#great landing pages

[hungryriverbeast]

"My good friend, Dr. Elsie Roberts."

[slothquisitor]

Invisible String: Chapter One

A Baldur's Gate III Modern AU.

Chapter Summary: Brand new to Baldur's Gate, without friends or family but with a dream job as an archivist at Baldur's Gate University (that barely pays anything), Liv is introduced by a friend of a friend to Astarion whose social media career seems to be stalling and is therefore willing to rent out his spare bedroom to her.

The roommates mostly avoid one another, and in a burst of loneliness, Liv joins the new app everyone in Baldur's Gate is talking about: The Weave. Who knows, maybe she really will meet someone and fall in love...

Read on AO3.

___________________________________________________________

The music is no longer blaring and the lights are no longer strobing, but they might as well be for the way they continue to echo through Astarion’s mind. He sits at the cleanest of the empty tables in the Elfsong and nurses an end of shift drink. It feels nice to have a solid span of five minutes without anyone needing a damn thing from him, so he finally decides to check his notifications on his smartphone. 

He doesn’t get far. 

“Fangs!” Karlach yells as she approaches. How the red-skinned tiefling manages to have this much energy after working a full shift should almost certainly be studied. “Third time working this week. Everything alright?”

He glances quickly at the notifications waiting for him, but he sets his phone down with a sigh and puts on the same smile he’s worn most of the evening. “But of course, why wouldn’t it be?”

Karlach sets down her own glass of cider and angles her broad body sideways into the booth he’s claimed. Their fellow employees are beginning to clean up the ravages of the evening in the old bar turned club. With the overhead lights on and the music no longer shaking the space, the room looks rather ordinary and a little dingy. He hates it here. 

Karlach doesn’t. She works here full-time, happy to be a bouncer or the life of the party at the bar, she’s equally at home doing either. He only picks up the odd night or two on the weekends when money is tight. He works hospitality for the VIP guests, smiling and pretending he doesn’t hate their guts. But lately, money has been tighter than usual. So to the Elfsong he trudges. 

“Just don’t usually see you working here so much. Not unless you need a new computer or camera or something.”

He sighs. “If you must know, Chirper is taking a much larger cut from creator funds than ever. So…despite my content doing just as well as it has in the past…there’s less cash flow.”

Karlach nods and takes a deep drink. “You know, I told you to get a smaller apartment so that you wouldn’t be in this position.”

He had purchased his very fabulous, very spacious apartment with the first of his suddenly insane income when he’d started going viral for his roastings of men with terrible fashion sense on Chirper. Now he has a whole consulting business remotely helping men dress less terribly, but the bulk of his income still comes from his merciless Chirper threads making fun of men in power with terrible sense of style. He loves that apartment for all it represents: freedom, security, and ownership. Those things just don’t come very cheap these days and neither does his mortgage. 

“I’ve got it handled, Karlach.”

“You hate spending your nights here,” she replies. 

And she isn’t entirely wrong. Karlach loves the press of people, the attention, but she doesn’t have to take shit from anyone and people still love her. He spends his evenings here smiling and mediating and generally hating himself from dusk until the bar closes a few hours before dawn. It’s his choice to be here, but sometimes when a certain song comes on or he catches just a whiff of the right mix of booze and perfume he’s trapped all over again in a very different club. He doesn’t exactly have a lot of other marketable skills though, so the pay here is good when needs it. 

“It’s fine, really.”

“Have you ever considered getting a roommate?”

He tilts his head at her in disdain. “A roommate, really? That’s your solution?”

“Oh come on, it’s not the worst solution. Consistent income every month would give you more freedom, you’d spend fewer nights here.”

“I just need to figure out how to make the side things more profitable. Or get more sponsorships or whatever. It’s just that so many of them want me to wear their clothes and have personal content. Which doesn’t really work for me,” he says. 

Karlach is one of the few people in the city that knows exactly what he is. Who knows what he was before all this and still doesn’t shrink away, doesn’t seem to mind at all. He’s grateful, of course, even if he still can’t quite fathom what she’s getting out of the arrangement. 

“They still wanting you to show your face?” she asks. 

Objectively, he has a very good face. He’d love to show it off on social media, but a truly charming byproduct of his condition is his inability to do that. Oh, he’s tried all sorts of things, but the outcome is always the same: a blurred smudge where his face should be. 

He nods. “I keep telling them that my anonymity is part of my charm, but everyone wants ‘get ready with mes’ and peeks into the ‘real life’ behind the influencer. I miss when the internet preferred everyone at arm’s length.”

“I don’t,” Karlach scoffs. “Look, I only bring up the roommate thing because my friend Gale told me to keep a lookout for a friend of his who needs a place and you have an entire extra room and bathroom you don’t use.” 

That is not true, he uses the closet in that bedroom regularly. “Gale who works at the library?” Astarion tries to remember. Karlach has lots of friends, and it would probably be good of him to pay more attention when she talks about them. 

“Yeah. Guess she’s a new archivist or something. If she’s anything like Gale, she’d be steady and dependable. And unlikely to be prone to throwing large parties.”

There’s a slew of reasons why getting a roommate is a terrible idea, but on the other hand…it would be nice to have money coming in through no labor of his own. “I’ll think about it.”

“Well, let me know, and I’ll pass your info along.” 

His phone buzzes on the table; he sips at his drink rather than turning it over to see exactly what it is. 

Karlach glances at it meaningfully. “Is it the Weave?”

He shrugs and grins. “Probably.”

“I still don’t understand how you manage to get so many matches on there. I’ve matched with exactly two people in the last month, the first one ghosted me and the second was great until they started asking for feet pics.”

“Mystra favors me, what can I say?”

“I’m not sure how an AI algorithm for love matching is favoring you over me. You’re not even looking for anything serious. How many people have you met up with from it? I’m betting six or seven.”

His smile turns feline. “Darling, wouldn’t you like to know?”

He hasn’t actually met up with anyone from the app at all. He likes the anonymity, of chatting with someone without having to worry about being himself. He likes having someone’s undivided attention, especially when he can control exactly when he gets it. He enjoys having someone to constantly talk to, to ask about his day, the possibility of building something. But there’s always a point that he cuts it off. It’s easier, cleaner that way. Besides, he rather prefers to be the one to cut things off before it can get too far or too insistent about meeting in person. 

He knows that makes him broken. And he’d rather not admit that to anyone, so letting them believe the lie is far, far easier. 

Karlach sighs. “Maybe I need to go try out some new coffee shops or something. Then maybe Mystra will match me with some new people.”

The whole draw of the app is that it tracks your location and finds others in your life who also use the app, and then matches you with them, anonymously of course. There’s something romantic about the idea that maybe you’ve already met the person you’re conversing with through the app. But all you get is their screen name and pronouns. The rest of it is up to you. 

“Trying to game it? Let me see your profile, maybe I can help.”

Karlach hands over her phone, and the first thing he looks at is her username: HotCliveMama34. “Well there’s your problem,” he says as he hands the phone back. 

“What?”

“You’re matching with people who think you’re a mother!”

Karlach looks offended. “I am a mother.”

“Your dog doesn’t count…besides are you sure he’s a dog? He looked more like a bear in the last picture you posted.”

“Clive is my child. My favorite, best, most wonderful child. If someone can’t handle me at my Mama K, they don’t deserve me otherwise.”

Astarion shrugs. “Fair enough.” He envies her confidence that who she is should be enough for anyone. That it’s someone else’s problem and not hers if they don’t love her just the way she is. 

“I should go, it’s getting late,” he says, draining his glass and standing up. 

She offers him a wave and a smile. “Later, Fangs.”

As he walks away he checks his notifications at last. 

