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hivemuthur · 28 days ago

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The Ugly Thing

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! smut, love confessions, D/S dynamics (if you squint or if you know what I'm talking about), pinning, dom!viktor (but also not, if you squint, something something), Viktor-centric, AU college/university + modern era (again, you have to do some squinting for it to be relevant)

word count: 4,9K

summary: Yet another self-indulgent one-shot of Viktor and Reader. It's just an exploration. I want to believe this is erotica, but you tell me. Subspace/Domspace if you squint. Just squint, alright?

Cross-posted on AO3

—

Viktor was, at the very least, difficult. That was what he had called himself, and he relished the label, as it allowed him to be all things at once—sweet, shy, bold, cruel, smart, oblivious, observant. He walked through life making observations and turning his conclusions into actions, placing people exactly where he needed them, ensuring they couldn’t place him somewhere he didn’t want to be.

His relationships were fleeting moments of leniency—sometimes even kindness—offered only when he felt inclined. Occasionally, the kindness transpired twice, or three times, but never more, as the risk of forming a one- or double-sided attachment was undesirable. Viktor’s desires lay elsewhere, and in his pursuits, he indulged the weakness of the flesh while keeping his ultimate goal—recognition of his brilliant mind—crystal clear.

Always polite, so that nothing could hurt him. His armour of politeness and astute behaviour shielded him from the lingering hands that sought to cradle him through the night, from the tender offerings of morning coffee, and from the quiet intimacy of shared silences. Viktor didn’t crave these things. He made sure his politeness was cold, detached, and practised—a skill perfected to keep others at bay. There was no warmth in it, no invitation to linger.

From time to time, he indulged in fleeting encounters, moments where he allowed himself to surrender to the pull of human connection—physical, but never emotional. Emotional, but not lasting. It was a necessary recharge, a way to quiet the body’s demands, but he was always one step ahead. He ensured his partners understood that whatever fragile universe they built together in the night would dissolve with the first light of morning, leaving no trace beyond the cooling embers of his skin.

All that was left was being polite—a polite smile in the hallway, a pencil lent during a lecture, an elevator held for his perishable lover rushing to class. Their names never forgotten, but their warmth never wanted again.

Until you. Until you invaded his orbit and refused to be erased. Until you befriended Jayce, making it easy to keep meeting him, keep looking at him, keep exchanging amusements and something more than politeness—exchanging kindness. Until it turned out you were smart and driven and managed to scare him once or twice by pinning him with your joke.

Until he had slept with you, giving you his mediocre self—not the calculated, observant one, but the needy, touch-starved, pathetic one that moaned your name and groped you with begging hands. All during a completely unorchestrated evening in your dorm room, still half-clothed, just lustful and impatient. Just really fucking hungry in your mutual understanding, though you understood absolutely nothing. Oblivious to the ugly thing in him. Oblivious to the concept of boundaries. Oblivious to the need to protect yourself from prying eyes that might see the truth of what they were.

And the way you stared at him afterwards, gave your body a long stretch, and your limbs flopped back onto the mattress. And the way you said, “It’s ok if you want to go,” an understanding smile cracking across your face—yet you understood absolutely, utterly nothing. A way out he craved, but he wanted to carve it out for himself with his politeness, not with this—this knowing, wise look in your eyes that came from nowhere, because you knew nothing. He almost wanted to stay, just to spite you, but found himself only nodding, scrambling to his feet to fetch his brace and cane, and bidding you goodnight with a polite nod.

And the way you remained friendly. Not friendly—the way you two remained friends. The long nights spent in study groups, pulling straws to determine who was doomed to coffee duty, your head slumped in sleep on Jayce’s shoulder, his head resting on Mel’s. Your bare, cold feet stretched out, toes brushing against Viktor’s thigh, sending ice through his veins—and the way he didn’t mind. The way he contemplated cradling your feet in his palm, warming them against his better judgement.

The way your touch lingered on his arm when you grabbed him in the corridor to show him something funny on your phone. And the way the thing on your phone actually was funny—a picture of Jayce passed out in the library under a mountain of plastic cups balanced on his shoulders. The way his own laugh startled him, made his chest shake and his face lean in close to yours.

The way you would fall asleep in the common room, watching old horror films, your throat vulnerably exposed on his lap. And he just wanted to grab it, squeeze it tight, choke the confession out of you—that you lingered because you wanted more, because this friendship was unthinkable.

The way you got upset when he was mean, and the way he went out of his way to apologise with a childish, shit-eating grin. His arms reaching out for you, your palm pressing his face away in that same friendly gesture.

When he flushed his system with alcohol, all he could think about was fucking you senseless. And when your gaze lingered on him, burning all the way down into his ugly thing, you would ask what was on his mind, and he would say, “Physics.” And you would laugh his lie out.

The way, once, he gave you a lingering kiss on your doorstep and stopped himself. But seeing the question poised on the tip of your tongue, he sunk back in, turning the kiss into a sloppy, drunken mess, so you would be the one to push him away. A gentle pat on the shoulder, sending him off with the unspoken instruction to come back sober. And how he never came back for that.

All of this made him so fucking angry. His carefully mended self, constructed from sweetness, shyness, boldness, cruelty, wisdom, and oblivion, was crumbling under your pensive eyes—and the way you floated atop the pissed-off ocean of his mind.

And oh, he loathed himself on that evening, loathed the way his feet carried him to your room because he was feeling vaguely sad and distracted. He loathed his feet for doing so, loathed his finger for pressing the elevator button, loathed his knuckles for placing a quiet knock on your door. It was all so gross, so out of character, and he loathed it all.

And there you were, opening the door, your face full of dinner, hair messy, cheeks puffed out as you curled them into a closed-mouth grin and gave him a wave to come inside. A quiet “hi,” followed by a chuckle as you tried to swallow before chewing—and a cough when the gulp was too massive for your throat.

“Are you busy?” Viktor found himself blurting out, scanning the room. Your flatmate was gone for the weekend—her bed made, her shoes and coat missing. Observed, concluded. His eyes flicked over to the other bed: messy but cozy, notes scattered across it, a steaming cup on the bedside table, and a laptop propped in the leg area playing background noise. Studying, of course.

“I am always busy,” you grinned at him, your teeth bare and beautiful like the rest of you, as you dropped your dishes into the sink and put the kettle on. “Watching Dexter and studying. Do you want tea?”

“Maybe,” Viktor mused, biting his lip. He negotiated silently with himself, wondering what it was he hoped to find in this room that might sweeten his sour mood—and why his mood was sour in the first place. His hand wobbled on his cane, the traitorous thing, and he leaned against the doorframe to deflect, refusing to decide whether to step fully in or out.

“Okay, what’s gotten into you today?” you huffed, picking a mug you deemed suitable for him. Good Vibes Only, with a middle finger printed on the bottom of it, seemed fitting.

“Meaning?” Viktor cocked an innocent eyebrow, feeling the burn of your inquisitive gaze. Oh, to yank that lovely head by the neck and shove it between his legs, to ease the torment in his mind.

“This is the third time you’ve bothered me today. It’s the weekend. You usually work on the weekends. You’re being vague but resistant to probing. Did something happen?” The countdown of his sins, and it was only the count of one day. Nothing had happened, and that was the issue.

“I suppose I’m feeling… down?” He shrugged, the movement worn down, defeated. His brain ached, and he felt lonely. It had started to feel indecent to pursue others—and for that, you deserved a whack as well.

