-I went to Rook’s Rest,” Aemond began to speak. His tone was different from his usual commands, he sounded scared. You had never seen this side of him before. She nodded, stroking his hair as he spoke. “My brother, Aegon, and I…” 

You had never heard him speak of the King so informally. 

“We fought our cousin Rhaenys and her dragon… and we won but-” his voice hitched. He was… he was shaking? “It’s okay.” you said softly, daring to speak as your lover shook in your grasp. 

You knew tears were now falling down his cheeks but didn’t dare to say a single thing about it. You knew deep down, he was just a scared little boy. Aemond was only twenty as you were. His big persona of being a ruthless kinslayer was peeling back and he was revealing himself to you. It was something he never did, only in the solemn private moments with his mother years ago. 

He had broken at the sight of what he was about to tell her.

“Aegon got hurt. Really bad.”

He was telling you confidential information about the King. He was trusting you. “I-I’m sorry.” you replied sincerely. His hands moved around your ribcage and the other snaked around your back. He felt the fabric of your dress and played with it between his fingers as he tried to calm himself. “H-he can’t walk and he’s burned terribly and he’s barely conscious, and his dragon is injured, and... You-you mustn't tell anyone.” he whimpered, his tone stiffening at the last sentence as his ramblings came to an end. “Never,” you whispered, combing through his hair with your fingers to try and calm him. 

“I’m- they made me… they made me��Prince Regent.” Aemond confessed as the words left his lips with a sour taste. You could tell he was terrified. 

Oh shit.

Aemond in a sense, was King. She finally understood how dire King Aegon’s condition was and understood why Aemond had been acting so strangely that night. 

“Isn’t that a good thing?” you asked him softly, trying to look to the positive side. If the positive side even existed in this situation. 

“No!” he seemingly barked at you suddenly, making you tense a bit. “I’m sorry…” he whispered, running his hand over the side of your ribcage and down to your hips. You had never heard this man once apologize for anything. He looked up to you with his red eyes as he craved your touch. You cupped his cheek, clearing the tears from his right cheek with your thumb. You knew he was afraid. Shocked. Terrified. And he was asking for you. 

“I will pray for the King’s recovery, your grace.”

“Aemond…” he said softly. You were confused and he read it on your face. “When-when we’re like this. Don’t bother with the titles. I am just Aemond.” 

You nodded. 

“I will pray for the King’s recovery, Aemond.” you corrected yourself. “And that your reign may be successful.” 

She kissed the top of his head. He held her close. 

“Everything will be okay.”

He held you like that for the rest of the night. No violence. No sex. No words. Just you and him, in a moment where he could have his last bit of clarity before he had to put the mask back on and perform for everyone else in his life. He was quite thankful for you that night. Aemond wept quietly as you held the most powerful man in Westeros all throughout that night. 

-

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[humanpurposes]

So thrilled you’re taking requests! I love winter themed fics this time of year. I’m requesting modern Aemond (if not allowed then Michael Gavey) + stuck in this cabin until the storm passes/come sit by the fireplace. As much smut as you’d like with maybe a teeny bit of angst?

Thank you for taking requests, I know they will all be lovely

A/n: Took the liberty of making this a Michael Gavey request 😈 Also this gif is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen!! Shoutout @barbieaemond and all the other amazing gif makers on here. These guys are such an integral part of fandom and they deserve all our love, appreciation and credit ❤️✨

Words: 2.9k

Warnings: 18+, slight angst, handjob, thigh riding (ish), Michael Gavey being awkard, but not quite a virgin

Main Masterlist

“Fucking skiing holiday. Should have fucking known this would be a fucking disaster.” 

Michael’s foul mouth hardly phases you anymore. When you first met him you thought he’d be a shy type of guy, with his baby blue shirts, cargos and wire frame glasses he kept pushing up with his middle finger.

You’d quickly found that he wasn’t at all like you expected. He can be abrasive, often judgemental and vulgar, not so unlike your other friends but with Michael it seems to come from a place of unashamed honesty. You sort of admire him for it.

He’s pacing the small living room and kitchen of the cabin, furiously fiddling with his mobile. You’re kneeling by the wood burning stove, hovering a lighter by the kindling in the hopes that you can light a proper fire.

You’re surprised he agreed to go on this trip at all. 

You have a few friends who do Maths, and at the start of second year they started inviting Michael to the pub on the weekends. You recognised him from your trips to the library, where he’d usually sit alone after his friend ditched him for Felix Catton.

