#gerry in skirt!!

[neldartkhaina]

💅

[akaikali]

T4T GerryMichael send post

Just to clarify: I am talking about Michael Shelley, not Distortion Michael. Distortion Michael's gender is just "Hey what the fuck???"

[gaysexofficial]

whatever

[accidentalautomaton]

trying to post some older drawings so heres a gerry.. :-3

[mbungu]

@beholdme

Fanart for:

(I totally didn’t give them skirts cause i had a dress on and used myself as reference and was too lazy to think about pants) ((also: give them more skirts, i love them in skirts)) (okay, i’ll admit that it started as a convenience but has evolved into really loving their skirts)

[lorevine]

🔥📚

[randompajamaalt]

I'm deeply invested in your Gerry headcannons

Care to share some more? :D

absolutely!! I love gerry so much I have so many hcs for him so I hope you don’t mind if I just.. pour em all out for a second

He makes friends with crows as much as he physically can. Whenever he spots crows in the wild he feeds them and makes friends with them so he’s constantly getting new shiny little trinkets. If he has stuff that he doesn’t want anymore he’ll give it to his favorite crow of the week. And yes, he’s named them, and yes, he can tell all of them apart.

he has heterochromia!  one of his eyes is green and the other is a mix of blue and brown. He wears dark brown contacts to cover them because he was kind of convinced they were a weird ugly flaw from a young age and never really got over it. He used to have two blue eyes, only the right one having brown in it, but over time his right eye(the pure blue one) slowly got greener as his connection to The Eye got stronger. It was almost fully green by the time he got his tattoos.

he would totally have fun in the sky vast

his familial trauma from being abused probably got him into the habit of walking silently, and that only got better with the whole hunt thing, so now he can creep up on anyone without making a single sound. He usually does it on accident

Whenever he’s in a particularly bad situation or a super bad mood the temperature around him goes down. and like- gets chilly. It’s not usually noticeable but sometimes it’s super strong 

SO YOU KNOW HOW HE HAS EYE TATTOOS ON EVERY JOINT. I personally hc they’re all around the same size- kind of small-ish. And if they’re on every joint that means they’re on his knuckles, wrists, elbows, shoulders, hips, knees, ankles, toes, and UP HIS ENTIRE SPINE. UP TO WHERE HIS HAIR ENDS. but hear me out- the jaw is also a joint. WHAT IF. He had eyes on both sides of his jaw.

He pronounces “Chamomile” like “Sha-momma-lay” and nobody has ever bothered to correct him. Gertrude caught it on tape once

I don’t actually think he has a whole lot of piercings. Maybe his earlobes but tbh not much else? Idk why but he just seems like he would prefer tattoos and then just wear fake piercings everywhere else. Like he just doesn’t see the point of going through the whole process of trying to keep the piercings clean when he can just wear cool fake ones.

He likes drawing all over himself. One time Gertrude yelled at him abt it because he was using sharpie.

He loves stickers!! Sometimes he sticks them on books, sometimes on himself, and sometimes just anywhere he can reach. Whenever he passes a craft store he can’t help but buy a bunch of stickers.

He knows a tiny bit about sewing because of all the times he’s had to repair his clothes and sew on patches. He did make a skirt by himself once! Maybe I’ll draw it sometime :D

and yeah that’s all I can think of for now! that uh. was longer than expected. But it was fun!! Tysm for asking I love sharing my hcs :D

[birdeagle]

look its everyones favourite book burning goth !!!!!

[poorlemons]

Michael hitting his head on the door frame, Michael w Gerry Keay (😔 I am no better than the rest), Michael fussing over Gertrude, Michael laughing (not silly I just like it) uhhhh Michael in a skirt or dress, Michael tripping and falling, iiiiiiii am trying to think of more.

you never specified which michael version so i will simply choose which one is funnier for the prompt

im gonna put the other drawings into different posts as i work through em, just for post-length sake but i will be doing them!!!

[saintbleeding]

[ID: Digital drawing of Gerry and Gertrude from The Magnus Protocol. Gerry is a thin white man with grown-out dyed black hair and blonde roots. His hair is in a bun with a pencil and stained paintbrush stuck in it. He wears an open red overshirt, grey jeans, and a black t-shirt with bleach painting on it that reads “Ebony Dark’ness Dementia Raven Keay”. He is holding a mug and biting his lip, looking slyly to one side. Gertrude is an old white woman with silver hair. She wears a red cardigan, blue shirt, and grey skirt, with spectacles on a chain perched on her nose. She looks in the same direction as Gerry, frowning disapprovingly. End ID.]