“Do you need a hug?” A mocking snort reached his ears. A long pause as the scales tipped between a ‘no’ and a ‘yes.’

“Yes.”

Another long pause, as you blinked and scanned him for any signs of a sham, your expression still uncertain. You had to make sure again. “Do you need a hug now?”

“No, in fifteen fucking minutes.” His undignified huff earned him a pair of raised eyebrows from you, and a remark already rolling off your tongue—but he cut it short. “Yes, now. Come here.” His head hung low, and only his hand made a beckoning gesture.

You smiled, disarmed by the black cat of Viktor, finally trying to scramble into your lap after months of teasing and playing around—head bumping and blinking at each other from afar. You walked up to him, your hands hesitant, as if this open display of need was unthinkable.

Before you could settle, Viktor snaked himself around you, his cane propped by the door, his frame bent and draped over you, leaning his body weight forward. It was the grabbiest, the neediest hug he had ever given—or that anyone had let him have. He pressed his face into the crook of your neck, smashing his nose against your skin, and inhaled you deeply, through both mouth and nose.

His palms, open and wide, raked as much of your body in one go as they could. They slipped under your clothes, seeking the taut skin stretched across your back and shoulders. He wanted to go lower but could only squeeze.

You weren’t hugging him; he was hugging you. Caging you in his grip, controlling when the hug would end—and as far as he was concerned, not ever. You stilled under his touch, your hands resting obediently on his chest as he rubbed his face on yours, purring like a cat.

“Viktor?” Your voice was barely a whisper, bouncing off his mouth, an inch away from yours. “Would you like me to kiss you?” He sang his swan song in that moment, almost asking permission, granting you the illusion of control, the illusion of choice—when in truth, it was him silently begging for the kiss to happen.

“Would you like to kiss me?” Of course. A deflection. Nothing he wasn’t prepared for.

“I asked you first.” A cruel blow, almost childish. He pulled his face back a few inches to watch you wrestle with the indignity of the situation. The whine you tried to suppress at the loss of contact didn’t go unnoticed, and the snake in Viktor’s belly coiled its head up, smug and poised.

But then you did the thing he didn’t expect—twisting the serpent’s head off and tossing it aside with quiet defiance. You moved closer, nudging his chin with your cheek, your wide eyes pleading for his plea. His resolve shattered instantly.

He held you in place, his lips hovering just above yours. His whisper was longing, desperate. “Can I kiss you?”

A silent ‘yes.’ He only knew it was a ‘yes’ because he felt the movement of your lips on his—but he didn’t let you finish. He sank into your mouth with a disturbing, possessive urgency, pressing his tongue inside, licking your beautiful teeth, biting your beautiful skin.

He kept you locked in, pressing you down under the weight of his kiss. His mouth drooled into yours obscenely as he breathed heavily through his nose. It was the ugliest kiss he had ever given anyone—the ugliest anyone had ever taken from him. And yet, it was taken with such grace, such gratitude, that he wanted to give you everything else.

With inhuman strength, he pulled you both apart and placed his thumb on your lower lip, still glistening with his saliva. He traced it lazily, transfixed by the shimmering reflections on your skin. His heart swelled as he observed the redness blooming around the spots he had bitten. He wanted you bruised by his love—for everyone to see.

“What are you doing tonight?” Another plea, another promise, fell between you. Viktor cursed himself for being so open, so exposed. Because even though you knew nothing, you would understand this question.

“Watching Dexter and studying,” you said in an absent voice, your eyes following his, following the path of his thumb. The silence stretched between you, taut, until you felt the need to fill it. “Do you want to watch Dexter and study with me?”

“No.” The word escaped him in a croak, sung low and jagged, as if he had only just realised this wasn’t what he wanted at all. “Are you wet?” was all he wanted to know.

“What?” The word escaped you, surprised, almost appalled. Viktor braced himself for you to pull away, so he tightened his grip—but you didn’t. You just stared at him with those beautiful eyes on your beautiful face, your pupils dilating at the vulgar perversion of his question.

“I think you heard me. Are you wet right now?” He leaned in to whisper the filth into your ear, feeling his snake grow out a new head at the full-body shudder that went through you.

“What if I said no?” you asked shyly, your eyelashes brushing against his cheek.

“I would demand proof,” he murmured, holding the sides of your face as he poured his poison straight into your ear, his voice so quiet and rude that your eyes fluttered closed.

“What if I said yes?” You found some bravery in yourself, tracing your fingers along Viktor’s neck, just under the line of his hair. You smiled at the feeling of goosebumps rising under your fingertips. He couldn’t have this, of course.

“I would demand proof regardless,” he responded, his lips grazing the shell of your ear before licking it, slow and deliberate. He craned his head back to look at you. You appeared frightened and excited all at once, and if Viktor had no restraint, he would have run his fingers through your hair to soothe you. Instead, he placed a flat palm on your stomach, fingers pointing down, waiting for your permission.

He received a timid nod, but it wasn’t enough.

“Use your words.”

“You can check.” You closed your eyes and exhaled, as though allowing yourself to be judged for your crime. And as the crime was that of lust, Viktor, somewhere deep down, knew he didn’t really need proof, and that your punishment would be light. Because he didn’t truly want to punish you. He wanted to love you in an ugly way.

He slid his hand down, down beyond the waistband of your pants, down your lower belly straight to your womb, palming your cunt through the underwear and gasped, “Oh lásko, look at you.” His chest fluttered at the first touch, with joy and accomplishment, but also because he was right, when he slid the fabric to the side and ran his finger through your slit. Warmth dripped onto his fingertips, and he felt himself grow hard beneath the restraint of his own clothes.

“Do you really like me this much?” he cooed, so pleased that just one ugly kiss had managed to drench your knickers and make you feel so ashamed you nearly flinched away.

“Viktor—” You looked at the floor, your brows furrowed, your face burning from being so exposed, so naked. And you looked so, so beautiful.

“I am not mocking you,” he murmured, placing a reassuring hand on your cheek and caressing it gently. It was almost a praise, though he dared not say it yet. “What makes you want a cripple so much? Is it your heart that longs for me, your mind that thinks you can change me, or just your body?” he mused, revealing too much merely by asking.

You looked almost offended by how blunt he was about knowing what you wanted, just not knowing why. His fingers now parting you, playing at your entrance, teased you but you wouldn’t flinch. You just searched his face hesitantly and as Viktor grew tired of waiting, he pushed two fingers inside you, curling them, mercilessly bumping your wall, forcing you to flinch. He really wanted to see your eyes roll back into your skull, and he really wanted to hear his name distorted by a breathy moan.

“Which… would be the worst?” Your breath fanned his face as you steadied yourself on his shoulders. Truly, you weren’t ready for any of the options to be soured.

Viktor thought for a moment, his fingers slowly retreating, almost absent-mindedly. When his answer was found, he pushed back in, smiling innocently, his face moving close to yours. “The first. The second,” he mused, another slow, unbearably so, thrust. “I could fuck out of you. The third, well…” A gentle kiss on your lips, almost loving. “I see no fault in the third.”

“Of course, you don’t,” you scoffed, your grip on his shoulders tightening with each minute. “And what brings you back to me over, and ah,” a gasp escaped your mouth when Viktor brushed his thumb over your clit. You closed your eyes and evened your breath. “Back to me. Heart, mind or… body?” you asked, your brow furrowed in concentration against Viktor’s efforts to throw you off course.