They’d been all talking about a skiing trip between Christmas and New Year, to this little Italian village in the Alps. You didn’t— and still don’t— actually know how to ski, but spending a few nights in a cabin in the mountains, surrounded by snow sounded like a dream. Michael had been sceptical at first but you’d managed to convince him to come when you said you’d need someone to keep you company when the others were on the slopes.

The others had all gone out as soon as you arrived, leaving Michael to get settled in the cabin.

But it’s turned out to be somewhat of a nightmare. It’s too dark to actually see the snow storm but you can hear it, shrieking and howling against the walls and windows of the cabin. You have no service, no central heating, just the small assortment of snacks you had brought with you, a packet of paprika crisps, a bar of chocolate and a prosciutto sandwich you’d bought back at the main resort, back down the mountain, back in civilisation.

“Fuck, fuck fuck!”

“What now?” You ask, still focused on the fire.

“Mobile’s fucking dead. Shit! I have a charger in my bag but the bloody electricity isn’t fucking working so I can’t fucking charge it!”

You smile to yourself as the kindling catches alight and the flames start to lick at the larger logs.

You glance over your shoulder as Michael tosses his phone on the sofa, runs his hands through his hair and catches his lower lip with his teeth.

“I have plenty of charge on mine,” you say, “I’ll turn it off to save the battery and we can see if the service is working in the morning?”

Michael stares at you for a lingering moment. He can be so intense sometimes, almost unsettlingly so. “You want us to stay here all night?” he says softly.

“People know we’re here. I’m sure someone from the resort will come up when they can. Until then, we just have to wait out the storm.”

He tuts, but he knows you don’t have any other options.

You sit together with your backs against the sofa so that you can be as close to the fire as possible. The heat pleasantly burns your face and skin through your jeans and jumper. Even then, where your arm presses against Michael’s, you feel the warmth of his body beside you. 

You grab the crisps and the sandwich out of your bag, offering them both to Michael. He only takes a handfuls of crisps and when you split the sandwich in two he takes the smaller half. You offer him more of the chocolate bar but he insists he’s not hungry. You frown at that. It might not be a Crunchie, but Michael never turns down chocolate. 

“How was your Christmas?” You ask, popping a square of chocolate on your tongue.

“Fine,” he says, looking down at his hands, “had dinner with my dad and my nan, went to see my mum on Boxing Day.”

Guilt twinges in your chest. “Are your parents not together?”

“Oh no, they split up a long time ago,” he says, like it should have been obvious.

“I’m sorry.”

He turns to face you, staring intensely. “Why would you be sorry?” 

“Because I didn’t realise.”

He smiles. You think it’s because he knows you’re nervous. “I’ve been splitting Christmases between my parents every year since I was twelve, I’m well used to it now.”

The topic doesn’t seem to phase him. He takes another crisp from the packet and looks into the fire as he crunches it between his teeth.

The low light reminds you of the nights you’ve sat opposite him in the King’s Arms in Oxford, all the times you’ve been tipsy off wine spritzers and found yourself trying not to make it obvious that you’re staring at him. He’s handsome, especially up close when you can see the details of his face, his lips, his surprisingly pretty eyelashes, the little cleft on the tip of his nose.

When his eyes turn towards you, you think your heart might leap out of your chest.

You take a quick breath, eyes darting around the room, at the fire, the pile of logs beside the stove, the sprinkling of ashes on the floor, but it seems inevitable that you’ll find your way back to him.

“Why did they split up?”

Michael raises his eyebrows but keeps his face solemn. “She left him for someone else.”

“Oh,” is all you can think of to say. 

“It happens,” he says. “People always want to find something better. My dad was never the most exciting guy to be around.”

“But what about you?”

He huffs a laugh to himself. “I’m not exactly enticing company either.”

You can’t tell if you just want the conversation to end or if you should say something else.

“It’s not something I can fix,” Michael says. One of his hands rests on his thigh and he slowly flexes it so the tendons shift beneath his skin. “And it’s not something that needs to be fixed. People come in and out of your life, but you move on. That’s just the way it is.”

He’s almost hunched over himself, with his chin tilted down and his glasses sliding down towards the end of his nose. 

You’d seen him in the pub once, back in first year, with that friend of his, Oliver Quick. Oliver had gone up to the bar and ended up sitting with Felix Catton and his band of admirers. You’d watched Michael leave the pub and remember your heart shattering for him, for this boy you didn’t even know.

Now, stuck in this cabin, snow swirling past the windows, the sound of the fire crackling a few feet in front of you, and Michael’s side pressed against yours, your heart shatters all over again.

You place your hand over his, and he instantly stops moving. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re great.”

Michael tries not to smile. “You don’t need to flatter me,” he says.