KissMeQuick: I haven’t ever told anyone this before, but it’s really easy talking to you. 

RomanceJunkie: hey hope work is good, wyd after?

Mystra, new match alert: HeartacheHero.

Every last one is a Weave notification, nothing real at all. 

***

Most people have a compulsion towards preservation. It’s why they keep report cards with high grades and hang up their children’s art on fridges. They’re constantly keeping or looking for mementos, magnets from every place they’ve traveled or pictures snapped in front of buildings and structures. Liv Vires has always been interested in what people keep and what they don’t and how to ensure knowledge isn’t lost. But for someone whose entire career is focused on preservation, she has managed to cut herself loose from almost every vestige of her old life in the span of one short month. 

She has to race to keep up with Lae’zel as she strides with a singular purpose through the university campus and toward the large, domed library building. Students and the handful of seemingly ever-present tourists instinctively shift to make way for her, and Liv simply follows in her wake. Baldur’s Gate University sprawls in the oldest part of the city, with hundreds of years of history contained in its old stone architecture. It's not just a place of learning; it is also a pilgrimage of sorts. 

This job is still new enough that every morning Liv cannot help but gaze up at the collection of spires and towers that make up the inner campus of BGU, still a little in awe that this is where she gets to work each day. Liv had left Cormyr in a hurry, in the type of impulsivity borne of nothing but desperation. Her relationship with her family had always been strained, but then the Laughably-Awful-That-We’re-Not-Thinking-About had happened and broken everything irrevocably. And honestly? It had been a relief in some ways to finally have a legitimate reason for cutting off her family completely. But it didn’t leave her feeling any less unmoored. And suddenly, Cormyr had felt too damn small. Her family knew too much of her life, her friends. She’d needed a change so radical, so all-encompassing that it wouldn't leave any space for her family. And so far, she hasn’t once looked back.  

Liv feels lucky for the new job, the new city, the new life. But it is still somewhat overwhelming. When she finally catches up with Lae’zel, she gestures to the bookstore on the corner, the one with the coffee shop on the second floor. “I was going to go grab some coffee, you want something?”

Lae’zel looks rather annoyed, but Liv can’t tell if it’s at the question or if that’s just how Lae’zel generally is. Lae’zel has been generous enough to let her stay at her small, rather spartan apartment, and Liv is just trying to not be too much of an inconvenience until she finds her own place. “Tchk, I do not need coffee, but go if you must.”

“See you in a few,” Liv replies, hurrying away. She still hasn’t quite figured out Lae’zel’s moods or tone or what any of it means. She hates her reliance on other people right now, and all the ways that Lae’zel doesn’t quite allow her to pay her back. She had jumped on a train and left Cormyr like a thief in the night with nothing but the job offer in hand. She was grateful for Gale, who had remembered her from their shared undergrad in Waterdeep, and had recommended her for the archivist position and then promptly promised to help her with the move to a new, unfamiliar city.

It wasn’t that she hated her librarian job at Cormyr’s public library, but she’s an archive conservator. Archivists and librarians are not the same thing, and while they’re both small, interconnected worlds. Liv was sort of tired of wearing a bunch of different hats. This job not only got her away from her family but is exactly the type of work she’d always dreamed of. It would be perfect if she could just find a fucking apartment of her own though…or a roommate where she doesn’t have to sleep on the couch. 

She’s been frequenting this particular coffee shop within this bookstore enough in the last two weeks that the baristas recognize her, and it’s nice to start feeling like she’s becoming part of a place. She grabs her coffee and heads into the library, flashing her work badge to get around the tourists eagerly vying for a view of the old convocation house and its fancy ceilings. She makes her way up the long, steep staircase in the old building before finally arriving on the floor of the archives, where she follows the snaking path of books to her small cubicle. 

These days most of the archival work happens digitally, so they all have their own desks and only work with the rare books in specialized ‘clean rooms’. She’d be more annoyed, but it means that she gets to bring in her coffee. 

“Ah, good morning,” Gale greets her, leaning on the corner part of her cubicle wall. He dresses the exact same way he did nearly ten years ago all thick sweaters and sports coats. He wears the years well though, the only hint of passing time is his longer hair with peeks of gray at the temple and a slight crinkling around his eyes. 

“Morning,” she smiles. “How are you?” She finds it hard to believe that she’d once thought him arrogant during their studies in Waterdeep. It’s only been a few weeks since they reconnected, but Gale has turned out to be her most steadfast friend through the upheaval of her life. 

“I’m doing wonderfully, and I have some rather good news for you.”

“I love good news in the morning.”

“A friend of mine knows someone in need of a roommate,” Gale grins. 

“Thank the gods,” she says, and then promptly lowers her voice. “I think Lae’zel is getting very annoyed having me around.”

“It’s a small space, it’s to be expected,” Gale says with a bit of a wince. Gale had also offered to allow her to stay with him, but she has a mild allergy to cats. The allergy doesn’t stop her from spending a few hours in his place, properly medicated of course, but it would be impossible to live there for any length of time.  

“Who is this friend?” 

“It’s a friend of a friend, but Karlach wouldn’t send me his information unless she believed it would work out. His name is Astarion. I’ll text you his info. I’ve never met him, but Karlach says he’s some sort of fashion consultant, and sometimes works hospitality at a nightclub?”

“In my price range?” Liv asks. That’s been the biggest hurdle of this whole move. Archivists are highly specialized so naturally they make hardly any money. Unfortunately, finding a place that’s affordable and isn’t student housing has been an absolute nightmare. And while she could live next to a bunch of rowdy undergrads, she’d really love to not do that in her thirties.

“Yes, and much nicer than any of the places you’ve been looking at. Karlach says it has its own room and bathroom.”

“Damn. I’d live with almost anyone if it means that kind of privacy. I’ll shoot him a text. Thank you.”

Gale shrugs. “What am I here for? Oh, did you see that we got that Karsus manuscript yesterday evening? I’ve been dying to get my hands on it. Want to help me with the page scanning?”

“Hell yeah. I’ve got some requisition requests to respond to first, and I’m hoping I’ve got a lead on an earlier copy of the Baldur’s Gate charter. So give me an hour?” 

“It’s a plan.” As he walks away, he texts her Astarion Ancunin’s contact information and she promptly sits and spends far too long crafting an introductory text. 

Liv: Hi there this is Liv Vires, Gale Dekarios gave me your contact information. I hear you’re looking for a roommate? 

She rereads the text at least three times after sending it, hoping that it sounds friendly enough before giving up on staring at it in hopes of a reply. There is no immediate reply anyway, but then ten minutes later her phone buzzes. 

Astarion: Hello. That depends entirely on how ugly the furniture is that you propose to bring in. 

Oh good, he’s got a sense of humor. What a relief. She stares at his reply while she thinks through her response. 

Liv: In that case, I’ve got great news: I don’t have any furniture at the moment. I suppose we could negotiate your input on future purchases. Otherwise, I’ll just promise to do my best not to clash with the curtains.

Astarion: If we keep my input on the table, then I suppose I do have a room available. I assume you’d like some pictures of the place? 

Liv: We can certainly negotiate. And sure, I’d love to see the place. 

A few moments later she receives several pictures of a very nice apartment. It’s a hells of an upgrade compared to the rundown and downright falling apart places she’s been looking at. Something tells her that this is too good to be true, but the more she looks at the immaculately clean kitchen, the living room with large windows, and the empty and waiting bedroom it becomes very hard to care. But she can’t shake a sinking feeling in her stomach: there’s no way she can afford this. 

Liv: Your place looks amazing, but I’m worried that our friends may have misunderstood what I can actually afford. I can’t go over two grand. 