“my grandson” 10 hour compilation tbh

[akaikali]

michael deserves pretty dresses!! (and gerry deserves to panic over his pretty boyfriend in aforementioned pretty dresses)

there WILL be a part 2 to this. eventually. soon.

[toocabaret]

I’ve been having some Thoughts™️ about the weird meta paradox of gerri kellman’s sexuality. as basically The Older Woman on the executive floor she’s trying as much as is possible to blend in with her male colleagues while also not being perceived to be doing so. muted colours and understated makeup. a competent filing cabinet. her husband is dead and her daughters are nameless. she was sexual once but that’s out of sight out of mind and now it’s just the work. it must be a relief in some ways to become finally unfuckable because you’re over 40. she can finally be taken seriously, but only if she toes the line between being too female and not female enough. trying but not too hard. desirable in the past tense only. an honorary man but still in a skirt. and while the men around her can fuck their much younger assistants and get sports massages and run a sex trafficking ring on a cruise ship, she is the job and only the job and that keeps her safe. for a bit anyway.

the irony of gerri saving the company from the full legal extent of a sex scandal by dating someone from the DOJ??? like i’ll never be over it. even filing cabinets have to flatter and please and fuck when called upon. i genuinely don’t believe any of the other execs could have swung it because they’re not women. she dated laurie (generally unseen unless framed from another man’s possessive perspective) to save the men from going to jail for covering up rape allegations. the irony is delicious. and even though she did that, she’s discarded once she’s framed sexually. Dick Pic Gate was out of her control and yet when confronted with any element of gerri’s sexuality (even her PASSIVE sexuality, even after using it to save his company), logan dismisses her as weak or impractical or failing or whatever other excuse he uses to justify his disgust.

i would argue that roman’s interest in gerri is not in spite of but BECAUSE of her asexual framing. it’s a challenge that he’s never going to win which is ideal for his impotency issues; he can push and push and get the thrill out of it, out of the fucked up power dynamic, but he knows he’ll never have to actually fuck her. it’s all hypothetical: down a phone, through a door, half-joking, covered in sensible skirt suits. gerri’s deliberate lack of sexualizing is counterintuitively a turn-on for roman. and i bet the game of chicken they play is freeing for her too because the fact that she has to be professional and cannot be sensual is part of the fun of it. “roman is weird about gerri”. “it’s fucking disgusting”. not because of their family history, or their professional positions, but because she’s old. because the absence of her sexuality is enough of a presence to be off-putting. shiv patronising her about it as a power play is so weird because she’s talking to her simultaneously like a child and like an old woman, and gerri, agency-less, just has to keep reassuring her “i can cope”.

BUT it’s worse than that because it’s so meta. Because gerri is hot. her actor is attractive and like roman, many people watching find her sexless, no-nonsense framing to be titillating. me included. what if roman likes gerri not because of oedipal issues but just because she’s hot and god forbid we find a woman over 50 hot? but whether or not gerri is hot in the context of the show shouldn’t be a big deal, she should have been able to escape this by now!!! she’s in her 60s she’s a widow she’s tired stop sexualizing her!!! but don’t NOT sexualize her either because that’s problematic too and old women can be hot and old women shouldn’t have to be hot and suddenly i’m making gerri do what waystar does and exist as something sexual and non-sexual at the same time. she has a huge plotline in which she’s essentially a sex object. whether or not gerri is fuckable is talked about as much in the show with mildly-disgusted fascination as it is in the real world!!! she can’t win she’s hot she’s old she’s sexually framed she’s deliberately trying not to be she wants sex she doesn’t want sex she’s covering sex with sex and she’s telling roman to leave her alone so she can just do her damn job because she knows that this is what will bring her down!!! sex scandals historically don’t get men fired but an unsolicited dick pic knocks gerri off her podium in logan’s head forever. even now i’m talking about it at such length because i’ve given it so much thought!!! she’s the only woman in the old guard and she’s one of the most sexualized characters in succession. but only as a joke. in the abstract. never actually. because that would be weird. right?

[z3nitsusgf]

omg help me your Roman Roy fic was amazing,,, you truly have a gift .

we need more Roman pussy eating fics! just thinking about his hands moving up your skirt, you sitting up on his big important boss man desk, his face buried between your legs, stubble grazing your inner thigh, you grab his hair and your back arches, head thrown back, your gasps and moans are echoed by his own as he gets off from eating you out.