You curl your fingers over his hand and tighten your grip. His eyes meet yours and you feel yourself frowning, because he doesn’t understand, because he doesn’t see himself the same way you see him. 

“I mean it. You’re funny, even when you don’t even mean to be, and honest, and straightforward…”

You glance down at his lips, slightly parted as he listens to you. It crosses your mind to lean in closer, but something stops you.

“I really love that we’re friends,” you say.

Michael looks down at your hands. His lips are pressed together.

He doesn’t want this, you think. He doesn’t want me.

So you pull away, with a little smile to keep it friendly.

He blinks a few times as he looks back at your face. “Thanks,” he says, softly. 

He stands, and you don’t think you can bear to look at him as he moves towards the hallway that leads to the bedrooms.

You turn your attention to the fire, add another log for good measure and poke at the glowing embers in its heart.

You hear movement behind you, footsteps and fabric.

When you look back you see Michael has his arms full with pillows and blankets. He layers some of the blankets on the rug, and soon he has two makeshift beds, one on the sofa and one on the floor.

“What’s this?” You ask.

“We’ll freeze in the bedrooms without the heating, we might as well make use of the fire.”

It’s a good call, and now that you have somewhere to sleep you start to realise how tired you are. 

You rummage through your suitcase and pull out a pair of pyjamas you got for Christmas. Michael changes in one of the bedrooms and comes back in one of his maths pun t-shirts and a pair of red and black bottoms. 

You go to lie in the bed on the floor but Michael puts his hand on your shoulder and insists you sleep on the sofa.

Even with the heat of the fire on your face and the blanket pulled up to your chin, you can’t stop shaking. Your limbs are frozen and your skin is tight, but it feels deeper set than that. You feel the cold in your chest like a fever.

It feels like hours have passed and you still can’t sleep.

“I can hear your teeth chattering,” Michael’s voice grumbles below you. You peer down over the edge of the sofa. He’s turned away from you, towards the fire. You hadn’t even realised he was still awake.

“It’s fucking cold,” you say, wincing at the quiver in your voice.

Michael shifts to his other side so he’s facing you. You’ve never really seen him without his glasses, and he looks completely different, somehow softer, not as harsh.

“We’ll be warmer if we, if we share,” he says quietly.

His suggestion weighs heavy in the space between you, unless it’s just in your head. You can already imagine yourself pressed against him, feeling the warmth from his body and letting it sink into yours.

You don’t trust yourself not to try something stupid either.

You take the blanket with you. The floorboards are piercing against your bare soles so you step on the balls of your feet, quickly slotting yourself by Michael’s side, on the layers of blankets. 

He’s facing you now, your noses must only be inches apart and you feel his breath running over your cheek.

You try to steady your own breathing, but it only makes your heart beat faster.

You see his neck move as he swallows. “Come here,” he mutters, and brings his arm around you, pressing his palm to your back to pull you closer into his chest.

You let your arm drape over his side and your legs intertwine with his. You need the heat, tucking your head in under his chin and resting the side of your face against him.

You move with the rise and fall of his chest, breathe in the scent of him with every breath, hear his heartbeat against your ear.

If you shifted your head slightly, your lips would meet the base of his throat.

Want tightens and lingers in your stomach, but curled up under Michael’s arm, you let its dull ache soothe you to sleep.

You wake slowly, opening your eyes to cold sunlight glaring through the windows. In your haste to get warm last night, you had apparently forgotten to draw the curtains. All you see on the other side is white, the snow now settled and piled high.

The fire has long since died and the air is colder than it was when you fell asleep, sharp as you take a breath through your nose.

It’s still warm where your cheek meets Michael’s chest, where his hand rests against your back and your bodies are pressed together.

It feels good to be so close to him. He’s still asleep, as far as you can tell. You hear the heavy sound of his breathing, air fluttering in his throat and passing through his pouted lips.

As you start to become more aware, more awake, a warm wanting stirs in your gut and between your legs.

It’s a stupid little crush, one you’ve not been able to distract yourself from these last few months.

You start to trace your fingertips over his chest, feeling where his chest is hard, then soft, and remember everything you said to him the night before, and what you perhaps should have said.

You nuzzle your face in closer to him, to the clean scent of his t-shirt and something else that is so uniquely him.

You try to stay like this for as long as possible, even if it’s torture not to want more.

“You’re moving a lot,” he mutters. You feel his voice rumbling in his chest and humming against your head like it’s a part of you.

Only when you freeze do you realise you’ve been rocking your hips, every hint of friction you get against the fabric of your pyjamas only fueling your hunger. But you’ve stopped now, resting your palm against his stomach.