Astarion: That’s what I was told. This is a little bit different since I own the apartment, your contribution helps me afford my mortgage in the capitalistic hellscape we inhabit. 

That actually makes a lot more sense, and she immediately relaxes. She looks back through the pictures again, trying to get a better sense of it. The bedroom is already semi-furnished with a bed and nightstand and the closet looks rather large. The Liv she was before, the one who hadn’t left Cormyr or her family would be more meticulous about this whole thing. She would ask more questions and track down backup options for her backup options. But it was impulse that got her to Baldur’s Gate, and it’s worked out so far. So, she’s determined not to overthink this one too much either. Besides, the more she texts with Astarion, the better she feels about the whole thing. 

***

Two days after making initial contact, swapping social information, and ironing out a rental agreement he shamelessly stole from the internet, Astarion’s new roommate arrives at his door. This whole thing has only been a mild inconvenience so far, so he’s hopeful it will actually work out for the best. The most annoying part was that he had been using the closet in what will now be her bedroom as his second closet, so finding space for those clothes in his own room had required a fair bit of creativity. Otherwise, she seems exceedingly normal, nice, and boring as all hells. Karlach says that’s a good thing. 

He’s spent the past two days stalking Liv’s social media in an effort to figure out who she actually is. He hasn’t learned much. Her most recent post is from almost two years ago posing at the beach with a woman he can only assume is her sister since they share the same dark hair and green eyes. Otherwise, she’s proven to be an enigma.

But Liv hasn’t arrived alone. When he opens the door he is greeted by her and a small, terrifying githyanki woman dressed in a smart pantsuit and holding a box. “Oh, hello there,” he says, stepping aside at the door. 

“Nice to actually meet you,” Liv says brightly. “This is my friend Lae’zel, she came along to help me with my things.” If he’s not what she expected from their brief text exchanges, there’s not a hint of it in her expression. 

“I’m here to ensure you pass the vibe check,” Lae’zel says without a hint of a smile and strides inside. 

Liv for her part turns a rather shocking shade of pink. She’s also dressed as formally as Lae’zel, wearing a deep purple blazer that’s tailored so well he doesn’t even have a critique of it. Perhaps they’ve both come to move her in straight from work. 

“Vibe check?” He raises a brow in her direction. 

She attempts a smile that’s more of a grimace. “Well, I am moving in with a person I’ve only just met, so I guess you can’t be too careful.”

He laughs. “Don’t worry, I already hid the bodies and had the carpets cleaned of all the blood of my enemies.”

“How thoughtful.”

She’s only carrying one large suitcase and a backpack. Lae’zel had a bag in addition to the box she carried, but still, it’s a rather sparse amount of stuff for moving. “Where are the rest of your things?”

Liv gives him a confused look. “This is all I’ve got. I told you I didn’t have any furniture.” 

Sure, but still. She had said she’d moved here recently, somewhat in a hurry to accept a new job. He just didn’t realize exactly what that might mean. He follows her as she steps into the apartment properly. “This is the kitchen, obviously.”

Lae’zel stands in the living room, eyes sweeping over the large windows covered by thick enchanted curtains. Enough to let the light in, but also offering protection from the sun for him. 

“Are these enchanted?” Lae’zel asks bluntly.  

“Of course, my furniture is expensive, and I won’t have it damaged by the sun’s rays. The curtains are set to open at night, part of the enchantment.” The lie is somewhat less believable than he’d like since he’d bought the apartment fully furnished and hasn’t bothered to change a thing about the generic decor. Including the couches that though nice, are not exactly the pinnacle of luxury. 

Liv and Lae’zel exchange a disbelieving glance. He’d decided rather abruptly that he was not sharing the fact he is a vampire with Liv. Karlach had encouraged him to be honest, but no matter how much Karlach trusts Gale, Liv is a stranger.

“That seems excessive,” Lae’zel replies.  

Liv jumps in looking somewhat awkwardly between him and her friend. “Well, best to protect your investment. I guess that means eating on the couch is out?” 

He stares at her for a moment before he finally catches her meaning. “Oh, yes. Obviously.” He steps around them both. “Your room is this way.”

The apartment is rather open concept. The living room and kitchen are connected, the two bedrooms sit opposite each other flanking the kitchen area. Her room is the smaller of the two, but not by much. It’s sparsely furnished, the same as it was when he moved in. A bed and a dresser with a nightstand and nothing else. 

Liv surveys the room, the emptiness of it. He’s not sure what she’s seeing, but she smiles. “It’s perfect.”

She seems like someone who smiles a lot and who has a perpetually sunny disposition. He finds it annoying, but he really doesn’t want to find someone else now that he’s gone through all the work of getting her here. “It’s an empty room, but it’s yours. Assuming I pass the vibe check, of course.”

Lae’zel glares at him, he thinks. It might just be the way she looks at everyone. Hard to tell. “It’s questionable at best.”

“A glowing review!”

Liv seems to be stifling a laugh as she steps between them. “I think we’re good, assuming I have also passed the vibe check?”

He’s surprised by the question, by the deference to him. As if his comfort also mattered. “Of course.” He holds out the key. “I’ve got a work call, so I’ll get out of your way.” He has nothing of the sort, but he’s done standing here awkwardly with these two. 

“I’ll see you later,” she says with a grin, hand closing around the key. He pulls away immediately, avoiding touching her. 

It’s an effort to keep smiling. “It’ll be unavoidable now, darling.” And then he strides away to the relative safety of his room.

[johaerys-writes]

The boys lack genre awareness in general. It’s a trend I’ve noticed in translations and adaptations. Achilles thinks he’s in a Bodice Ripper Romance. Half the time Patroclus thinks he’s in Tragedy à la Sophocles and the other half it’s like Chivalry Historical Fiction. What they both don’t know is they’re actually in a Shakespearean stage play directed by Quentin Tarantino and produced by early-career Mel Brooks. And unfortunately for them Tolstoy did an uncredited rewrite (though the rumors suggest it was actually Hugo). smh

Lmaooo YES I agree with all of the above. Achilles and Patroclus are usually in a world of their own no matter the translation/adaptation, honestly 🤣 The funniest thing even in the Iliad is the other generals losing their shit and getting their ass handed to them for several books, meanwhile Achilles and Pat are chilling in their camp and probably getting up to all sorts of sit com level shenanigans with the other Myrmidons. Living in their own niche since 13th cent BC ✌️

[magnusmodig]

||. Thinking quietly about Thor and his friends. How they all filled a space in him and outside of him that Thor needed fulfilled... The most obvious being in the group's battle formation, but even outside of that too.

Volstagg with his jolly nature helping Thor keep morale up, being the glue that keeps the warriors together, especially when it comes to making group compromises and hard decisions. Hogun with his straight-laced practicality , the way he'd be able to offer an outside perspective to Asgard's ways — something invaluable to Thor. Fandral for all of his apparent womanizing likely keeping up with the courts of Asgard and so Thor would be in the know in a much more close manner through what Fandral knows, and what he's able to find out in Thor's stead. And he's quite personable, in a manner much more suited to crowds than Thor... so that makes the finding of information that much easier, and quicker to relay. (Thor may be a prince, but he's also got Homeschooler Energy out the wazzoo.) Thinking about Sif and Thor being something of childhood friends... Or as close to childhood friends as someone like Thor can have, when you live in a palace your whole life and are largely confined to its walls with your tutors and your parents and your brother for company keep. But Sif would be the exception, I'd imagine, if indeed she is of noble birth the way I'd suspect it.... and Thor and Sif would have gotten along splendidly, especially once he finds out her desire to become a shield-maiden, and then that leads into learning about the Valkyrie, and of course then Thor would want Sif to be HIS Valkyrie, because of all the people who are mighty and brave and compassionate, and who would then deserve to be his esteemed commander of guard, surely why WOULDN'T it be Lady Sif?