“Which would be the worst?” He quirked his lips against yours and chuckled at another concentrated huff. He could feel your unrelenting grip on his shoulders, was convinced that it would leave a mark, and it made his cock twitch in his pants. To be marked by this gentle creature, a dream.

“Any of them, without the others,” you quipped, your eyes shut. Viktor’s movements stilled at that. You had managed to surprise him. Again. Of course, you would want to devour him as much as he wanted to devour you. Eat you whole, spit out the bones and build a shrine out of them. Ugly.

He retreated his hand and chuckled at the muffled whine that followed. He licked his fingers clean once your eyelids fluttered open, making sure you were watching. Rude. But he was going to kiss you with this mouth.

His hands snaked back up your spine, your body pliant against his, providing him with warmth. His teeth and lips got back to work on the swell of yours, and you fell right into it, mouth open, when his tongue pushed itself down your throat as Viktor began his meal. “I will die if I don’t fuck you,” he rasped. So fucking dramatic over nothing, over just a kiss and some unfinished fingering, and a clipped conversation about what he wanted.

He could abandon it here. He could walk out; he could sit on your bed and just study and watch Dexter. He could drink his tea, already cold, he could make you blush all evening, bid you goodbye and go back to his grimy room to jerk off and fuck off. But he couldn’t stop.

“Please, I’ll be so good to you,” he prayed to you, your hands so warm on his waist as he kissed you till he was out of breath. “You don’t know what you are doing to me.” Pathetic, moronic wail escaped him. And he knew you only grew wetter and wetter, your lips getting hotter on him. Panting, you pulled him by the belt and walked the two of you over to the bed, leaving Viktor with no other support than yourself.

He had never rid himself of his clothes so fast. Everything he had on, tossed and crumpled by the bed, next to your own little pile. All the layers of the second, the third skin abandoned, his brace, his pants, his boxers, embarrassingly soaked with sweat and precum, when he crawled on top of you just to keep kissing you and biting your neck, leaving nasty marks everywhere. He panted, his own breath betraying him as your skin came in contact and Viktor whined simply at his cock rubbing against your thigh and he wanted more.

“If you want to stop, tell me.” Another raspy, absolutely dishonest, but a proper plea, asking for the complete opposite. Please, never ask me to stop. “Do you understand?” You nodded, again—not good enough. Your eyes so wide, he could barely see the colour. When you were splayed flat below him, he could see your heart twitching, your chest contracting. A minuscule movement, but he could see it.

“Words, I need to hear your words, lásko,” he growled, stunned by his own impatience.

“I understand.” A kindness in your voice enveloped him. He slid you down the mattress by the ankles, his cock rested against your slit. With clumsy hands he put on a condom, stole a pillow from under your head to support his bum leg and adjusted his crooked crouch. You had the audacity to chuckle at the commonality of his movements and he bit your calf in response.

Absolutely unhinged, you hooked your foot behind his neck, and he immediately loved the weight that pulled him down, steadied him, as he teased your entrance. You held a breath; he had forsaken the privilege of air long time ago.

The first thrust was just blissful. He could feel the crease on his forehead relaxing, his mouth opening, his jaw hanging heavily, just joy and warmth, him awash in it. He felt so full, so complete, yet it was you who was full of him as your bodies slotted together easily, differently to the last time, which left him feeling awkward and ashamed and unfinished.

You rested your hands on his hips, gripping the sharp angle of his bones, your fingernails leaving crescent marks that he would run his fingers over in the morning. “You are doing so well,” he whispered in awe, and it was honest, and you loved it, he felt it in his cock getting squeezed in a silent gratitude.

He felt his ugliness leaving him with each pump of his hips, each sloppy sound of your bodies bumping against each other, his cock twitching inside you, and he needed one more thing to make this even less ugly.

He brushed his thumb over your clit, stretching it, teasing you and taking in all your huffs and puffs, your contorting stomach muscles, your tightening walls. A longing look and an echoing question followed. “Do you love me?”

“Viktor, don’t be cruel,” you answered so fast, he almost retreated. How could you think so? A childlike curiosity creeped onto his face.

“I am not. I really ought to know. Just say yes or no,” Please, just say yes. He felt you twitch at the question, and it made him think he was right. But he could have also been completely deranged. Brain burnt by lust and all the ugly things.

“Viktor—” you pleaded at the loss of his thumb on you.

“I can feel you. Yes or no?” A hard thrust, right up your guts. You yelped, and he could see the tears forming in the corners of your eyes, and the sight was something to behold, keep in the palace of his mind forever.

“Then, why are you asking?” You were ready for filth. For his erotic weirdness, for his awkwardness, for all the want he would suppress every time you interacted. You felt it all in his fleeting touch, in the warmth of his thigh when your naked toes rested against it idly, unintentionally, though very intentionally. But this was how you coax a cat. And this was not how cats responded.

“You will see,” he promised, more to himself. “Do you love me, now, in this moment, when I’m fucking you? Yes or no?” Another twitch of your cunt at ‘love’. He left himself unguarded, shielded only by the mould of your womb.

“Yes.” A tiny, shy ‘yes’. But it fell right into Viktor’s heart and there it grew into a big promise, and he would keep it and take care of it and cherish it.

His body bent in half, his mouth seeking yours. A sloppy kiss, painful, with teeth at your tender lip. Another, earnest, slow and careful. Another, quick and fleeting, before he found your ear. Between them, “I love you,” whispered back like a secret, like a prize for your struggle.

Your breaths grew frantic, you wanted to keep him close. You tangled your fingers into his hair, tugging him in, so you could lick the sweat from his neck, bite it and claim it. Your leg slipped onto his hip, and you curled it around him, his bone digging into your thigh.

“Do you see? How it feels?” he rasped into your ear, gripping you tight. “To be loved while being fucked? Tell me how it feels.” Viktor moaned with each of his thrusts, holding back getting harder and harder. His cock getting more swollen. Your walls getting tighter.

“Amazing,” you whispered, pulling his mouth back to yours. “I love you.”

Viktor’s eyes rolled back into his skull. He slumped onto you, his hands snaking behind your waist, and he could feel your sweat merging with his as your chests pressed together. “I love you,” he cooed weakly. “You can come now, lásko.”

He felt your thighs clutch on his hips, a long spasm twisting your spine underneath him. You came with an orgasm wrenching breath out of your lungs, leg bending, blinding. The ‘I love you’ falling from your lips over and over again, and Viktor could finally let go and spill all his ugliness out. He came with a loud moan seconds after, his brain fucked out, his heart swollen, as he came loved for what he was.

He held you tight through it, chests heaving, when he felt a quiver and wetness on his cheek. “Are you hurt?” he whispered.

You sobbed onto his chest, hands caged in his arms as you tried to release them and wipe the tears away. “No, no,” you shook your head. “What is this… feeling?” It had no name. For Viktor, it was a dumbing bliss. He could cry too if he wasn’t so warm.

“How do you feel?” He wanted to know what it was like on the other side. No one ever told him, no one ever shared this with him.

“Hollow. Ah… fuck. Empty,” you struggled to find the words, trying them out on your tongue, but they felt wrong. “I feel like you took something… bad from me. And now I don’t know what to do with the space left—” you gasped between sobs as Viktor rolled you to the side and pulled your hair to expose your neck.