“I’m cold,” you say.

“Hmm,” he says, resting his lips and his chin against your head, over your hair, “I don’t feel cold.”

The low rasp of his voice only makes you want him more.

The lingering haze of sleep must be clouding your judgement, your sense.

You tilt your head up, brushing your lips over his throat like you’d imagined. You feel him shudder, and feel his stomach tighten under your touch.

He utters your name in a breathless whisper as he paws at your back and pushes his hips into yours. His arousal is evident, hard and pressing to your centre through two layers of fabric.

And then he pauses, and his hand slips away.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he says.

You drag your hand down a little further, to slip under his t-shirt and feel the ridges of his surprisingly toned stomach, just above the waistband of his bottoms. “Why are you sorry, Michael?”

“I don’t know, I just…” he huffs in frustration as his hand returns to your body, gripping at your waist through your shirt.

You start to snag your fingers on the waistband, and realise he’s forgone wearing any boxers to bed. “Do you want me to help you?” You whisper, unable to hold back a grin.

“Yes, fuck, please,”

A whine sounds in his throat as you shift his bottoms down just enough to free his cock, and close your hand around it. He’s bigger than you expected, long and thick, heavy, hard and soft-skinned as you stroke, up, down, up, down.

You enjoy the feel of him, run your thumb over his weeping tip as he starts to pant and try to hold back his moans, leaning against you and ghosting his lips against your temple.

You only feel yourself becoming more and more desperate. You hook your leg over his, grinding your core against his thigh. Sparse sparks of pleasure course through your body, not enough for a release, but it still feels good.

You tilt your head again, eagerly pressing your lips to his. He seems taken by surprise at first, but meets you with clumsy enthusiasm. He kisses you like it might save him from something. Once or twice he seems to lose track, dragging his lips to the corner of your mouth only to pull you back into him.

The movements become more and more frantic, your hand pumping Michael’s cock, his hips bucking under your touch.

“Fuck,” he hisses against your lips, “I’m close. Fuck, I’m so close.”

You rock particularly hard against his thigh, and he brings his hand to your rear, squeezing at your flesh and urging you on.

You tease your lips against the shell of his ear, smiling at the wanton noise he makes as he buries his face into the crook of your neck.

“Are you gonna cum for me Michael?” You whisper as you up the pace.

“Please,” he grunts, “please…” and suddenly he’s moaning against your skin, holding you tightly as you feel his cock pulse in your hand as he spills over your fingers and knuckles.

You quickly move your head back so you can look at him, eyes fluttered shut, jaw slack and tongue just peeking out from behind his teeth.

“You’re so pretty,” you say quietly.

He blinks his eyes open, looking down at you with a dazed smile. “You think I’m pretty?”

“So fucking pretty,” you say, with another drag against his thigh.

He hums, low and cryptic in his chest. “Do you need some help there?”

Before you can answer he’s slipped his hand underneath your pyjamas. He cups your bare, wet cunt, lightly circling over your clit with the tip of his finger.

“Fuck you’re soaked,” he mutters, all but teasing your lips as he leans in to kiss you. “Got yourself all worked up, hmm?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, “fuck, don’t tease me, please…”

“Now, sweetheart,” he coos as he presses more firmly against you, hastening his movements so your breath catches in your throat. “We might still have a few hours before anyone comes to get us, and I can think of more than a few ways to pass the time.”

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[demigoddessqueens]

come (stay) with me

Masterlist 11

a/n - all of the aemond scenes got to me in the season finale

thinking of aemond alone when Helaena and Alicent leave me

the despair and anger fills his heart and stomach with immense dread as he looks out at King’s Landing, at edgy his family has

all his doubts, insecurities, angers and fears, all the emotions he’s felt since childhood threaten to bubble up and he has to swallow it down.

the forces and will power he’s tried to keep and all are losing their grip….and everyone is gone

tears that pooled in his eyes are threatening to spill over and he hates himself for being so weak and letting his past come back to him

he hears footsteps and doesn’t care to turn around until he hears your voice

“….aemond…?”

He turns to see you staring at him. All the worry and concern on your face and he’s helpless to stop it

“Would you leave me all the same, my love? Just like my family?”

[achaoticeternal]

— 𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗰𝗵𝘂𝗿𝗰𝗵

aemond targaryen x fem!reader

|| aemond, much to his mother’s delight, has fallen head over heels for a kind-hearted, devout follower of the Seven 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

✧ you were a daughter to a well-established Lord and family in Westeros, evening having to great honor to receive many lessons in a monastery 

✧ you not only had a brilliant mind like the crone, a beautiful innocence like the maid, and the tenderness and warmth like the mother. but your aura also demanded the same respect as the father, the smith and the warrior

✧ your lord-father and alicent were close friends in court, so when he sent you to King’s Landing to learn from the greatest septas the faith had to offer, it was only natural that you be a guest of the royal family.