You resist the urge to make a sound. Even though he’s lapping at your cunt like a fucking dog, you restrain yourself. You gnaw on your lip, feeling the busted capillaries at the surface release that familiar iron taste. You’re wet, embarrassingly so. You can hear the slick sloppy sounds of Roman sucking at your clit. You’re breathing heavy, panting and clawing at his desk as if that’ll help.

Anyone could walk past and see you getting tongue-fucked by their bosses son. Not that they’d say anything, but you’d be absolutely mortified.

“Roman- please, you can’t,” you squirm when he nips your folds, “not here.”

He groans, you sound so whiny. So breathy and on the verge of crying. He grips at your hips, your pencil skirt slid up and pooled around your waist. Panties tugged down (semi-ripped) across your ankles.

“Shut up.” He mumbles into you, the stubble across his jaw prickling your inner thighs. You jump at the feeling, squeezing around his head. You whine, trying not to kick up your legs and crush him.

“Just let me fucking drown myself in your pussy.”

He’s pawing at your hips, slipping them from outside to in. Running clean hands across your jumpy thighs and over your slick folds. He smashes his thumb against your sticky clit, rubbing sloppy harsh circles against the soft bud. Your hips stutter, he chases your bucking hips to rub at your clit.

“Sensitive?”

He asks with a grin, he knows you are. He loves it. You whine, feeling the wet stickiness between your thighs drip.

“Roman-“

There’s most definitely a puddle of cum and slick underneath your ass. But Roman doesn’t give a shit, he’ll probably get some underpaid janitor to clean it up. It’s not like they haven’t done it before. Vaguely, you wonder what would happen if someone important saw. Like his brother, or his dad. Or even Gerri.

“Fuck, you’re fucking dripping.” He mumbles, hair messy and swept back. Strands of brown draping across his wide eyes and tickling your thighs.

You let out a yelp when he buries his face back between your legs, licking from the bottom of your cunt to the very top. It’s like he’s making out with it, dipping his tongue in and moaning at the way he can feel you clench around the soft pink muscle. He’s almost tempted to just say fuck it and fuck you over the desk. Who cares?

You feel like you’re gonna pass out. You’re panting, chest heaving and you scratch at his expensive glossy desk, nails trying to find purchase without tugging at your bosses hair. Your moans have his cock leaking against his slacks, staining the light grey dark. He tries not to hump the air, but it gets harder with each passing second. He might cream his pants if he’s not careful.

“Gonna soak my face, hm? Gonna get nice and fucking wet for me?”

You wish you could say you hate the way he speaks to you, but you’d be lying. It makes you whimper and drip and clench around nothing. Nodding your head and shuffling your hips to try and get a better angle. Roman grins like a fucking demon, staring up at you while he demolishes your pussy. Sucking at your sensitive clit and pressing his thumbs into your thighs to hold you open. It’s debauched, messy and wet. The definition of slutty.

It’s like the middle of a shitty porno, a boss eating out his favorite assistants cunt on his desk. Uncaring of the consequences because he’s never had to face them before.

Because who’s gonna tell the Roman Roy shit?

[lightless-flame-official]

gerry keay (classic flavor):

skinny. not in a way most people notice off the bat, because he's quite tall and very good at looking big, but leitner hunting burns a lot of calories and he's been chronically underfed for most of his life

eye tattoos on each of his joints, placed there by supernatural means as a protective ward against other powers

his hair always looks like shit for several reasons, including but not limited to:

- he doesn't like to dye it when his mother is around, both because of the vulnerability of the position and because he doesn't like to be Perceived by her while doing anything he actually. ya know. enjoys. this means that it has a lot of time to fade and his roots grow out.

- if she's around too often for a stretch of time, he has to find a local business he hasn't already been banned from and rinse it out in one of their sinks. this leaves it looking understandably patchy and rushed.

- the dye he uses is cheap as hell -- having his own money is an occasional luxury which cannot be taken for granted.