You buried your face in the curve of his shoulder. Tears fell on their own, and Viktor wanted to drink them and cry them out himself. When the sobs transformed into clipped breaths, and clipped breaths transformed into one long exhale, you asked carefully, “Viktor, you don’t really love me, do you?”

“Well, do you really love me?” His chest was swollen, his head heavy. He was triumphant. He was so invincible he had it in him to love you.

Silence, for a while. Viktor nudged you gently with his chin and whispered a soft command, “Go to the bathroom, I’ll be here.”

You looked at him, the practicality of it spreading a strange warmth in your belly. Wordlessly, you got up and disappeared, still naked as day, and Viktor watched your feet shuffle in the creak of the bathroom door. He got up, put on his underwear, and drank his cold tea in one go.

When you got out, a relief glimpsed through your face, as if you were expecting him to be gone. He waited for you with a cup of tea and a clean sweatshirt, beckoning you to slide into it. Once you both had a singular piece of clothing on, he pulled you back into bed and cuddled sweetly into you. “How do you feel now?” he asked, running his fingers through your hair.

“I feel… like I really need you to love me right now,” you let it slide out. Even though your sweatshirt shielded you from the chill of the room, your soul was still completely bare and shivering. And Viktor loved this nudity, the weirdness of it, the feeling of belonging it gave him.

He found that is was his hands that were lingering now, that the tender thought of the morning coffee was no longer distorted by fear, the quiet and the silence became comfortable in a good way. He felt so wanted, so beautiful in your eyes. He felt all the right things and none of the wrong things. His ugly snake was skinned and turned into a beautiful object. In this beautiful space only beautiful words seemed fitting. “I really do love you right now.”

#viktor arcane #viktor x reader #viktor fanfic #viktor x reader smut #viktor x f!reader #arcane #viktor smut #arcane fanfic #my writing #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #viktor x oc #viktor nation

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moonstruckme · 4 days ago

Note

remus one shot where he can’t stop blushing around the reader because he has a huge crush on her and sirius and james are like dude please ask her out already?? 🙈

cw: the trials and tribulations of a restaurant job, semi-confident reader (or at least she can withstand Sirius' flirting, which I couldn't), James and Sirius' shameless wingmanning

shy!Remus x fem!reader ♡ 1.1k words

The cafe is crammed. You’ve almost tripped over two kids already whose parents let them run loose, you did let a glass slip from your tray when a customer stuck his leg out into the walkway without looking, and you’ve quickly reached the conclusion that today was definitely the wrong day to break in your new work shoes. You’re on your last straw at only ten in the morning, but your pasted-on smile becomes twice as genuine when you see a table of your favorite regulars.

“Hi,” you say warmly, clicking your pen and readying it above your pad. “How are we doing today?”

You’re greeted with two dazzling grins from one side of the booth and a shyer smile from the other.

“Y/n,” says Sirius, in his suave, flirtatious way (you’ve learned not to take it personally), “you’re looking stunning.”

You know your hair is suffering from the weather outside and there’s orange juice down the front of your apron, but you smile at him anyway. “Thank you, so are you.”

“How’s your morning going?” James asks. These boys are never ones to skip over pleasantries to get to their meal, and while with other tables you might try to hurry them along, you never mind in this case. Today especially, you welcome the break.

“Oh, it’s going,” you try to joke, looking pointedly down at your orange juice stain. “Could be worse.”

He makes a face. “Yikes.”

“It’s fine,” you say breezily. “What can I get you?”

You look to James, because really he’s the only one you ever need to ask. The other two are fairly consistent, but James seems inclined to try something new every time he comes in.

He doesn’t disappoint now, locking eyes with you seriously over the top of his menu. “How is your butterfly lemonade? No—actually, what is your butterfly lemonade?”

“It’s…” You bite your lip, thinking. Sirius snickers, and when you look he seems to be sharing in some joke with Remus’, whose cheeks have gone a tad pink. “I’m not sure, honestly, but it’s sweet. I think you’d like it.”

“That, then.” James slaps down his menu decisively.

“Right.” You write it down. “And then, a caramel latte and a tea?” You look to Sirius and Remus for confirmation.

The former shoots you a grin you take as a yes, while the latter nods and says quietly, “Thank you.”

“No problem.” You soften your smile for Remus. You adore all of these boys, but you have a bit of a tender spot for him. Remus is by far the quietest of his friends, though really just as friendly when he does talk. It’s terribly endearing.

You click your pen again. “Okay, back soon!”

The boys’ table remains a bright spot in your morning for as long as they’re there. Their antics you’re rather used to—the flirting, and the pranks, and the teasing way both James and Sirius poke at Remus while his blush worsens and worsens—but it surprises a laugh out of you when you joke that you’ll have to spit in Remus’ food if he orders the brioche (which infamously holds up the kitchen every time) and Sirius snorts doubt he’d mind before yelping and jumping in his seat. By the time you’re bringing them their ticket, the cafe has reached its late morning lull and your day is remarkably brighter than it started off.

You seem to be interrupting some sort of debate when you approach their table, Remus leaning forward to whisper across the booth before he catches sight of you and sits back. The tops of his cheekbones are tinged pink. Sirius, on the other hand, is grinning wickedly, whereas James looks mostly exasperated.

“Thank you,” James says kindly, taking the ticket from you. Remus starts rifling through his pockets for cash, but Sirius only looks at you as though sizing you up.

“Y/n,” he starts to say, ignoring how Remus’ eyes narrow in his direction, “are you seeing anyone at the moment?”

You feel your eyebrows lift. “Not currently, no.”

“But why not?” He affects a look of puzzled contemplation, propping his chin on his hand. “You’re a pretty girl. Are you not looking to date?”

You shrug, fighting the urge to cross your arms defensively. It’s not that you’ve never gotten these sorts of personal questions from customers before, but you weren’t expecting them from this table; you thought you knew better than to take Sirius’ flirting seriously. “Nothing has come up lately, I guess.”

“Do you fancy men?”

“Sirius,” Remus hisses. “Leave her alone.”

“What?” Sirius spreads his hands, guileless. “None of us would care if you didn’t, lovely—well, some might care, but no one would hold it against you—” He yelps for the second time today, this time shooting a glare at his friend across the booth. “Anyway, you don’t have to say if you aren’t comfortable.”

You’re laughing a bit now, half nervously. “No, that’s okay. I do, yeah.”

“Interesting.” James sets down the ticket. It seems you have his full attention now. “And what do you think of our Remus?”

Remus makes a horrified sputtering sound, and you turn to find him looking at James in betrayal. He’s pink to the tips of his ears.

You can’t help a small smile as you catch on. “I think he seems very sweet.”

“Mm, well spotted.” James nods, tenting his hands like a man at a business meeting.

“Yes, very good taste,” Sirius agrees.

“He’s a dateable bloke, no?” James asks you. He jolts in his seat a little, but doesn’t yelp like Sirius had. Remus appears caught between wanting to hide his face in his hands and wanting to burn his friends to cinders with his gaze. He’ll be lucky, you think amusedly, if he doesn’t burn himself up first. The hue of his blush is only getting deeper.

“He is,” you agree. You look at Remus again. This time, he meets your eyes, his look softening.

“I’m so sorry,” he says miserably.

Your grin spreads. “No, don’t be.”

“So would you like to date him?” James furthers.