✧ when alicent had introduced aemond and you, he took clear interest 

✧ aemond noticed the pendant of the maid adorned on your neck, signaling your purity and virginity. he knew then and there you would do anything for your faith and to simply be a good girl

✧ often, he would invite you to attend his own private lessons - except for his high valyrian lessons, since those were sacred to the Targaryens - but you would join him for histories and even answer questions about his own house before he could so much as utter a word. 

✧ he took notice to how you prayed before each meal and drink you took, before each lesson, before bed, while attending tourneys... he liked seeing you kneel in prayer and at night would imagine you kneeling before him like a God. 

✧ soon, aemond made a habit of praying with you when your paths crossed. at meals, he’d clasp your hands together in prayer under the table. at festivals and tourneys, he’d come to you alone and take your hands in his and speak praise to the mother and the father with you.

✧ he used your prayer time as a way of become closer with you, to insert himself into your life — because while alicent raised her children in the faith, aegon had strayed to his promiscuity and his own father never thought much of it all. it gave him a release from the world to just pray with you.

✧ one day, after your lessons at the sept, he met you outside the doors, only to drag you right back through the great doors.

“my-my prince... what are you doing? we’ll be late to your histories lesson!” you spoke in a hushed tone, acknowledging the quiet in a hall of worship. 

“i must confess before the seven... and you,” he explained which caused you to more willingly follow him while his grip still strong on your fore arm.

once at the altar, both of you knelt before the array of candles. both of you lit your own candles to call upon the seven. silence fell between both of you as you made your own prayers to the respected gods.

that was until aemond began to speak aloud, “Father Above, I beg your courage. Mother Above, I beg your kindness. Maiden sweet, I beg your virtue. All of thee to bestow upon me a love, a true and honorable love. The love of the girl who pray with me and i with her.”

your prayer was cut short as his words caught her attention, “aemond...”

“blessed be,” he finished before looking back at you, “my lady, i wish to pray at your side for the rest of my days. would you allow me such a courtesy, and even allow me to ask your Lord-father for your gentle hand?”

he extended a palm to you, asking for your hand if you accepted his proposal. with a smile, you gladly accepted such. with a finally prayer, he escorted you from the sept back to the Red Keep, doting on you while walking arm in arm. 

[myfandomprompts]

Hey, I saw you did what Ewan's characters would be like with a girl daughter. And I admit that my curiosity was: What would each of Ewan's characters react to an unexpected pregnancy? Or announcement of a pregnancy

Or, opening new horizons, what would each person's relationship be like with their wife/girlfriend when they were pregnant? (if you want to use the reader for this part)

(I'm sorry if you're not accepting requests or something)

Hi! Thank you for the ask and it's truly okay and wonderful!

Headcanons: How would EwanVerse characters react to unexpected pregnancy?

Abraham

He hadn't even planned to stay with you, his only focus was on earning his place among the gypsies. Yes, he lied to himself about liking you, about being obsessed even, but at least he had managed to keep his emotions at bay. Until now. When he learns of your pregnancy, he gets mad, takes time for himself to think. Then he sees how miserable he had made you and his turmoil quickly turns into guilt. He can't stay away from you for long, let alone hurt you. You could be together after all, happy, and hell, that baby is his. What other beautiful manner to make his claim on you is there?

Aemond

War was raging, and he took you as his companion because he could, because as Prince Regent, no one will dare say a word against it. He had needs, impulses both of sinful nature and quiet affection, and you were meeting each of them perfectly. But when you don't bleed for two moons, he finally realises why he chose you, why he didn't 't care about being careful: he wanted you for himself, and having you round with his child would be the ultimate prize. You and the baby would be untouchable.

Billy Taylor

He feared it was going to happen. He had heard the stories so many times : people around with too much passion which caused unexpected things to happen ruined their lives, even reputations. It had scared him as much as elated him when he got to be with you, to touch you everywhere. And now, with the news of you pregnancy and amidst thinking of a way to tell his mother, he finds out that he would do it all again, thousand times over if life allowed it. He would be so very happy with your child.