And of course there's Loki, who completes many of Thor's loose ends and falterings in plenty of ways, but that's it's own story and its own post for a different time.

Thor picked his warriors well and he picked them wisely. There's not a single quest or mission they can't overcome because each of their strengths buoy the other's weaknesses. Together, when in sync, they're all six of them a well-oiled machine, and it's really no wonder that they, together, become "Asgard's Finest", and it's really no wonder that they were all to be Thor's council as King. (If only all of them lived...)

[pretty-idol-hell]

As of the 11/29 maintenance, it is now somewhat easier to search for coords from the coord change page.

You can now type in the name of the coord you want to search for. Also, you don't have to scroll when selecting brand.

[soft-serve-soymilk]

Wow I love asshole gay people (things have ALIGNED in the ASTRAL PLANE and Pav is WATCHING SOMETHING?? 🤯)

[spectordameron]

its always fun to me - and I don't mean this in a pretentious way - to see folks be like oh I didn't see this coming or didn't expect this about story or character beats in my favorite sw stories. because I always assume it's just blatantly obvious to everyone, and not. that I have eerily just completely and correctly plugged into the story.

[iniziare]

Tag drop: Guizhong (don't mind me re-dropping this with the fixed ones, shh)

[septembersghost]

the silence that only comes when two people understand each other

[levymcgarden55]

[id: a meme of Patrick star labeled “writer.” Big brained Patrick deep in thought: “imagining and crafting lore, world building, an intricate history, and deep personality for your characters.” Patrick constructing something but has somehow attached a board to his own forehead: “writing the book”]

lore mode

[vox-off]

revisiting a book about the middle ages i read in high school and adored - principally when i knew much less about history

me reading this book in high school: "wow! this book is so good and accurate!"

me reading it now: "wow! this book sucks ass!"

[fashion-editorial-print]

[claire-starsword]

Bloodline of the Sacred Dragons - Chapter 2-8 & 2-9

A small twig cracked in the campfire.

The sun had already set, and the dark of the night spread around them.

"This is the Manual…"

Bleu had opened the ebony box, and stared at the Manual inside. It was a bunch of semi-transparent slabs, set atop the felt covering the box.

He furrowed his brows slightly at the dread he felt coming from the artifact. It seemed he was the only one feeling such pressure from those crystals, due to being a Sacred Dragon.

The moment he extended his fingers towards it, he felt a shock, as if his soul had been gripped tight, so he pulled away in panic. He shuddered, feeling like his soul could be crushed if he did touch it like that.

He felt that it was not meant to be held. But it felt different from something sacred.

"What's wrong," Karin asked, getting the wrong idea from how he acted, "if you can't take it out, I'll do it."

"Right, thanks," he gave the box to her.

As their hands touched, Karin instinctively noticed his fear. She gave a suspicious glance to the Manual. Its crystal sheets shined beautifully, and she couldn't see anything else to it. She took it out of the box with ease, and held it against the light of the fire.

"How is this called a book?" Zylo asked, tilting his head at the object.

It was more comparable to stone slates than a book. The three rectangular crystal slabs shone in all the colors of the rainbow as they reflected the light in a diffuse way. Maybe that was due to an irregular composition, or due to some unseen pattern carved in them. No one could figure out the exact reason. The only thing clear to all of them was that it was in no way a regular book.

"It looks like my crystals, but the shape and size aren't the same," Randolf said, taking a crystal piece from his pocket for comparison. The Manual was larger than a person's two hands placed together, while his piece was slightly bigger than a nail. It was absurd trying to compare them at all.

"Maybe the crystals and the Manual are pieces of the same material. Even if not, I think they were both created by the ancient gods in similar ways."

Krin had her face almost glued to the Manual, inspecting its surface, clear of any writings, as if about to lick the thing.

"If that's the case, then the Manual might be a key to activate something. Yes. That's likely. Very likely."

Pushing against Krin, Tyrin glued his nose on the Manual.

"Wait, don't put your face all over it. Krin, you too, stop that already."

Looking at how they were troubling Karin, Randolf took the two shameless researchers by the collar and dragged them away from her.

"It is a key, of course. The Manual was one of the keys used to wake Dark Dragon. That said, I wonder if the three sheets are all the same. Or if they're meant for different things," Diane mumbled, as she recalled the times where she fought alongside Bleu and Zylo. Her younger sister, the mage Wendy, was sat by her side.

"They might be different. In Parmecia, there's nothing like Dark Dragon. The Sacred Dragons only need the Manual to stabilize the Power of the Earth going out of control," Camallia answered the elf girl after a while.

"As a key, any door it can close, it can also open. Isn't that true, Krin of Rudo Village?"

"Yes, it's as you say, king of Bustoke. As I've told you in the past, the Manual is a double edged sword with the magical power to both seal and release," she gave everyone the same description she had once found within old records.

"A thing this dangerous must be resealed by us, mages of Manarina, as fast as possible, in the temple of Dragonia."

Camallia turned with a harsh glare to Tyrin at his words.

"Then, what about the Sacred Dragons of Parmecia? What about me and the mission I've come to the land for?"

"No matter the case, you don't have the right to take something of Rune to another land."

"…How close-minded. As a mage seeking the golden rule of this world, is this how you deal with such matters?"

"I like to believe we act with wisdom," Tyrin frowned, offended.

"Being wise by yourself in your own little world, is there any meaning to that?" Camallia retorted, not taking a single step back.

Sitting next to Karin, Randolf made a face as if saying "what a big mess this is".

"I'm in agreement with Camallia on this matter. We shouldn't abandon people in need."

Karna joined the conversation with an unusually serious face. No matter what anyone said, she was an exemplary priest.

"In the end, priests are too focused on their doctrine. They should look upon matters objectively like us, mages."

Tyrin gave a look to Krin and Wendy, seeking agreement from them.

"That's right. So speaking objectively, we should let Bleu decide what to do next with this Manual."

Krin's suggestion was not at all what Tyrin expected.

Everyone stared at Bleu, who had been quiet with a troubled face, and at the Manual in Karin's hands.

"You're unlucky, huh, Bleu? To get this troublesome thing pushed on you," Diane said without any sympathy or attempt to comfort him.

"That's not it, Diane," Zylo corrected her. "It is not being pushed on him. He's being trusted to deal with it. As a Sacred Dragon, the Manual is his heritage."

Bleu raised his head to look at Zylo.

'What should I do?' This plea for help was on the tip of his tongue.

Zylo saw through him, and stopped him before the words could come out.

"You have to decide it by yourself. It is your responsibility. No one can push their will onto you."

Bleu was troubled. But, no matter how much he fretted about it, he couldn't find an answer, a light on the end of that deep tunnel.

As a Sacred Dragon, should he seal to Manual to protect it, as per their ancient duty? Or should he risk it in the journey to Parmecia to save his kind? Or maybe destroying it right there was the correct choice.

After all, what did it mean to be a Sacred Dragon? Bleu couldn't even figure that out. Should a Sacred Dragon be someone capable of making these heavy choices? Of standing above the people and deciding everything?

The determination he had found before to cross to Parmecia had crumbled once he got here.

He felt that deciding things by himself was very risky.

If the Manual was stolen by monsters, destruction would befall the world. The only way to perfectly avoid that was to abandon his kind.

The truth is, it was possible to save the Sacred Dragons and then seal the Manual after that. However, that would require something from him. He would have to protect the Manual from all the devils…

Bleu had not found enough confidence in himself to do so.

Without help from the others, he hadn't even been able to protect Karin.

"Bleu…"

Karin understood his pain so much it hurt.