Remus does put his head in his hands now, letting out a muffled groan. “James.”

“What? Clearly you aren’t going to do it yourself, and I am sick of trying to eat my breakfast whilst you moon over—” He jumps in his seat again, and goes quiet, reaching down to rub at his leg. You tuck your lips in to hide a smile.

“I’m just going to take this,” you say, reaching for the customer copy of their receipt. You bend over, scrawling your number down on the signature line. “And if anyone has more questions for me later, they can give me a ring. Okay?”

You look at Remus. He looks nauseous and stop-sign red, but he manages to give you a small smile. “Alright,” he says, tentatively.

“Perfect. Bye, boys.” You shoot them a wave as you go to your next table. You hope Remus sees how your smile is really only for him.

1K notes · View notes

grugruel · 6 months ago

Text

Your daddy know 'bout this?

(Don't be fooled, there's no daddy kink!)

Pairings: dbf!cowboy!bucky x f!reader

MDNI/NSFW

Masterlist

Summary: A few days short of your 21st birthday, you decide to celebrate with your friend at the local bar. Unbeknownst to you, a close friend of your dad's is there.

When he sees you with beer in hand and in the lap of another man, things get heated. Somehow, you end up in his shirt, at his house.

Word count: 5.1k

Warnings: pinv sex, passionate sex, forbidden realationship, violence, blood, underaged drinking, slight angst, cum eating, I love yous', mentions of masturation, tension, arguments, slight jealousy and protectiveness, pet names (girl, woman, ma'am, princess, sweetheart)

AN: not yet proofread, might be rough around the edges! Enjoy girlies🥹🫶

It was his one free night in a long time, and his buds pulled him along for a drink. He had no real objections, for he was in a good mood and it'd get even better once he had a drink in him.

The group of men emerged from the damp, rainy night and dove into the smoke tainted air and usual bustle of the local dive. They ordered their drinks and made their way to the back where the booths were, a jumble of familiar faces greeting them on their way. Until-

Bucky saw a face he ought not to see in a place like this. "Excuse me a moment, fellas. I got somethin' to take care of."

Their group turned to him, confused. "Wha-" and looked in the direction he was already headed. "Well shit, good thing her daddy ain't come with us." The group shared a few nervous glances, then shrugged and chuckled. "Wouldn't want to be one of those boys right now."

"Well . . . " a voice chuckled loudly.

She could see the source approaching their table from her peripheral, his form vaguely illuminated by soft lamp light through the gloom. " . . . Aint this a sight?"

She knew that voice, she could hear the telltale grin that shaped it.

Catching onto the change in energy, the giggles and boisterous laughter of their small group died down. Tense glances exchanged between them, all eventually landing on the intruder, all except her own.

Commotion continued sounding around them, their table the only to emit an unusually low amount of noise. "Anyone wanna tell me whats goin' on here?" The voice asked.

Swallowing, she realised she'd been intently staring into a cadleflame. She belived that maybe she'd have a chance at going unnoticed if she sat still enough.

"I asked you a question, doll."

She winced. That was his nickname for her. Fuck. She tore her gaze from the candle, snapping it to her friend across the table and gave her a sidelong glance that meant 'trouble' to which her friend nodded in agreement.

The low light that made the place cosy just moments before now only existed to muddle her thoughts. But, it could work in her favour. She carefully pushed her drink behind her elbow, hoping it wasn't too late to hide, and her friend followed her lead.

She turned toward the man, a cheap grin plaster on her face. "Hey . . . Buck," she spoke slowly, as if it'd somehow make him more agreeable.

"Hey there, princess," he grinned. Hat on his head. "Wanna explain this to me?" Pointing lazily to their gathering.

She shrugged, attempting to act nonchalant. Because admitting your wrong would confirm it's wrong. "Nothin special, we were just leavin', in fact."

A scoff blew past her ear. "The hell we are." The lap she sat on stiffened beneath her, tapping his feet–once, twice–in a show of impatience, and rocking her body in the process. The man then whispered in her ear. "Who is this guy anyway?"

She inclined her head, nervous eyes avoiding the big cowboy that stood imposing at the end of their table, and murmured a quiet reply over her shoulder. "No one. . . in particular." A lie, of course. "Let's just go."

The cowboy chuckled. "You're not leavin' with him, you're leavin' with me." That drawl could make the most steeled stumaches jittery with butterflies. Her friend must've felt it too by they way she squirmed in her seat.

She had to screw her eyes shut in a moment of contemplation. Why'd he have to be here tonight? Why'd they have to go to a bar he frequented?

She looked back at her friend with panic in her eyes. Boy, were they in for it. She could think of nothing else then to simply ask nicely, hoping it'd appeal. "Please, just go."

He smirked, putting a hand on his hips and showing a stern but playful disposition. "Your daddy know 'bout this?" He tipped his hat in their direction.

She pinned him with her eyes, narrowing them with independent annoyance. "Im my own woman, B-"

'What's it to you?' The guy beneath cut her off.

Bucky switched his attention to the guy, and she could feel him shrink a little under Bucky's gaze. "Hell, no need for that tone! I was just sittin' with my buds over there." He pointed to the group of men Buck came with, no doubt to put some pressure on the poor guy. From the looks of it, they'd been listening in on our conversation, and now waved to her, idly laughing at the situation, ready to jump in at any moment.

She shyly waved back, a tight smile on her lips.

"See, I just saw your little group havin' a grand ol' time over here and wanted to join you," Bucky laughed. "And when I noticed that fine woman in your lap, I thought I'd have a chat with her." He disguised it well, but she could hear the anger beneath his humoured exterior.

"You two know each other?" The guy asked, I'll at ease.

"Well enough." Bucky took a moment to look her over, a scan for any harm. But his eyes stuck on the short skirt and thin shirt. If possible, he looked even more bothered. "Wouldn't you say, sweetheart?" He glanced at her, and she could see the danger that lurked in his eyes. It began to dawn on her more and more how knee deep in trouble she was.

She cleared her throat, a nervous blush creeping up her cheeks. "Mhm," she hummed. It felt like he could see through her.

The guy's hand slunk to the bare skin of her thigh, attempting to mark his territory when seamingly he'd decided his dislike of the situation. "Huh, what's with the hat anyway, you some kind of sheriff?" He asked. But cut Bucky off as he was about to answer. "Either way," he waved his hand dismissively. "She's fine where she is. She can make her own decisions." And just like that, he'd successfully stolen the point she'd been trying to make.

She shook her head. Stupid, stupid boy.

Bucky's face hardened, any sign of humour gone from him. "I assure you, I dont need a sheriff's badge to take her home, It's within my right." He braced his hand against the table, leaning closer to them.

Her uterus roiled at that. 'take her home'

"Now, get that hand off of her, boy." He snarled, annoyance and authority resounding in his voice, promising a solution to the mans cocky demeanor. "She ain't yours to touch."

"Why?" The guy asked. "She yours?" His hand slid higher, squeezing her thigh, challenging the much broader man.

She exhaled, releasing a frustrated hum in early defeat, he'd doomed them both.

The cowboys jaw tensed. Silently, but undoubtedly steaming, he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and pushed them above his elbows. The veins on his forearms pop from strain, knuckles turning white from his fists clenching. "Fella. . ." He began, calming his composure, then pointed two loose fingers at the girl in the mans lap. "Had she been mine, you'd be on the floor already. Now, that girl, ain't of drinkin' age, neither is she to be touched by a slimy bastard like yourself."