Billy Washington

He wasn't supposed to have met with you again, or even to hook up. You, the ex he had a hard time forgetting about. But he guesses that once you harbour feelings for someone, it never really goes away. When you tell him, he is awestruck, not believing it, even asking you if it's his. It takes weeks for him to wrap his head around it, thinking what the hell he's going to do then he decides. Decides that he was delusional thinking he could live without you for a while, and that he won't let you go again. He never stopped loving you, and that baby will make everything right.

Ettore

You're just his neighbour, the only one who gets him, who sees him for what he is. He actually doesn't care about what people think of him, or what you think about him. Or maybe just a little. But he likes how you let him do things to you others wouldn't. When you tell him, he stays silent for a while, expressionless. "So?" he tells you, and when you slam the door in his face, he tries to convinced himself that he doesn't care. But in truth he can't stop thinking about it. About what it would feel like to have something as... precious with someone. How foreign it seems to him.

Genyen

He doesn't understand: you said you were fine with him being "just a friend", that you didn't want more, and it suited him fine. So why were you telling him that now? He can't do anything for you, he has nothing, even if he would like to. He would, truly, he finds himself thinking, provide for you if he could, for the baby. But it's the way you look at him with those shiny eyes and a hand on your belly that make him abandon any idea of disappearing on you. He'll stay, whatever you say he is to you.

Michael Gavey

He is euphoric. You're the girl of his dreams, and it seems surreal. He can give you everything you want, provide for you like you've never been cared for before, you don't need to be anxious about it all. He reassures you at once, already scheduling how you'll manage to graduate and have a beautiful baby at the same time, your baby. He won't ever let you go, and is already planning for the second one.

Osferth

You're the lady he can't believe he has, and when you announce that you're carrying his child, he can't help but feel guilty. He has promised himself never to sire a child, a bastard's bastard, and now he had brought shame on you. You would have been better without him, really, better with someone worthy of you. If only he had been more careful. What if you died in labour? What if the baby died? It's with those dark thoughts that he snaps out of it and decides that he will look after you until then. He will pray for you and the baby, be there for the both of you until life takes him.

Tom Bennett

He isn't even surprised, you're his girl after all. It's not like he had planned it, but it was bound to happen at some point. Deep down, Tom is a family man, always taking care of his folks, a fact he is finally brutally made aware of when you tell him the news and a warm feeling fills his chest. Now he just have to find a way to get you a ring. Maybe he'll have to steal it?

Will

It wasn't supposed to happen. You were supposed to get sick of him like everybody eventually did, and he was supposed to remain detached. But then here you are, saying you want to keep it and he allows himself to hope. Hope that maybe you truly love him, that maybe he'll finally have something of his own, something to share with you. Maybe he'll be able to let his guard down, like he always longed to. With this news, he felt like he wouldn't be hurt anymore.

I excluded Hoodie, Jack, Jason & Poacher.

[flowerandblood]

Glass Cuts Deepest Headcanons

Aemond x Wright after events from the series

Headcanons for the closeness and intimacy between Aemond and Wright after the events of the series. They will also include descriptions of sexual encounters and attempts to cope with the trauma of sexual abuse. Series Masterlist

⭐ Aemond must always feel her. When they lie on the sofa together and watch a movie, when they read while sitting next to each other, when they talk in a restaurant. His hand is on her hand, on her thigh, stroking her, an involuntary reflex that he doesn't think about.

⭐ At night he has to hold her, his arm around her back or chest is a bare minimum. Every movement she makes wakes him up, he kisses her forehead or temple every time he's sure they're both safe, and then he falls asleep again.

When he has nightmares, he wakes her up and tells her about it, and she holds him to her breasts, terrified and trembling, stroking his hair and reassuring him that he is safe until he falls asleep again from exhaustion.

⭐ Visiting museums and art galleries together is their common passion, which they fulfill in every free moment, going on trips and sightseeing together. He has to hold her hand as if they were teenagers, while having the same indifferent and cold expression as always, making her laugh. Whenever they are driving anywhere, one of his hands is always on her thigh.

⭐ He loves it when she sits in front of him on the bed or a folded sofa while they watch a series or a movie together. Then he wraps his arms around her body, feeling her wonderfully from all sides, the back of her head resting on his shoulder, his cheek against her temple.

Innocent hanging out usually turns into intense sex as soon as her buttocks press too hard against what's hidden in his pants. His manhood pulsates in response every time, and Wright, feeling him, teases him until he hisses in her ear that she wanted this herself, as he slides her panties off, spread her thighs, and enters her from behind with a firm, violent thrust.

His one hand on her breast, kneading it, playing with her nipple, the other between her thighs, teasing her clit as he fucks her from behind with deep, fast movements, growling if this is what she wanted, if she can't concentrate even on a stupid movie and how many times he have to fuck her to make her behave. Of course, in fact, he will get great satisfaction from it all himself, not giving a damn about whatever they watched.