- he just. generally doesn't take care of himself and his hair suffers overall as a result. he doesn't shower often enough and when he does he uses precisely one (1) type of soap. and it's like. if they have irish springs bar soaps in england then it's that and if they don't then it's the closest equivalent.

he isn't actually like. goth. as we would think of it.

black clothes don't show bloodstains and they made him feel safe edgy and dangerous as a teenager.

we're talking thrift store jeans purchased when he was 16 an never replaced. maybe some band tees. boots for marching into a den of hunt avatars.

the leather jacket is also secondhand and while yes he does feel very badass and cool in it it's also a practical piece. good for fighting. especially when the people you're fighting might have claws or want to set you on fire.

sewing needle piercings with visible scarring around them.

he just generally looks. kinda sick all the time? again, not something that usually registers because he's also good at being intimidating but if you're looking for it there's all kinds of evidence of chronic sleep deprivation and malnutrition. he looks unhealthy, concerning.

gerry keay (tmagp):

goth. like, real goth. like buying from thrift stores still but more often and having fun with it now.

we're talking fishnets. we're talking eyeliner. we're talking black lipstick. we're talking absurd and impractical jewelry. we're talking dabbles in lacy skirts and definitely owns a corset. and yes he still wears a leather jacket but exclusively because it feels cool and badass. he's goth babey!

no longer skinny. precise body type is whatever your heart tells you is true but three square meals agree with him and he's gained a very noticeable amount of weight.

the hair dye is still not professional, his roots grow in occasionally and it's still a bit patchy, because he's still doing it at home, but also. he's doing it at home. it's fun, and he has fun with it. the dye is better quality. gertrude helps him with touchups. black is still a favorite but he's dabbled in other colors, dark purples and greens and blues.

loves to be covered in stuff. when he's baking, he will intentionally smear flour on his black pants and make it look accidental, and when he paints he doesn't wash his hands. this is partially so he can see the evidence himself, and partially because he wants people to notice it and ask. he wants to say, "oops, i was baking earlier, i must've wiped my hands on my pants."

he still has shitty irresponsible piercings from when he was a teenager. the more recent ones are more professional.

his tattoos are pretty and useless. he designed most of them himself.

there's color in his face. sleeping gets a little easier every night.

[cult-of-the-eye]

@itisonlyeyes your henna design has made me think about jmart south Asian wedding and I'm Not Ok

Jon in a beautifully gorgeous deep green, bedazzled kurta/lehenga hybrid so like slightly more masculine kurta with some small, neat embroidery on the edges with a flowy huge lehenga skirt

He didn't go for the dupatta/orna/scarf cause hes still not great with potential restrictions of movement

He's all decked out in the bridal jewellery - my man is wearing the Biggest silver earrings, he's got the massive fake nose piercing that connects to his hair and hes SLAYING. (Maybe his grandma passed them down??)

You bet he's got that brooding bridal look down!! Although he sees Martin and he cannot keep it up for the life of him he's just a smiling mess

There's no loud music. (I know I'm sorry but it's them, the music is simple and meaningful and the guest list is small so its not quite the usual south Asian wedding but they enjoy themselves)

Martin is dressed very smartly in a light blue kurta, with billowing embroidery etching it's down up the kurta's sleeves and following in henna down his hands

He'd wearing light blue nail polish to match and his hair is dyed the same colour at the edges

I like the idea of Jon and martin sitting down and talking about what they wanted and coming up with the rituals not cause of the religious or cultural significance but because of what it meant to them specifically.

Like they do vows cause Martin has always loved that part of weddings and let's be honest, he just wants a chance to say nice things about Jon without him protesting and Jon agrees cause of literally the same reason (they're not good at compliments)

They do the turns around the fire but they hold hands instead of being tied to each other cause they feel like it represents how they chose each other and they do 15 turns cause it's Martin's lucky number (they first met on the 15th October 2015)

They skip the haldi cause sensory issues

They instead get everyone to make their own flower garlands and give them to each other and obviously Jon and Martin make each others flower garlands and Jon mostly agrees to it cause Martin seemed enthusiastic about it and he did want to keep the giving each other flower garland ritual but he gets the Most Excited about it in the end cause hes super detail oriented about his, making sure each flower is specifically positioned how he wants it to and Martin's going off just vibes. They must be the correct vibes but vibes nonetheless.

I love the idea of doing the bride's side has to steal the grooms shoes and the grooms side has to stop this from happening so we can get Shenanigans (Tim is the most intense about this. Gerry comes a close second. Sasha wins though.)

There aren't so much sides, cause everyone's friends with both, which makes the shoe game even more intense cause you never know when people will swap sides.

Gerry does their henna. He just gives off good at drawing vibes I dunno.

[dilemmaontwolegs]

The Challenge {2/2}

Aemond Targaryen x fem!bladesmith!reader Summary: It is time to deliver the sword to the prince. Warnings: 18+ only, nsfw, jousting, smut, caught in the act WC: 3.9k

HOTD Masterlist || Part One || Part Two

Two weeks passed quickly as you worked tirelessly on Prince Aemond’s sword. 