Fuck, so he did see the drink. She shook her head again, warning him. "Bucky. . ." A very bad attempt at dissuading him from doing whatever he was about to do. She could almosy feel the guy beneath her sink into the booth they were sitting in. Perhaps he had some sense after all.

Her friend grabbed her arm, loosely yanking on it as her anxious eyes flickered between the men in conflict. She herself sitting in the lap of the guy's friend, who was preparing to step in if necessary. "We should go before this gets ugly," her friend whispered.

"Respectfully, ma'am, she ain't going nowhere without me." The cowboy opposed, directing his attention to her friend.

No, no, no no. . . Dread filled her, he'd drive her straight home to her parents.

Bucky's eyes fell back on the guy, now shrunken and small under his gaze. "So. . . Stand up, 'n leave, boy," he spoke with the authority of a sheriff but stood with the confidence of an outlaw. "There's no need for altercations, I was enjoyin' my night. N' I don't wish that to change-"

"I'll call on the bouncer," the guy shot out, his face probably as pale as his overly white and fragile shirt, pointing to a man behind the cowboy. Her eyes followed the steps down from the seating area, and through the dimly lit dive where a big man stood posted by the door. The guy beneath her then glanced at his friend across from them, both extending curt nods to one another.

She wanted to wretch, he was acting a coward and standing up to Bucky with the threat of enlisting two other men to his side. She sighed loudly, making a point for him to hear as she eyed her friend. "Well, I sure know how to pick em'." And her friend, inspite of the commotion they found themselves in, covered her mouth in snicker.

Bucky narrowed his eyes in a second of silent fury, then answered with a laugh, not missing a beat. "You mean that bouncer?" He asked and turned around, calling a greeting to the bouncer, who in turn tipped his hat with a smile. The type of gesture that indicated a longstanding friendship. "We're well aquainted," Bucky grinned. "But im sure he'd love to sort this situation out."

If they had any sense at all, the two men would leave with what little dignity they had left and realise that they were already outnumbered inspite of being 2 to 2.

"Leave, girls," the guy easily dismissed them.

She gave him a pointed look, flashed her eyebrows, and jerked her head to the side in a 'you had it coming' motion, and then grabbed her friend's hand.

"Asshole," she sighed and steered them out of the booth, taking the cider in her other hand. Silly as she was, she thought she could simply leave, perhaps just slip by Bucky. But no, his strong hand grabbed her bicep as she passed by, and set his blues deep into her own. "Wait by the truck, I'll drive ya' home." He said, looking between the two girls.

"Fine . . . " She sighed.

"N' dont even think of running, cause I'll catch ya'," he warned, and she rolled her eyes inspite of the burning that settled in her core.

She tried to yank herself free, but he didn't let go. "What? You wanna hear a 'yes sir'?" She dared the words, teasing, as nervousity built in her gut.

His eyes searched hers, a slow grin spreading over his lips as he leaned closer, bending down to whisper in hear ear. "Dont get cocky with me, girl." And his hand began sliding downward, making her shiver, leaving goosebumps in the wake of his touch.

She swallowed, that tone, the hat? God. Her uterus purred, and in a sudden surge on confidence, she answered. "No, sir."

He grabbed the glass bottle from her hand and grinned, taking a sip. "Good, girl. Now go." And pointed to the door.

Would it be wrong to say she started salivating? His words, together with his lips making contact with the same surface she had? There was something about it, something that made her . . . Pulse.

Bucky whistled and his friend–the bouncer–came bounding up the steps, him along with the group of dad's and bucky's friends only a few steps behind.

The bouncer tipped his hat to her and her friend in passing, a smirk on his lips. Nice to know there was still some gentlemen in the world.

She smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. He was quite handsome too.

"Dont even think 'bout it," Bucky warned.

She rolled her eyes, and then they were finally on their way out, meeting Bucky's group of friends on the way, all nodding and greeting her. "Tell your daddy we missed him tonight." One said, and they all chuckled.

The girls hurried off, giggling. But anxiety lingered in the depths of her chest. Those men were rogue witnesses in all of this.

As she held the door open, voices raised behind them. She could see the crowd turning to look in Buckys direction, anf she herself followed their gazes. And found them just in time to see Bucky's knuckles collide with the jaw of the guy she'd spent her night on, sending him sprawling.

Plunging into the deep night, the cold swept over them. "He's hot, ain't he?"

She didn't want to answer, or simply didn't want to admit it and just gave her friend a look of understanding.

"God, I was ready to pounce on him the second he called me ma'am."

The girl understood that too.

After about ten minutes wait, Bucky emerged from the bar. Unscathed, apart form bloody knuckles and dark cloud around his head. Before even saying a thing, he'd already removed his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. "I only got one of them. Apologies, ma'am," he told her friend and opened the truck door for them both. "The truck'll warm you up."

"Thats ok, thank you," her friend answered, and the girls shared a knowing look. Their thoughts connecting in fiendish collectivity.

"Alright, get in. We'd better get goin'."

The ride was relatively quiet. We knew better than to anger him further. Anxiety was growing within her, though, she didnt wanna know what would happen when her friend was let off.

"Text me ok? I'll se ya' later." Her friend said, eyeing Bucky. She leaned her head through the open window of the truck. "But- let me know how that goes," she whispered. "And good luck." She raised her eyebrows with a smirk on her lips.

The girl rolled her yes. "Sure will." And with one last wave, they were off.

When there were only the two of them, they could say whatever they wanted with confidence. But so far, there'd only been a few sighs and breaths of shared irritation. Neither of them were particularly pleased with the situation.

But she wanted to be the first to speak. "I'll be 21 in a few days, Buck."

"Doesn't mean you have good judgement."

She bristled. "I'm not a little girl anymore!"

" 'Course not, I can tell by the way you dress. That what a grown woman look like to you?" He nodded to her body, barely covered apart from his thick jacket over her torso.

She pulled it closer around herself. "Like what exactly? What do I look like to you? A slut, a hooker?" Her face stung from embaressment. She felt like a child again, being berated for something she wasn't able to puzzle together by herself.

He clicked his tongue, jerking his head to the side. His patience was running thin. "Dont twist my words, doll. I'm callin you careless."

"That dont matter comin' from you, you're not my daddy." She knew the comment would get a rise out of him, because she knew he'd ment no ill intent, and she knew he cared for her. But she was mad, and so was he.

"No, n' you should thank fucking god he wasn't there to bust you. I was the better option, I can promise you that."

She exhaled a frustrated breath, turning her attention toward the windshield. Watching droplets of water paving their way over the condensation covered glass. "You weren't the only one to bust me, though, were you?" She spoke lowly, feeling like a coward for even asking. "The boys gonna say something?"

He gripped the steering wheel harder, his roughed up knuckles tearing. "I told em' I'd take care of it." It must've stung, but he took no notice. Other things pestered his mind.

Worry mixed in with all other emotions as her gaze drifted to his hands, and her mind immidetly moved into recovery mode. "So what's that mean, you gonna tattle on me now?"

He looked over at her, brows furrowed right beneath the rim of his hat. He couldnt begin to understand her. "That all you care about?"

"Right now? Well, yeah. I dont want a scolding."

"All grown and still daddy's little girl, worried about his opinions."

"And if I say yes, what then, girl?