"Don't decide this as what a Sacred Dragon should do, but as yourself. Because before being a dragon, you are Bleu. I believe in you."

Zylo nodded deeply at Karin's words.

"I also trust you, that's why I'm leaving it all in your hands. You should trust your allies more as well. The reason one hero was able to seal Dark Dragon in the past is because he had many people by his side. By himself, he wouldn't have been able to do anything. When many people join forces, their power shine brighter. That is why we became known as the Shining Force."

Diane agreed with him.

Bleu looked back fondly at the times he fought alongside those two. Besides them there was Gort, and Alef, and so many other companions. And now too, he found himself surrounded by many allies. Finally, he thought back on the Silver Dragon's deep blue eyes. More people had been waiting for him far too long, beyond the ocean.

"That's right, if you put your faith in people, you can also ask them for help. You should rely on others, us, more often."

Krin's words hit the mark. Yes, to not rely on others was the same as not trusting them.

"Let's go to Uranbatol…" he declared, "we'll defeat the beasts in the coast, and cross the ocean to Parmecia."

Some breathed in relief, some nodded in silence, some made troubled faces, there were all kinds of conflicted reactions. But no one objected. The way ahead had been decided.

Tyrin still raised another small issue, but was reassured once Zylo told him he'd send a messenger to Otrant to communicate the situation.

"We'll return to Bustoke tomorrow. We came here pursuing the devils that had suddenly invaded, and ended up too far from our country. We cannot leave it empty like in the past. We also have to escort back the injured party from Manarina that we rescued."

Hearing that from Zylo, Krin knocked her hands together in realization.

"Being pursued by the forces of Bustoke, the devils hastened their pace. That's why we encountered them sooner than we expected."

"In the end, it turned out well for us. But, we can't let our guard down yet. We will search the region for monsters before heading back, but it might be difficult to get them out of hiding. Until you reach the Pao Plains, take Wendy with you for more protection."

The lively elf girl introduced herself to the group.

"Let's place a simple seal on the Manual to protect it along the way."

By her suggestion, the three mages prepared to seal the ebony box with the Manual.

The seal of Coeurl van Coeur.

It was classified as a simple seal. However, its strength could be increased depending on the materials used. The greatest one was dragon blood. In that case, it could also be called the Dragon Blood Crystal seal.

With Camallia and everyone else watching, the sealing ritual began.

Wendy took several drops of blood from Bleu, and inscribed the seal on the ebony box. She, Krin and Tyrin created enchanted chains with the Sacred Dragon blood, wrapping them around the box.

"With this, this box cannot be opened until it receives your blood again. Someone could still get to the Manual by destroying the box, but they'd be risking destroying the Manual itself with an attack like that."

Three blood stains marked the box, shining like small garnets. Wendy picked the box up and gave it to Bleu.

Feeding more twigs to the bonfire, the group heading to Pao Plains went to sleep.

"Will it be okay, letting just them go ahead?" Diane asked Zylo when switch night-watch turns with him. "I'm wondering about that devil, the one the priest called Ziduur."

"He was wounded, so he shouldn't strike again too soon. In the off chance he does, Wendy will be with them so there isn't much need to worry. Or, maybe you're itching to go with them too?" Zylo laughed knowingly.

"Oh, who knows?" She played dumb.

"We left Stetra and old Kokichi taking care of Bustoke, but we can't leave the country for any longer than this. Besides, if they didn't ask for our help, we shouldn't interfere. They have made their own decisions and will see them through by themselves. This is Bleu's journey, not ours. It's frustrating, but we don't have a reason to be in this new Shining Force this time. Besides, you still have a lot of things to do back in Bustoke."

"Please go a little easy on me, Lord Zylo."

Excusing herself gently, she left back to her own spot.

***9***

Bleu woke up in the middle of the night, and looked over all his companions sleeping around him.

They all had very different views, yet had placed their trust in him. He had to protect them.

Camallia had said it once. Sacred Dragons are the ultimate guardians.

In that case, what should he protect? It shouldn't be just the Manual, like his race had done so far.

But the Manual was back now.

Bleu took a look at Karin's face, sound asleep under his wing.

It should be his responsibility to protect her. But, if one day he had to choose between the two…

As a Sacred Dragon, and as Bleu, which one would he pick?

The black of the box in Karin's hands was as frightening to him as the darkness of the night.

>To Chapter 3

Translation notes:

As far as I can tell, "Golden Rule" as it's written in Camallia's line refers to the ethical principle of treating others as one wishes to be treated. But the way she says mages seek this rule of the world makes it feel more like some natural principle. I feel like I might be missing something in that conversation, but after days mulling it over I couldn't figure anything out, so i stuck as close as possible to the literal wording.

Karna uses the very formal pronoun "watakushi" when supporting Camallia, something she didn't even in the last time she got serious and formal about her convictions (before entering the dwarves' passage). She's really putting as much weight as she can on her decision here.

Again, the novel avoids using Max's name. I felt it didn't flow too bad here though since he's used as kind of an example only, so i kept the wording this time.

Would a japanese translation truly be complete without discussing the word 仲間 (nakama)? Of course not. If you have never read a shonen manga before, first of all good for you, and second, nakama is a very loose word that can refer to people in the same group, activity, or even just some category, like family or such. This means Bleu uses the same word to refer to his old allies, his current ones, and the dragons of Parmecia, since they are fellows of the same race. I could not find a way to keep the same wording so that paragraph is not as fun, but hopefully the meaning still came across.

I don't know why the author highlights Alef and Gort of all people. Alef and Torasu are some of the first members to join the force after Bleu, so that might be it, but I see no connection between him and Gort. I legit wonder if the author meant Torasu instead. But that's just speculation on a very short line.

The seal name. Boy was this a headache. "Couer" is "heart" in french, which makes sense for a blood based seal. Meanwhile, Couerl is... the name of a cat-like SF species, also used in Final Fantasy and the inspiration for D&D's Displacer Beasts. That, doesn't sound like it should be here, but I could not find another reading for that katakana, and maybe it's just meant to be similar words?? god knows what the "van" is doing here too, i'm been wrestling this name for two days, i'm just tired at this point, it's phoneme soup.

Stetra is the medicine expert that makes Lunar Dew for Zylo in the game. I think the english version doesn't name him, so now you know.

Kokichi being mentioned here contradicts the guide book epilogue where he went to live in Rindo instead. Between this and Earnest it's clear the novel did not consider that guide book for anything.

[magnusmodig]

questions for characters / @brokeassgoing / accepting !

╰┈➤ gimmie thor's fave toy as a child besides his baby bro

||. absolutely all of the various possible weapons that are in the Einherjar barracks. And the Vault. ...It didn't matter to Thor whether they were for training, or the real deal, Thor would find the weapons absolutely INCREDIBLE and want to master them himself. ESPECIALLY the swords, axes, and hammers.

Contrary to most popular depictions, though, I don't think that Thor would have been innately drawn to Mjolnir. At least, not enough to attempt to lift it. (People often forget, too, that Mjolnir was only enchanted to be unable to lift after Odin banished Thor. Prior to that moment in 2011, Thor would've been able to lift the hammer, for all we know.) I think he would marvel at it, and find its history - or rather, its apparent lack of history - to be utterly fascinating to him. And thus it would compel him to learn more about urdu and Nidavellir and King Eitri of the Dwarves. Eventually it became the weapon gifted to him as Crown Prince of Asgard, but before then he had his trusty asgardian-forged axe, Jarnbjorn.