⭐ Aemond finds herself in a dominant role when it comes to classic sex. He finds satisfaction in tying her hand with his belt to make sure she doesn't touch him while he enjoys her body. Of course, they have predefined rules and safety passwords.

He loves to prolong and deny her orgasms, driving her wild with his tongue and hands, making her one big mess begging for fulfillment. His biggest fear is that he will hurt her so he makes sure he doesn't overdo it by saying "you're doing so good for me, can you hold on for me just a little longer?", "just a little bit more and I'll let you cum, hmm?", "such a good little girl, easy now, we're almost there".

When he finally lets her come, he slides into her almost immediately, himself on the brink of orgasm from what he's doing to her, hard and swollen, with determined thrusts of his hips fucking her with all his might, regardless of how sensitive she is after her orgasm, rubbing her right where she needs it, pushing his tongue deep into her mouth.

Sometimes, while doing this, she will beg him to untie her hands, to intertwine their fingers, that she wants to feel him. Then he stops for a moment, breathing heavily, releasing her, taking her hands in his, going back to what he was doing a moment earlier, listening to her sighs and moans of delight as she reaches another peak with him.

⭐ He proposes to her after a year of their relationship, confident that he wants to be with her for the rest of his life, and forces her to take him to the church where she first saw the stained glass windows as a child while walking with her father.

Wright thought they had only gone there for a walk, however, at one point he lets go of her hand, she turns to him and he kneels in front of her, a small box containing a sapphire ring in his hand.

For a moment Wright can't believe what's happening and panics with happiness, simultaneously crying, suffocating and waving her hands with happiness, before finally choking out a yes.

⭐ After their engagement, he finally decides to introduce her to his family and, to his satisfaction, his relationship with her makes him regain a good connection with his mother again. He has a serious conversation with her about what happened and how he didn't cope with his trauma. They both cry in the other room as Wright and Helaena talk about their favourite books and slowly become friends.

⭐ When Aemond sees her on their wedding day in the church the sun is already setting, the coloured lights of the stained-glass windows illuminate her petite figure as she walks underhand with her father in a modest long-sleeved pearl gown, beautifully embroidered and partly semi-transparent, white flowers in her hair.

He thinks then that it is God himself who gives him his Eve in possession at last, he imagines that he sees her for the first time in his life standing in the Garden of Eden. He gets as emotional as she does, trying not to cry and thus make her cry too, so that she doesn't blur her make-up, but still they both can't hold their tears while saying their vows and they say them with difficulty, stuttering, looking into each other's eyes with a love that he hadn't even dared to dream of before.

⭐ Their wedding night is tender and peaceful, full of laughter and joy. Her touch is warm and respectful, they undress slowly, and then she goes to the bathroom and changes into a lovely long nightgown, from under which, however, the outline of his body is partly visible, which arouses him even more.

He stays in his shirt and trousers however, they don't think about it, he turns her onto her back, intertwines their fingers together and slides into her, panting into her mouth between kisses that they are one from now on before God and will remain one after death, that she will be his Eve too in the new paradise.

⭐ When Wright becomes pregnant for the first time he is stunned and excited, he starts reading lots of parenting articles on the internet and makes Wright laugh by telling her what she should do, what vitamins to take and what could be a risk to the baby. She has to reassure him that she and the doctor have everything under control.

From then on, he constantly keeps his hand on her abdomen. The thought that their child is now there makes his wife seem to him like some kind of superhuman being, a miracle who will be able to bring a new life into their world, and he thinks it is impossible to love someone so much.

He wants her to give up her job for the duration of her pregnancy fearing that the chemicals in the patina and glass paints they inhaled could realistically harm the baby, being toxic, but she was dying of boredom at home and begged him to at least let her cut glass.

He reluctantly agreed and arranged for her to have a room next to his workshop which up to then had been his private studio, and from which he took everything that could be dangerous to her for that time.

⭐ On the day of the delivery he dies of fear that something will go wrong, Wright did not want him to be there when his baby comes into the world fearing that he will just pass out. Her screams and moans of exertion cause him to just start crying, terrified, her parents have to calm him down.

However, when the nurse announces that it's over and he hears his baby crying he almost runs inside, Wright tired, sweaty, pale yet smiling holds their tiny son in her arms, he is all red from the heat and his childish despair that he has been ripped from his mother's warm womb into this cold, scary world.