You had not heard from him since he left that morning and you were not sure whether or not you had expected him to send a message of some kind before you made the journey to King’s Landing. You couldn’t deny you were a little disappointed he hadn’t sent a raven - if for no other reason than to check in on the progress of your work. 

Nevertheless, you had gone above and beyond to create the masterpiece before you. 

It was by far the most expensive piece you had invested in and the twin sapphires alone had cost a small fortune but after being inset into the eyes of the dragon on the pommel you knew it was worth it. 

The sword was made of manganese steel imported from Dothraki, which was far lighter than iron, and had been folded with carbon dozens of times over to increase the tensile strength of the metal. The fierce dragon had been carved into the manganese steel and then dipped in gold but the snarling teeth were made of white gold and polished to perfection. 

There was no way to mistake this for any common blade and it was truly fit for royalty. 

A local leatherworker had taken the measurements of the sword and made a scabbard that would protect it while it was not in use and you slid the sword into the sheath before locking it into a travel box. 

“Your carriage is ready to leave, mistress,” Gerry said after knocking at your bedroom door. “Oh, you look lovely.”

The dress was stiff and uncomfortable and you wished you could travel in more sedate clothes but in public such a scandal could lead to incarceration and that would be bad for business. The other option was to wear the heavy cloaks of your work attire but even after a thorough washing they never smelt or looked very pleasant. 

“I look like a meringue,” you murmured, shrugging the puffy sleeves that capped just above your elbow. 

“Nonsense,” Gerry said with a giggle, taking it upon herself to straighten the layers of skirts so they hung neatly. “The prince will be lost for words, mistress.”

You narrowed your eyes at your housemaid. “What makes you say that?”

She couldn’t suppress the smile that she tried to hide behind her hand and shook her head. “The girls talk, mistress. Kasia and Tiff heard from Kyron, the stable boy, that the prince and his guard were arguing before they left.”

You shouldn't have been interested in gossip but you were leaning forward in anticipation as her smile grew. Finally you lost patience and huffed as she forced you to ask, “Arguing about what?”

“You, of course.”

“Me?”

“Aye, the prince confessed he had fallen to temptation of the flesh. That had to be you, right, mistress,” she said with a wink. “I imagine his highness has a date with the High Septon on his return. You were careful, right?”

You rolled your eyes and gave a droll nod. “Yes, mother.”

“Don’t bite my head off, I promised your ma I would watch over you, bless her soul. Now be on your way, it is a long ride.”

Kasia was already waiting at the front of the house with the carriage and you climbed into the cab before making space for her. You would have preferred for Gerry to make the three day journey with you but she wasn’t comfortable going anywhere near the capital, and you didn’t pry to find out why. 

The carriage driver whipped the reins and you jostled with the movement, eventually falling into a routine sway as the horses ambled along the road that would take you south to King's Landing. 

The noise of the crowd was unlike anything you had heard and the musicians playing an upbeat tune only added to the cacophony. Peddlers worked the stands around the stadium, selling their merchandise to the viewers, while food stalls were erected outside with the scent of their goods almost eradicating the smell from the horse stables beyond. 

Finding space on a bench seat, you pulled Kasia down beside you and stilled her leg that kept bouncing excitedly with every match that went by. You had arrived later than expected when the wheel of the carriage broke outside of Rosby and so far Ser Criston hadn’t lost a match in both jousting and sword fighting, but you were hoping to catch the next one.

You were beginning to tire of the harsh sun that beat down, the temperature enough to rival your workshop, and ready to find some solace in the shade when the next trumpets fared for the jousting final.

“Mistress, that is Prince Jacaerys,” Kasia gasped as she pointed to the house flag that had been raised and a chestnut steed trotted into the lists with a helmeted rider upon its back. “Who would dare strike a prince?”

You had an inkling as you looked to the other side of the arena and saw the flag of House Cole being draped onto the rung. “Unbelievable.”

A white stallion leisurely walked into the lists and you were the only one who wasn’t surprised to see Prince Aemond riding atop with his helmet tucked under his arm. Whispers began to spread along the rows of viewers as they realised it had been the One-Eyed Prince fighting under his knight’s banner the entire time. 

“What is the meaning of this, Aemond?” King Viserys asked as he rose slowly from the royal box. 

“It was pointed out that fighting as a prince may lead my opponents to go easy on me, and I would not have that shame,” he said with a smirk thrown Jacaerys’ way. “That need not be a problem now will it, nephew?”