"I dunno, m' gonna have to convince you not to."

"Like you convinced that guy to buy you beer, huh? What'd you do, flirt with him? Give him a handjob, suck him off? What did I miss before catching you?"

Her mouth hung open in disbelief. "You fucking asshole!" She shook from anger, she never expected words like that to be thrown at her. Especially not by him. But she'd get him back, there was no reason behind her actions now. "Maybe I would've, I even bet it would've worked if I'd asked you. Right? You would've just loved having your friends pretty daughter gettin' you off, huh!" She half shouted the last sentence, her chest heaving with effort and fury.

"That's enough." His tone was unforgiving, shooting a sense of reality back into her.

"I'll shut up if you answer the god damned question Buck, would it have worked?"

But Bucky didn't answer, his jaw clenched and unclenched, biting back his words. If she thought the silence had been bad before? It was deafening now.

After calming down again, her words hit her like a freight train. She always had a friend in Buck, but now she wasn't sure. The words that'd been thrown back and forth had set them off balance, their entire relationship was on unsteady ground. Something had been rewritten in the rules between them.

There'd always been attraction, but that wasn't something they ever spoke of. They'd always been close, good friends even. But now, something had changed. And it made her feel sick. She'd had an ally in him, but now, she wasn't so certain.

After a long whole of shutting her mouth out of stubbornness, the fate of her father finding out was worse, so she broke. "Please don't bring me home, Buck. Dad'll throw a fit." She tried to smile, to soften her voice. But it felt wrong.

After a moments uncertainty on her part, and strained breathing on his, he spoke. "Im not makin' the detour, you can sleep at mine, that was always the plan anyway." He admitted, sounding utterly tired.

And now she felt extremely guilty, eyes studying him as he gripped the steering wheel harder. Her gaze drifted over his body, his face, his hands. Stopping on the roughed up and bloody knuckles. He'd beaten that guy for her. Out of jealousy, or simply because he was protective?

She turned away, her chest feeling hollow and followed the birches and sprucetress as they flashed by the truck. Their colors and textures blending together as they met the dark consistent sky above them.

Bucky's house was dark, he only lit a few tablelamps when they arrived. It was better that way, she recognized herself here, within the gloom and the safety of his home. It was second to her own.

"I'll get your something more comfortable," he said, his eyes avoiding her clothes, her body as a whole and disappeared into his bedroom.

Was it because he thought they didn't fit her, or the opposite? Had he been mad at himself for being attracted to her?

She nodded slowly, calling out to him, "we should do something about that hand of yours."

"It's fine, I'm fine." He said, re-emerging, meeting her eyes. "Here," he handed here a t-shirt and a pair of shorts, most likely too big for her. "I'll take the couch, n' you can take my bed."

She nodded again, and headed into the bathroom.

Buckys t-shirt was longer on her than the skirt she'd worn, so she opted out of the shorts. Luckily findig a roll of gauze in the bathroom cabinet.

She emerged from the bathroom, a pair of panties and the oversized t-shirt the only things on her body. "You want something to-" Bucky paused as she rounded the corner, and suddenly she herself stopped short–caught off guard.

Bucky stared at her, and whatever he'd been about to say was lost the second he looked up. Bucky cleared his throat, and with the weight of a 15 year long friendship on his shoulders, his eyes stayed glued to hers.

Inwardly, she smiled and hoped the lowly lit livingroom couldn't reveal the blush on her cheeks. "Found some gauze," she held the roll up, indirectly asking for permission to bandage him.

He opened his mouth to decline, she could even see his head begin to shake in dismissal.

But she cut in before he had the chance. "Just let me help, you can be mad and still let me help."

His eyes hardened, but hesitantly, he nodded all the same. "Im fine, doll."

She raised her brows with skepticism and made her way toward him, the fabric of buckys shirt doing its best at showcasing her breats.

Bucky clenched his fist in an attempt to control himself, he winced, the wounds on his knuckles re-opening.

"Yeah," she scoffed. "Sure seems fine to me." And placed herself infront of him. From his position on the couch, he had to look up at her. At that, a flicker of heat blazed in her core. Oh, those eyes. His big, pleading eyes, all sad and hurt. Did he want her gone or want her in some other way?

She kneeled, settling between his thighs and grabbed his hand. "You don't got to be so stubborn all the time. . . Just wanna help you." She wrapped his hand carefully, enjoying every second of his corse skin over hers. Once done, he tried flexing his hand, and winced again. He still hurt, that much was clear, but was too proud to admit it. "Want me to kiss it better?" She joked, hoping it would lighten the mood. But he did that thing again, where he said nothing, and instead clenched his jaw, as if holding back a yes. So she took her chance.

Keeping their eyes locked, she brought his wrapped knuckles to her lips, and kissed them through the bandage once, then moving further up to kiss the softer skin of the back of his hand. Again, his eyes were pleading, and he moved the hand to cup her cheek, stroking her cheekbone with his thumb. She took it as encouragement and kissed his palm, his wrist, his forearm. She stood up on her knees, kissing his bicep and reached for his shirt to pull him closer. She cupped his face and brought him inches from her own, nuzzling her nose against his.

Finally, when her lips reached for his, he pulled away. "Stop, stop," he nudged his forehead against hers. "We can't," he moved his lips away, cheek to cheek, he kissed the soft spot in front of her ear. "We can't."

"Cant, or wont?" She asked dully.

Those pleading eyes were back, begging her not to make him answer that question. She nodded absentmindedly, pulled into her thoughts. She stood up and moved away from him, his hand sliding down her arm and locking around her wrist, stopping her. "Dont leave."

"I'm comin' back."

After a few minutes of bustling in the kitchen, she returned to him. Sidling up next to him on the couch, her curled up legs lulling into his lap as she handed him a whiskey glass, then cradled her own. He whispered a thank you, looking into her eyes, and she whispered a you're welcome, looking into his. Then they sat like that for a while, quiet, unmoving. Bucky's hands finding their home on her legs, glas in one hand and her knee in the other. Somehow, this wasn't crossing a line for them, this was their normal, this was something not even her family questioned, this was them.

"Im sorry, doll." he said finally. "I never meant to imply-"

"It's ok, Buck." He opened his mouth to speak again, but she stopped him. "Really, It's fine. I'd rather not dwell on it."

Another moments silence passed between them, it was uncomfortable, but the unsaid lingered in the air like a thick wall between them, and hung over them with the threat of smothering. "We need to talk about us."

"I didn't like the way he was touchin' you," he said, choosing the topic before she had a chance at it. If he had to approach them, he would do it indirectly. "It didn't look like you were enjoyin' it."

Her eyebrows raised, "You would've punched him even if I were enjoying it." She commented sourley.

He squeezed her knee, gently rubbing circles into the skin beside. "He acted like he owned you," He turned his unscathed hand upside down, brushing his knuckles up and down her sensitive skin.

It all went straight to her head, veins throbbed with heat she didn't know she could feel. All brought out by a single touch of his hand.

But she wouldn't let off. "And what do you 'spouse beating him for it is?"

He stayed silent, his hand turned again, this time to grab her soft flesh, squeezing it with purpose. Much like the guy had done, but this felt different. This felt good, real good.

She swallowed, closing her eyes to focus on the words she needed to say. "What made you think you had the right? If not that I already belonged to–" she stopped, and their eyes met in a quick glance.