Looking at her with their baby in her arms, all he can think about is that she looks like the Mother of God with the Child, he sits down next to them in a chair and watches them, unable to get out of his awe at this sight. He then creates many works inspired by this scene, often sketching them while she held their son to her breast, when she was cradling him or playing with him.

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy

[female-hysterics]

I 1000% agree that Aemond would be an amazing Alpha. I'd love a fic of him and his beloved Omega. Like meeting and claiming and heat and all sorts. Gods. It would be so good. He'd never let Aegon or Daemon near her. And Rhaenyra would want to be close to another omega because gods alphas can be a lot. And Helaena is 100% a beta. She'd be the only one that Aemond would probably let bear his omega.

OMG Yes to everything! 👏

Aegon wouldn't be allowed within 15 ft of Aemond's Omega at all times and Daemon would need a escort and Aemond would have to be present. No way he would allow his Omega to be near them or any other Alpha (his father is the exception)

Rhaenyra would LOVE to have another Omega around to keep company. Surrounded by Alpha pheromones and their peacocking causes enough headaches so she would relish the change. Also it's just nice to have someone like her around to keep her sane and to probably gossip a bit 😉

Helaena would also like the company. As a Beta she is often used to keep the Alphas calm so it's a nice change of pace to spend time with an Omega who doesn't expect anything from her.

(ALSO I absolutely love the idea of Helaena being a Beta. Better to calm down Alpha!Aegon 👌)

Aemond definitely has his hands full keeping his Omega safe. Makes his instincts even more intense and causes him to be extremely overprotective and possessive. When she nears her Heat Aemond wouldn't even let her leave their room or allow anyone but his mother or Helaena to enter.

And when she's in Heat?? Oh boy 🥵

Would spend a majority of the day scenting her and marking her with his own scent. Would keep her on his knot and growl at the slightest noise from their bedchamber doors. Would hand feed her and bathe her when needed just to roll around in their nest to get his scent back on her.

Would also come over her cunt and breasts. Further marking his territory.

[liaa--qb]

Sorry 😂😂😅

[bugshideaway]

|| seeing him as prince regent the next season (im going feral)

[klaus-littlestwolf]

HC for Ewan Mitchell/Martin Fans

Anyone who has seen the In the Modern World music video knows and loves Martin, but that’s all we get, a first name.

I needed to look into it and in the end, decided to just give him a fitting last name.

Martin Whitlock.

It flows, sounds good, not too long or awkward and the meaning is perfect!

“Whit”-meaning white

“lock”-meaning tresses or curls

It literally means “White Haired” and I think it’s a perfect callback to our favorite White Haired War Criminal, Aemond Targaryen🥰

(Also, Martin clearly has black hair so it just seems like a funny parallel)

I don’t know if anyone will agree or honestly care but for any Martin fans, please join me in giving our new favorite character (who we need Headcanons for considering the amount of content we have) his very own last name.

Ladies and Gentlemen…

Martin Whitlock!

[humanpurposes]

Michael Gavey Headcanons

Main Masterlist

Warnings: smut, me being insane for this freak

A/n: I've never done headcanons before I just needed to get this out of my system because I am in a MOOD

Michael Gavey being a virgin loser boy when he starts at Oxford, obviously.

Completely falling for a girl at his college.

Their first kiss being slow and soft and innocent.

But once he starts to get a taste for this, the close contact, the feeling of her lips and her tongue, her body beneath his hands, it starts to drive him insane.

A study date in her bedroom turns into a makeout session and suddenly she's pushing him back against the bed. He's just so happy to be here, getting to see all of her, pawing at her waist and her hips as she straddles him.

He's a desperate, subby little mess, so eager to follow her instructions and make her feel good. And trying so hard not to come too quickly but she's so tight and wet and warm, he can't help it :/

After that he's insatiable. Any spare minute they have he wants to be between her legs, make her come with his fingers and his tongue. He wants to feel her skin against his, fuck her and feel her fall apart.

He's a perfectionist, and you know once he get a bit more confident and knows what he's doing, his meaner side is gonna come out.

Him gradually finding all her weak points, discovering what she responds to.

He's obsessed with bimbofication, taking this intelligent, beautiful girl and fucking her stupid, pinning her to the mattress with his body while he pounds into her, making her come over and over again until her mind is hazy and her body is limp.

And he'd be SO SMUG about it!!

“Does that feel good? Come on answer me, sweetheart, or have I fucked you dumb?”

Pushing his glasses up his nose while he watches his cock move in and out of her.

“Just like that, my perfect girl, my stupid little slut, mine.”

General taglist (comment to be added or removed!): @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya @dreamsofoldvalyria @targaryenrealnessdarling