Prince Jacaerys pushed his visor up over his helmet and dark hair tumbled out to frame his face. Even from so far away you could see his brown eyes were full of disdain and his jaw was clenched as he spoke through his teeth, “No problem, Uncle.”

It would have been embarrassing should he have said otherwise, he would have been practically admitting he only reached the finals because of his royal title whether or not it was true.

“Well played,” you chuckled to yourself as you watched Prince Aemond place his helmet on his head and shove a gloved hand out for his steward to give him the lance. 

In the royal box the mothers, Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenrya, shot to their feet and rushed to the edge balustrade with concern etched into their faces. The look they shared both held reprehension for the other and you briefly wondered what it was about before a cheer erupted and your attention was brought back to the match.

The princes spurred their horses forward with a kick of the stirrups and you leaned forward in your seat with the rest of the crowd.

There was not a whisper in the air as anticipation held the spectators in silent suspension. To cheer either prince would be to insult the other so not a sound was made.

The horses reached the fence and raced towards each other with thundering hoofbeats. The distance narrowed and no one took a breath as they lowered their lances, the blunt tips aimed at the other.

From your vantage point in the stands you could see how Prince Aemond’s head was turned far more than Prince Jacaerys’ to account for the lost vision in his left eye but his aim was still well positioned. With the extra height he had over his nephew, Aemond’s reach was greater and his lance smashed into the Velaryon’s chest, glancing off the armour and under the shoulder plate.

A collective wince hissed across the crowd and the younger prince screamed as he was thrown from his horse. The scream was echoed by his mother and Princess Rhaenyra rushed from the royal box to check on his welfare along with the maesters. At least given the painful squirming on the ground, he was certainly alive.

Prince Aemond tore his helmet off and his silver hair shimmered in the brutal sunlight, it was almost too bright to look at directly but even with the glare there was no hiding the smirk on his face. Dismounting to the dirt, he sauntered over to his nephew and dropped to one knee beside him, his hand hovering over the wound he had dealt.

How you wished to be close enough to hear what he said, because although he looked like he was offering condolences there was no mistaking the disdain on his face or the amusement when Jacaerys weakly tried to push him away.

Looking up, Aemond saw his half sister nearing and rose to his feet, swiftly leaving the arena without a care for the splatterings of polite clapping for his win.

“That is my queue,” you said to Kasia as you grabbed the boxed sword from where you had kept it safely hidden beneath your skirts and rose to your feet. “I shall see you back at the inn for dinner.”

It wasn’t difficult to find Prince Aemond with his hair like a beacon. Everyone gave him a wide berth in the streets except for his trusted knight who noticed your approach first and sighed heavily. It was the sigh that caught Aemond’s attention and he turned to see what had elicited the annoyed sound from his friend.

The surefooted prince stumbled as he spotted you and his eye travelled your body from head to toe twice before he blinked and recovered.

“I almost didn’t recognise you,” he admitted and nodded his head to Ser Criston. “You may leave, I am sure my mother will want to accost you for the role you played today.”

The white cloak knight didn’t look pleased but nodded back before casting a glance your way and shaking his head. You couldn’t help but send him a sweet smile and bat your lashes at him with a dainty wave of your fingers, earning a chuff of a laugh from the prince.

“Blessed name day, my prince,” you greeted him when you were alone and once more walking towards the Red Keep. You held the box out for him, grateful you no longer had to lug it around the city. “As requested.”

“Do you have a sister?” he asked, taking it from your hands and tucking it under one arm. “You look rather similar to a woman I met a few weeks ago, though she was a little more scrappy and rather filthy.”

“Ha ha,” you exaggerated with a roll of your eyes. “Here I thought you were a prince but I have been fooled by a court jester. Funny how one and two are the same.”

“There she is.” He grinned and opened a door that led to a courtyard but the small joy he had disappeared in the company of the few people milling about. They shifted uncomfortably in his presence and the place fell silent until he had passed under an archway and turned down a corridor.

You were utterly lost by the many turns it took to come to the room he eventually led you, closing the door behind with a click of the lock.

The box thudded as he placed it on a writing desk that was covered with books and letters with the dragon crest drawn upon. They couldn’t have been important as he shoved them aside and unlatched the lid.

“Congratulations on your win,” you said as he opened the reward. “You must be proud.”

“I don’t give a shit about tourneys,” Prince Aemond retorted as he unsheathed the sword before twirling it in his hands. “I just wanted to see the look on that bastard's face when he lost.”

He continued to inspect the weapon, staring down its length to ensure it was straight before pricking his finger on the tip to test how sharp it was. He gave a satisfied hum at the conclusion and you bit your lip at the reminder of the similar sounds he had made.