I think besides play weapons, he might have indulged in some small toys like the magnetic propulsion ball or perhaps a top, alongside various other small toys that are hands-on in application. But other than that, I don't think Thor would have played with toys so much as engaging himself with Loki's company, and their active imaginations. After all, a palace has a great many halls to explore, and hidden rooms and long corridors, and great lush gardens that come especially alive during Thor's rains. Secret passageways and hundreds of ways to escape their nannies, tutors and parents absolutely outweigh any toy. ALTHOUGH playing pretend and reenacting stories that Frigga told, or read from books comes as a close third.

[barbieaemond]

Religion

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

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

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

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

MASTERLIST | English is not my first language.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thus, her chambers became her prison.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you, husband.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, I-I ought to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She wouldn’t dare ask him. 

“What is it? Are you unwell?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And I’ve talked to the Maesters.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My debauchery is confined to these four walls.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A man of few words, but loud actions.

Her pains came during a peaceful afternoon.

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

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

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

“Yes, child?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You do realise he’s one week old?”

“”Tis never too soon.”

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

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

“Over my dead body.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Soon.” Was all she answered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Heavy is the head that wears the Crown.”

“Indeed.”

The Prince bows to her and leaves.

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

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

“How’s—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A pincher?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And how do you propose we spend it?”

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

Curse him.

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

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

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

“We’ll make it quick.”

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

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

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

“How many fucking layers have you on?”

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

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

“Don’t you dare, Aemond—” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You should retire.” He curtly says.

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

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

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

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

Aemond did not join her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“More or less.”

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

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

“That was your plan?”

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

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

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

“Still not fond of dancing, eh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you find them agreeable, Princess?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You should be proud of my noises.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“To do what?”

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

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

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

“Then do it.”

“What?”

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

“What would you have me do?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My—”

“Don’t make me say it again.”

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

“On your feet.”

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

“Come.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That noise, that might be his second favorite.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aemond—“ she pleads.

“Hush. Spread your legs.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What, my love?”

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

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

“Let me come please…please…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And she does all of that. She finds God.

[puckinghischier]

Quick Study

Quinn Hughes x fem!reader

WARNING: SMUT! minors DNI. 18+. unprotected sex, fingering, oral fem!recieving, oral m!receiving, p in v, smut with the smallest sliver of plot. praise kink if you squint sideways and upside down.

summary: quinn loves to help you experience new things

notes: so…i don’t know what happened i think i blacked out tbh. this is kinda on theme with the request but also kinda not?? more so inexperienced!reader than in innocent!reader. idk my fingers had a mind of their own okay? enjoy 🫶🏼

request: I read a post that headcanons Quinn getting off on teaching you things and how to do things well, and that has just convinced me he has a thing for innocence… feel like that could be a great premise for smut

[4.4k]

Quinn has always been praised for his patience and willingness to teach those around him. It’s likely what landed him his new captain residency, but he likes teaching. He always said if he didn’t make it in the league he’d like to be a teacher and a coach, spreading his knowledge of history and hockey to the next generation.

What he didn’t realize until he met you, though, was how much he really enjoyed teaching.

He loved explaining the game to you, seeing your eagerness to pay attention and learn for him. Watching you glance at the cheat sheet he made you on your phone during games, making sure you’re able to keep up with the various penalties called, has him puffing out his chest a bit.

He loved explaining to you the most recent book he was reading, telling you all about the time period and the historical context of whatever story piqued his interest that week. He’d notice the empty space on the bookshelf after he finishes the book, glancing over to your side of the bed to discover the book with your bookmark tucked neatly between its pages, heart swelling when you’d bring it up over dinner, wanting to learn about his interests.

What he loved the most, though, was figuring out everything he could teach you.

He knew when the two of you first met that you were fairly inexperienced, not having ever really dated much before, but once he realized how inexperienced you really were? His mind went wild with the possibilities.

There was a certain pride he felt in being the person to guide you through all of these new experiences, never rushing you, always making sure you were one hundred percent comfortable before he tried anything new. He encouraged you to ask as many questions as you needed, telling you there’s never any reason to feel embarrassed around him.

He’d note the way you’d sit there and take in every word as he explained the different scenarios and sensations certain actions could elicit from your body, eyes wide and hungry. The second he would open the conversation for any questions or clarifications he could see the nervousness creep in, almost retracting into yourself out of embarrassment.

“I just…I don’t know exactly what you mean. You can…you know…feel that just from your mouth?” you’d ask him, voice barely above a whisper and eyes darting all over the room.

“Oh, darling, I can’t wait for you to experience the amount of things I can make you feel with my mouth,” he would nearly groan out, both angered and thankful that no other guy you’ve ever been with allowed you to experience all that the body has to offer.

Your cheeks would instantly heat, but not out of embarrassment. Quinn could see the gears turning in your head, the slight adjustment of your thighs coming closer together hinting to him how much you’re enjoying the picture painted in your head.

The day you told Quinn you had never experienced an orgasm, though? He was nearly seeing red.

“What do you mean you’ve never ‘gotten there’” he repeated your own words, not realizing the harsh tone of his voice until you looked away from him, watching your face contort into an expression of guilt.

“I- I don’t know. I mean, the couple of times I’ve actually…you know…went there with a guy, it never really happened. I guess I was doing something wrong, I don’t know,” you spoke softly, shrugging meekly.

Quinn took a deep breath, calming himself the way he would on the ice, before scooting closer to you and grabbing your hands. “You could never do anything wrong, you hear me? The fact that the fools you were with before were too sorry to make sure you were taken care of, and apparently didn’t know what the hell foreplay was, is not your fault.”

Nodding slowly, you sucked your bottom lip into your mouth and chewed on it lightly. “I think…I want you to show me,” you said so quietly Quinn thought he imagined it.

“Say that again?” he needed you to clarify, wanting to make sure he’s not just hearing what his dick wants to hear.

You inhale, preparing yourself to put on your brave face and finally find the courage to tell a guy what you want. “I want you to show me. Teach me what it’s like. I want to experience it with you.”

And damn. If that didn’t get Quinn’s dick rock fucking hard. The idea of showing you everything you’ve been missing, everything he knows he can make you feel? He could almost come right here on the couch, never even having to touch your skin.

Quinn didn’t say a word, simply grabbing your hand and prompting you to stand, leading you to the bedroom that was practically shared at this point, considering how often you stayed at his apartment.

He sat you down on the edge of the bed, standing in front of you and looking down at your big, round eyes. He had to remind himself this was about you, and not to get too ahead of himself.

Bringing a hand up to caress your face, brushing away a small strand of hair, he rests his hand on your jaw, thumb brushing over your soft, pink lips. Using the slightest bit of pressure, he wedges his thumb in-between them, causing them to part just enough for him to slip it into your warm and inviting mouth.

He feels your tongue swirl around the tip of his finger, never once breaking eye contact with him. He closes his eyes, the image in front of him overloading his brain. The second you start to suckle on the rough pad of his digit, he jerks his hand back, surprising you.

“Sorry, did I do something wro-“

“No, never,” he interrupts you, voice low and gravely. “But this is about you and I can’t let myself get carried away.”

Opening his eyes, he sees the flush come back to your cheeks, watching the outline of your tongue rolling around in your cheek. “I want to learn,” you look at him with pleading eyes.

“I know, baby, we’re gonna get there, promise,” he assures you, catching your chin between his thumb and index finger.

You shake your head back and forth, “No, I want to learn how to please you.”

Quinn can feel every ounce of blood in his body make its way straight to his already near painful cock. The innocence and eagerness on your face making his knees buckle.

“I’ve never…given a…a blowjob before,” you stuttered, your bashfulness from earlier coming back. “I never felt like I’d do a good job, and I didn’t want to disappoint anyone and scare them away, so I always said no. But I want you to teach me. Please?” you pleaded, using your eyes to convey your willingness.

If there was ever a world record for how fast a man can come without even being touched, Quinn would say he’s a pretty close contender right now.