Finally he brought the pommel closer and peered at the intricate dragon with intense scrutiny. “Incredible.”

“I’m almost reluctant to part ways with it,” you teased and he gripped the handle tighter as if he were prepared to fight you for it. “But you seem rather attached already and I’m feeling charitable.”

“How generous of you.” He rolled his eye and sheathed the sword before buckling the scabbard to his belt and pointing to a large purse on the table. “I suppose that means I can return that small fortune to the coffers then.”

You scoffed and crossed your arms over your chest. “I’m not that charitable.”

Unaccustomed to wearing dresses, you hadn’t realised crossing your arms had pushed your breasts up dangerously high and they were barely contained by the corset. It was only the lingering stare of the prince and the widening of his eye that drew your attention down where he was fixated.

“Not one raven, not even a ‘hello, how have you been?’” you tutted and ran your fingertips teasingly over the skin of your bosom. “I should be insulted.”

His eye followed the movement hungrily. “You have the attention of a prince, insulted is not the word that comes to mind.” One long stride closed the distance and you craned your head back to hold his stare.

“Did you confess your sins to the Septon?” you had to know as you felt the heat of his armour warming your skin. “Did you repent for the sordid touch?”

“I did. And I swore I would banish all thoughts of you from my mind.” He swallowed deeply and reached for the bowtie that held the laces of your corset together. “I did so knowing it was a lie.”

You cursed under your breath as his words affected you more than you expected and you covered his hand with yours, guiding it to the delicate laces so he would hurry up and free you from the constraints of the dress. You could finally breathe liberally and you inhaled deeply as the heavy materials fell to the floor but there wasn’t time to waste as you reached for his armour.

Your deft fingers made quick work of the buckles and Aemond caught the heavy plates before they could clatter to the floor, instead depositing them to the side where they wouldn’t cause an accident. 

Next went his damp clothes, the material strewn across the room as you wrapped each layer like a gift - eager to get to the prize that waited beneath.

“I’ve heard men fuck like a lion after fighting in a tourney, like the sweat gets their blood pumping,” you stated as you push him into the chair in front of his desk and straddled his lap. 

He grabbed your hips and lined himself up with your entrance, pulling up down his length until you couldn’t take anymore and gasped at the fullness. He still wasn’t done, not when he wanted to tease you with more than his body, his lips following the line of your jaw until he reached your ear and whispered, “Lions are nothing compared to a dragon.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders as you held on tight and rolled your hips to take your pleasure from him. He let you have your moment, enjoying the warmth of your cunt as it tightened around him and the press of your breasts to his skin, but then he wanted to chase his own ecstasy and gripped your hips. His arms should have been weak and trembling from the day spent fighting but they were still strong as he guided you up and down his cock. 

“Fuck, Aemond, you feel so good.”

“Hmm,” he growled in your ear, “I am your prince.”

“You can be my prince out there but right now you are just a man, now fuck me like one.”

In an instant you were empty and he was on his feet, spinning you around and bending you over his desk. The void you were missing was filled with one rough thrust and his hand slapped over your mouth to muffle the cry of dark pleasure that erupted. 

Gone was the restraint, gone was the control. Prince Aemond was unleashed. 

The wood cut into your hips and his ink pot spilled, books tumbled to the floor and the armour resting against the table leg toppled over. The clatter of metal was like the herald bells being struck and shouts came from outside the door. 

“Fuck,” Aemond growled at the knock that quickly followed. “Go away.”

“My prince, it is your mother,” Ser Criston called out.

“Fuck.” This time the sound wasn’t from frustration but fear and he pulled out in a rush to find his clothes scattered around the room. “Give me a minute.”

“Cole, move,” a surprisingly stern order came from a gentle feminine voice and the lock on the door was opened from the outside before the door swung open.

“Mother,” Aemond greeted quietly as he covered his manhood and bowed his head.

“I expect this unbecoming behaviour from your brother but,” she sighed dramatically and Aemond’s head dipped further at the disappointment radiating from his mother, “not my sweet Aemond.”

You coughed a laugh and covered your mouth as the sound drew her attention to you. You didn’t have enough hands to cover your nakedness and your dress was inconveniently in a head at her feet. 

“Who are you?”

“I’m no one, your highness,” you said as you shifted on your feet and tried to shimmy across to hide behind the prince. 

“Her name is Y/N,” Ser Criston said without even stepping into the room.

“The bladesmith you visited, who is also the daughter of the metal merchant?” she confirmed as she took a second look at you before turning her back. “Cover yourselves.”

“Yes, mother.” Aemond grabbed your dress first and tossed it with more force than necessary before swiping his own undershorts up from the floor. “I will go to the Sept and confess.”

“Don’t bother,” Alicent scoffed with a toss of her head. “You are not contrite. No, I have another way for you to repent and save your honour.”

It was far harder to get the dress back on than it was to get off, especially since it had taken the help of Kasia last time. You were still busy trying to thread the laces back through the eyelets when the Queen dropped the bomb.

“You will wed her, Aemond. I won’t have any more shame on this house.”

“Mother,” Aemond interrupted but she held up a hand to silence him, something that wasn’t going to stop you.

“Beg your pardon, majesty, but fuck that. I’ll take a vow of silence and be on my way out of this dreadful city.”

“Silence? From you?” she said with a humourless laugh. “If the people weren't still watching the tourney the entire residence would have heard your filth. No, I’ve made up my mind.”

“More like lost it,” you uttered before Aemond pinned you with a glare that had you closing your mouth once again.

“Cole, make sure my son’s betrothed finds her way to her own room. Alone.” With that she departed and Aemond’s posture slumped.

The moment she was out of hearing range you turned to him. “I’m serious, I’m not marrying you, or anyone for that matter.”

“I don’t believe we have a choice.”

“I do.” You tied a knot in the lace just enough to be sure it wouldn’t suddenly come apart as you stormed out of the room and straight into that bothersome guard. “Move.” Ser Criston looked at the prince but you snapped your fingers in front of his face. “I’m talking to you, so don’t look at him.”

“Let her pass,” Aemond said and your head spun incredulously towards him to find him already dressed. “I’ll escort her.”

“To the ladies wing?” he asked as he moved aside and let you through.

“To the stables.” Aemond caught your arm and turned away from his guard to head in the other direction. “I’ll not marry a stranger because I wanted to wet my prick.”

“How uncouth,” you teased as you hurried to match his pace through the Red Keep. “Such a filthy mouth, Prince Aemond.”

He growled as he pushed you against the cold stone wall and caged you between his arms, his erection hard against your hip through the layers of cloth separating you. “Now is not the time to tease me.”

“Yeah?” you pushed back, grinding yourself shamelessly against him in the empty hall. “Or what?”

Aemond’s fist hit the stone with a groan before his hand circled your wrist and tugged you with a renewed pace. “You were born of the Seven Hells, I swear.”

“What makes you say that, my prince?” I asked sweetly. “My devilish good looks or what was it my stable boy overheard…oh yes, my tempting flesh?”

Aemond opened a door and the irritating smell of stale dust told you the storage room was not often used before he pushed you inside and closed the door behind him. “This is the last time,” he promised himself as he bunched the material of your skirt up over your waist and freed himself from his trousers.

You knew you would miss the feeling of him stretching your cunt with each thrust and the way he stroked your walls until they clenched around him. None of your past lovers had been able to fill you quite like he did, or take your attitude either.

“You can always visit me,” you offered in a moment of weakness as the tension of the oncoming orgasm built, “when your sword needs taking care of.”

The sounds of your bodies slapping together filled the room and the table you were sitting upon rocked as Aemond filled the space between your legs. His hand dropped your skirts so he could cradle your face, his thumb tracing your lips. “The bladesmiths here will suffice.”

“I wasn’t talking about that sword.” You nipped at his thumb and smirked, feeling him react instantly as he rutted harder against you. Your legs wrapped around his and your hands slipped under his shirt as you pulled him closer, chasing the high that was cresting inside you.

Your orgasm erased your ability to think and your body jerked as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you. The feel of your cunt pulsing around him tipped the prince over the edge and he released a shuddering breath as he spilled himself within you.

There was no time to enjoy the afterglow and Aemond tucked himself back into his trousers before pulling your skirt down over your legs that were still dangling off the table.

“I doubt my mother will let me leave the keep for a while after this,” he said as he helped you off the table and onto shaking legs.

“Do you always do what your mother says?” You asked him, fixing one of the clasps of his vest that had come undone.

“Don’t.”

Your lips twitched as you saw the fire in his eye. “Don’t what, my prince?”

“Don’t challenge me.”

“Afraid to lose?”

He chuckled and caught your chin between his thumb and forefinger. His teeth bared as he leaned closer and his silver hair brushed your shoulder while his hot breath kissed your skin.

“You should know by now…I never lose.”

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