He clears his throat, trying to choke down the groan that nearly came out. “I- uh. Are you sure?” is all he’s able to sigh out, feeling like an idiot because he can’t even form words.

You nod your head silently, not knowing if you could find the courage to ask again.

“Fuck, baby,” Quinn shudders, swallowing thickly, bringing a hand down to readjust himself in his sweats.

Figuring you need to show some sort of initiative, you bring your hand up to replace his, cupping him over the thin material.

Quinn’s entire body jerks forward at the feeling of your small hand covering him, resting his hands on your shoulders for support.

Your breath catches, not expecting to receive such a reaction from him, but it only encourages you to keep going, squeezing just enough to apply a slight pressure to his length.

Quinn grunts, shuddering at the sensation. “Fuck, Y/N.”

The sound of his voice, a slight whine but still deep and powerful, shoots a bolt of arousal straight between your legs. You start stroking his still clothed shaft, enjoying teasing him.

“Show me what to do, Q,” you whisper seductively, his actions only growing your confidence in your actions.

With his eyes squeezed shut in pleasure, he wastes no time in moving your hand and ripping the sweatpants down so roughly his dick literally springs free. He sighs at the lack of constriction, creating a sweet friction with his own hand.

Seeing him bare for the first time, you feel the extra saliva form in your mouth, wanting nothing more than to wrap your lips around him and find out how his skin tastes.

Too lost in the beauty of the man in front of you, you don’t realize he’s gazing down at you, watching how in awe you are of him.

“Babygirl, you can’t look at me like that and expect me to last longer than three seconds once you start touching me,” he snaps you out of your daze, drawing your eyes to his face.

You blush, focusing on the bedroom floor to hide your eyes from him.

Bringing his hand back up to your face, he forces you to look up at him, the intensity of the moment making you squirm.

“Touch me,” he commands, rubbing his thumb back and forth on your chin.

Following his instructions, you grasp him in your hand again, moving your hand gently across the textured skin.

You pump slowly, waiting for Quinn to tell you your next move.

“Shit, faster,” is all he whimpered, moving his hips to meet your motions.

Moving your wrist a little faster, you’re so taken with the sounds he’s making you hardly feel the bruising grip he has on your shoulder, grounding himself to you.

“Quinn, wanna taste you,” you whined, watching the precum leak from his pink tip, tongue darting out to lick your lips in anticipation.

“Okay, just-” he shudders, interrupted by a moan, “just, no teeth. And don’t take too much, hollow your mouth out a bit, and keep using your hand if you need to.”

Belly swirling with nerves and excitement, you position yourself a little farther onto the edge of the bed, face to face with his strained cock.

Taking a deep breathe, you test the waters by placing a chaste kiss on his tip, licking the salty precum off of your lips. Opening your mouth, you take the plunge and follow his instructions, hollowing out your cheeks as your mouth rolls over his length, your tongue feeling the weight of his thickness.

You look up at him as he watches you, waiting for any hint of praise in what you’re doing, wanting to make sure you’re doing it right.

“Shit, just like that, baby, keep going,” he encourages, feeling you stop when his tip tickles the back of your throat.

You will yourself not to gag, enjoying the feeling of your tongue against his cock too much. Trying to combat the feeling, you swirl your tongue around him, feeling every ridge and vein.

Quinn is fighting against every muscle in his body, from wanting to bring his hands to your head and push your mouth further onto him, to wanting to snap his hips forward and bury his dick in your throat.

“Can move a bit if you want,” he hisses out as your tongue runs across his sensitive tip once again. “Doing so good, though. Feels unreal. Don’t know how you’ve never done this before.”

You want to smile, but can’t with your mouth full of him, so you start bobbing your head instead, slow and careful. You bring your hand up to cup his balls, remembering one of your friends telling you guys seem to like that.

Quinn jerks his hips forward at the feeling, not being able to control his actions at that point, dangerously close to blowing his load down your throat.

He removes himself from your mouth, watching the spit trail down your chin. The sight is so pornographic he almost finishes anyways, digging his nails into his palms as a distraction.

“Was-,” you start, wiping the dribble off of your mouth, “was I not doing it right? I remember someone telling me once guys liked when you touched them like that. Did I scrape you with my teeth? Did I-“ your hoarse voice is abruptly cut off by Quinn shoving his hands under your arms and lifting you to your feet.

“You were amazing. Too good. If you would’ve kept doing that for even thirty more seconds I would have come in your mouth, and while the thought drives me insane, there’s only one place I want to come tonight,” he tells you, bringing his hand down to untie your soft pajama pants as he finishes his sentence, fingers ghosting over the exposed skin of your stomach.

You suck in a sharp breathe as he starts rolling the pants down your hips, exposing your simple, cotton underwear.

“Well, if I knew this is what we were doing tonight I would’ve dressed more appropriately,” you said softly, wanting nothing more than to bring your arms down to cover the exposed skin.

Quinn chuckles. “You could be wearing a diaper for all I care. I’d still be rock hard at the sight of you like this.”

“Weird, but sweet?” you respond, trying to break up the intensity you feel as you kick the bottoms off of your feet.

Amused smile on his face, Quinn shakes his head at you, toying with the hem of your shirt.

“Can I?” he asks, tugging at the thin material.

You shake your head yes, knowing there’s no going back after this moment.

“Words, babydoll, ‘member?” he mumbles, staring at your taut nipples through the shirt.

“Yes. To everything. I trust you,” you breathe out.

Quinn’s heart jumps to his throat, surprised at how excited the confession makes him. Knowing he has your complete and total trust with something as important as this adds a whole new level to what he’s about to experience with you.

The shirt is over your head before you can think twice, standing almost bare in front of him.

“Shit baby, knew you were stunning,” he starts but pauses, letting his eyes rake over every inch of exposed skin. “but think you were painted just for me,” he worships your body, trailing his fingers over the dips in your collar bones in awe, watching the goosebumps rise in their wake.

“Your turn,” you whisper, feeling the flush on your cheeks, not wanting to be the only one on display.

Not being able to take his eyes off of the smooth skin of your body, he removes the rest of his clothing before you can even blink, staring at the toned man standing in front of you.

Of course you’ve seen him shirtless before, considering he never likes to wear a shirt to bed, and having spent a weekend at his lake home a few months ago. But to see him completely naked before you is a sight you never want to forget.

Breaking the stare you both hold on each other, he moves your body to lay down on the bed, guiding you to move further up the bed as he crawls over you, stopping when your head rests on one of the million pillows.

“Gonna make you feel so good,” he pants from above you, bringing his mouth down to place wet kisses along your neck.

You inhale deeply, the feeling lighting all of your nerves on fire.

Too distracted by the feeling of his tongue darting out to swirl along your skin, you don’t notice his hand has made its way to the band of your underwear, slipping a finger just under the barrier.

“Off, take them off,” you pant out, wanting the fabric gone.

“Yes, ma’am,” he obeys, sliding the material off of your body in record time.

Quinn forgot everything he was supposed to be doing when he saw you bare before him. He could practically smell your arousal, watching your pussy glisten in the low light of the bedroom.

“Bet you taste so good, hmm?” he rasped out, sounding like a man starved.

Squirming, your body fights to find some sort of friction to ease the ache between your legs, never having felt so turned on before.

“What do I need to do? Tell me what to do, Quinny,” you whimper, wanting to know what you’re supposed to be doing, desperate for relief.

Your desperation makes his cock throb, having forgot how hard he was, too distracted by you. But to watch you writhe and whine and look to him for guidance makes him painfully aware of how much this is all affecting him.

“Absolutely nothing. Now it’s my turn to make you feel good, darling,” he all but pants, licking his lips like he’s about to eat a five-star meal.

He moves his body down yours, shamelessly dragging his lips down your warm skin, taking his time and savoring every inch.

Once he reaches your soaking cunt, he teases you with hot breaths, wanting to admire every fold and crevice before exploring you with his mouth.

Placing small kisses on both thighs, letting his scruff scratch the sensitive skin, he finally lets his mouth find your core.

Licking a clean stripe up from your hole to your clit, he grips onto your legs, baffled by how good you taste on his tongue. He dives in like he’s never known such a luxury, slurping and sucking every inch of your perfect pussy.

You’ve never felt anything like this before, the pleasure overwhelming. You don’t know what to do with yourself, feeling like you’re flailing your limbs all over the place. Moaning and grunting, Quinn can sense your frustration with not knowing how to express your pleasure.

“Touch my hair. Pull it, tug it, hold on to it. Whatever you need to do. Just touch me,” he instructs you, the vibration of his words on your clit causing you to cry out, tangling both hands into his soft hair.

Quinn groans at the delicious pull on his scalp as you use his hair as your outlet, feeling his dick brush against the comforter as it twitches. He starts to grind against the mattress, not enough to push him over the edge, but enough to provide him with temporary relief.

He continues his assault on your dripping core, not caring if he were to drown in your arousal, loving how it practically leaks out of you, not wasting a single drop.

Once he feels you’re ready, he brings a finger up, slipping it inside of you and feeling your walls instantly clench around him. The sensation only drives him further, burying his nose deeper into you, if that was even possible.

Pumping his finger in and out of you slowly, he adds a second, ensuring you’re ready for him in the minutes yet to come.

Arching your back at the fullness of two of his long, thick fingers, you carry out a particularly rough tug of his hair, earning a moan so loud you want to do whatever you can to hear it again.

“Feel so good, Q. Never – ah! – knew I could feel like this,” you groaned, digging your heels into the bare skin of his shoulders.

“C’mon, know you’re almost there. Gotta let go f’me,” he grunts against you, feeling the flutter of your walls around him.

The unfamiliar pit in your stomach grows at his voice, never wanting him to stop talking to you.

“Oh, like that, huh? Like when I talk to you, pretty girl? Like when I use my voice while pressed up against your pussy?” Quinn asks you, feeling how you clenched when he spoke.

His vulgarness made the ball of pleasure grow even larger, threatening to pop at any moment.

Quinn hummed against your clit, wrapping his lips around the sensitive bud, inhaling just enough to create a small vacuum of suction.

The new feeling caused something inside of you to explode, a pleasure burning throughout your whole body so intense you think you lose your hearing for a few moments.

Quinn rides you through your orgasm, licking and sucking every drop of physical pleasure from your body. When he removes his mouth from you, you’re laying limp under him, the look of bliss on your face sparking a feeling of pride within him.

You have no clue what just happened to your body, not registering a single thing until you felt Quinn’s fingers running through your damp hair, fluttering your heavy lids open.

“There she is. Thought you went and fell asleep on me,” he chuckles, caressing your bright red cheek.

“mmmm” you hummed out. “Think I can taste colors. What did you just do to me?” you ask him, starting to gain control over your body again.

Quinn full on laughs at you, hiding his face in his bicep. “I think that’s the nicest thing a woman has ever said to me,” he marvels down at your state, knowing he was the first man to ever make you feel like this.

You’re trying to think of a clever or sexy response, but get distracted by something poking your leg. Looking down, you notice how hard and red Quinn’s dick is, remembering that he never finished earlier when you had him in your mouth.

“Oh!” you say in surprise, drawing attention to his…situation.

“What can I say? That was the hottest thing I’ve ever witnessed,” he references your intense release.

You bite your lip, almost embarrassed. “Well, I can think of something hotter,” you say quietly, reaching your hand down to grab his length.

Quinn gasps as the contact, the most sensitive he thinks he’s ever been.

“Now I want to watch you,” you can recognize the sound of your voice, not knowing what having an orgasm did to you.

Crashing his mouth onto yours, the first time he’s kissed you all night, your grips falls from his shaft, bringing your hands up to pull his shoulders closer to your body. The friction of his skin on your hard nipples alone is about to drive you over the edge again.

“Gonna wreck you, you know that? Wreck you like you’ve wrecked me,” Quinn says on your lips, bringing your bottom lip between his teeth before letting it snap back into place.

You don’t know where the sudden rush and roughness came from, but you can’t say you’re disappointed. Something within him snapped hearing you express wanting to watch him come undone under your influence, and Quinn can’t control himself anymore.

“Show me, Q. Show me what I’ve missed all this time,” your mouth is operating on a mind of its own, not sure what part of your brain has been unlocked by Quinn’s magical mouth.

Quinn growls, hiking your leg up to rest around his waist, leaving the other flat on the bed, standing on his knees as he brings his hand to line himself up with your still dripping cunt, causing your hands to fall from his body. His own hand finds one of your full breasts, toying with the nipple, causing a sharp gasp to fall from your lips.

“Ready?” his voice goes soft for a second, wanting to make sure you’re still good.

“Please,” you whine in response, shaking your head yes.

As he slowly sinks himself into you, he realizes that he’s found his new favorite place. Buried deep inside of your heat, the warm squeeze against his rigid cock, is what he was put on this earth to enjoy, he thinks to himself.

Your whimpers are the perfect soundtrack as he slides himself in and out of your slick, worried he’ll slip right out if he pulls out too much. The ease with which he glides through convinces him you were made for him. Every inch of you, made to be ruined by him.

“Tell me how to move,” you moan out. “Tell me how to make this – shit! – better for you. Teach me.”

Just like before, hearing you whine and beg for him to teach you, wanting to learn from him, has him losing all of his resolve. He completely slips himself out of you, slamming back into you with such force it takes your breathe away.

Hearing your gasp, Quinn brings his hand down, pressing on your lower belly to intensify the feeling of how deep he is inside of you right now.

“You’re perfect. Doing so good f’me. Best little student ever, know exactly what to do without even being told,” Quinn praises you, causing your brain to short circuit.

“Just wanna make you feel good, Q. Don’t wanna take all the fun for myself,” you respond to him, bringing your arms back up to the skin of his broad shoulders, raking your nails down the clammy skin, not realizing the burn of your nails down his back is the final string for Quinn.

He cries out, not wanting to come before you, but he’s so close he doesn’t think he can hold out any longer.

Mustering all the resolve he has left, he removes his hand from your belly, bringing it down to circle your clit, pinching it every so lightly.

He feels it the second you reach your second release tonight, the squeeze of your walls as they clench around him making it impossible for him to pull out, triggering his own orgasm to leave his body and leak into you in spurts.

His body shakes from the sensation, letting out some of the most pornographic noises even he’s ever heard. And he was once a teenage boy with unlimited access to the internet.

The two of you come down from your highs together, Quinn’s hand letting your leg fall back down onto the bed, and slowly removing his softening cock from you, both of you whining at the loss of contact.

He flops down next to you, needing a moment to recover before he made any move to clean either of you up.

“So…that’s what I’ve missed out on for all these years?” you asked out loud through shallow breaths, not even turning your head to look at Quinn.

Quinn managed a small laugh, replying with a small “Told you it was them, not you.”

You turned on your side to finally look at your sexed out boyfriend, admiring the way his hair was damp with sweat and his lip was swollen and red from biting it out of pleasure.

“Well…I don’t think I quite grasped the concept. I think we need to do it again,” you proposed. “You know, for study purposes,” you shrugged.

And Quinn knew you were (mostly) joking, but he’ll be damned if his dick wasn’t already half hard again, not knowing what he was going to do with you now. A monster of his own creation.