He let out a frustrated sigh. "I was only protectin' you." He defended, but it didn't quite sound like he believed the words himself. Nor did she. But if he wasn't ready to see it as it was, she wouldn't pressure him.

Instead, she laid her head on his shoulder. "It shouldn't be this hard."

He shook his head, the words seemingly struck a cord within him. For he sat insilence, pondering, a long while. "I would've said no, you know. And it would've killed me." She looked at him strangely, forgetting what he was referring to for a moment. "I would've said yes, if you hadn't felt forced to it, like it was a last resort to keep your secret."

Oh. . . "Had I wanted it, you'd said yes?" She stared unbelieving into the dark space infront of them.

"Nothin' could stand in my way." He slid his hand further up her thigh, fingers exploring the skin just beneath the hem of his/her shirt.

She sat up straight to look at him properly, she couldn't tell if he was serious. "You want me?"

"More than anything," his voice was breathless, barely a whisper. His index and long finger reaching further up, exploring more than he'd ever dared. "Cant even explain how many times I imagined you gettin' me off after you said it. How much I hated the thought, the sight of you with that guy, his hands all on you."

A pang of need shot through her. She put her whiskey down, and braced her hands against his chest. "But why tell me now, whats changed? Whats changed in this last hour?" His fingers rubbed the skin of her hips beneath her panties, sending shivers running over her body, shivers she'd only previously dreamed he'd be the cause of.

"You're right, it shouldn't be this hard. I'm makin' it too hard." His hand slid to her waist, still invisible to him, but no longer untouchable. Magnetically, they were pulled together, faces inching closer and closer to oneanother.

"And what about daddy?" It was becoming hard to focus, she wouldn't stop him for the world. Bow, they were close enough to feel the dampness of their breaths.

His hand continued exploring farthur up, fingertips finally reaching the soft, plush flesh below her breast. "Your daddy ain't here, is he?"

She began shaking her head in disbelief, lips brushing against eachother. "Dont promise something if you can't follow through."

His hand stopped, "I can, please," he begged, waiting for her go-ahead. "I can. . ."

His words vibrated against her skin, electrifying her body. "Fuck," she moaned, he's right there. Right, there, infront of her, for her. "Then do, please do, Buck."

And just like that, both hands were beneath her shirt, pulling her into his lips and squeezing her breasts.

Breathless moans filled the silent air, they tore at eachother greedily. Pulling and pushing eachothers bodies, fighting to get Bucky free of his clothes.

Snaking one arm behind her back, he guided her down onto cushions and placed himself above her. Still clothed by jeans, he rolled his hips against her core, grinding the rough fabric against her barely clothed clit. This, is what she had been craving. The exact static friction, the heat and movement between their bodies producing all the pleasure she needed. She moaned heavily, beacause still, she wanted more. Pulling her legs up and her panties off, she wordlessly signaled for him to do the rest.

With a groan, Bucky dove into her neck, kissing and sucking, all the while he unzipped his jeans and pulled them off together with his boxers. No time was wasted, he lined his member up with her core within a second, prodding and teasing at the opening. "Please, please, please." She sounded desperate, but fuck, she was. And feeling it was worse then sounding it.

"Yes ma'am." He said, and thrusted into her. A gasp escaped them in unisome. With the arm still around her waist, he pulled her into his hips, his body straining as he delved deeper inside her than she thought possible.

"Yes. . ." She whined. "More."

He kissed his way up her throat, their hips freed and collided into eachother with steady, strong thrusts, pushing her deeper into the cushions with every rut. Nothing could compare, he was unparalleled. Bucky, despite what he was already achieving, kissed his way up her neck, unfaltering in his duty.

Her hands found his face, cupping it and bringing him back to her, and their lips met again. "Taste so sweet," he murmured, sinking his tongue into her. The salt of her skin mixing with her saliva. "Want all of you."

She smiled against him. "Harder."

He did as ordered, keeping his pace and adding pressure. "Yeah," he moaned. "Being so good for me, girl." And pulled her deeper onto his member. Her breaths grew rapid and shallow, fingers clawing at his back as she had nowhere to go, all pleasure directed straight into her. "Close, so fucking close," she cried.

"Good," he chuckled breathely against her skin, and that was a she needed. Her back arched in euphoria, and stars stung her eyelids, speckling the darkness. "Good job, sweetheart. Just breathe," he continued thrusting into her, softly, easing her through the orgasm. "Good girl. Well done. . ." He whispered, kissing her jaw. The stars began fading and she regained her senses, tears rolling down her cheeks. "Beautiful, girl." He moaned, still rutting into her, chasing his own high while wiping the tears from her face. Her body began tingling, on the vege of breaking down.

"Dont know how much more I can take, Buck." She kissed his cheek, focusing on the skill of his lips.

"Almost there, almost. . ." he moaned, increasing his pace. The slickness of her core created a sickening sound together with the slapping of their skin. It was heavenly, but she could feel the pressure building within her again.

"Mmmh, m' gonna cum again, please buck, dont stop."

He didn't, he continued, intent on coming together with her. He bit into her lip, causing her to yelp and yield the hold on his face and licked a trail down her chest and breast, then taking it into his mouth. Sucking and slurping in an insane rythm with the slapping. "Yes, yes! Fuck, Bucky." she called out, and Bucky pulled out of her.

Coming only a second after, his seed spilling over her abdomen. "I love you, I love you." He moaned with faltering breaths, bracing himself on his forearms on either side of her, kissing every part of skin that he could reach.

Holy shit? "I love you too." She smiled lazily, drunk off of her two consequent orgasms. Laying her hand on her stumache, she felt his sticky substance coat her fingers.

His eyebrows knit together in guilt. "Sorry 'bout that sweetheart, I'll get a towel-"

She grabbed his bicep and shook her head, locking her eyes onto his as she brought the fingers to her lips and licked them off, popping them in her mouth to suck them clean.

Bucky stared, unable to form words.

"Cat got your tongue, cowboy?" She asked, a coy smile on her glistenting lips.

"Fuck," he awed breathlessly. "I just love you." He whispered, lowering himself onto her once again, this time striking his tongue into her core.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky #bucky smut #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky imagine #bucky fanfiction #dbf!bucky smut #cowboy!bucky smut

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night-raven-tattler · 3 months ago

Text

The pains of being human

Summary: You're dealing with period related misfortunes, and you feel vulnerable... mostly because you reached a point where you had to share your predicament with someone you trusted (?).

Characters: Deuce, Floyd, Lilia and GN!Reader (separate, vague)

Warnings: mentions of menstrual products, food, medicine; discussions of periods and related symptoms (such as: bleeding, cramps, nausea, mood swings.)

By opening the document, you agree to Mx Tattly's terms of source confidentiality.

-ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

You were in your dorm room, stuck in a real predicament: not stocking up on your menstrual products, and leaving the room to buy yourself some seemed too risky, fearing you might get a stain and embarass yourself in front of the whole school

It wasn't a very likely situation, but the anxiety was not worth it, so you relied the first person you were close enough with to help you out: Deuce

You shot him a simple text

"i am on my period, can you buy me some products? i'll pay you back when you get here"

and expected an awkward but supportive reply, since teenage boys and periods can be like oil and water sometimes or demons and cruxes...

But the text you received in return was... mildly surprising.

"yeah sure. pads? tampons?"

"what size do you need?"

"anything else you need? painkillers? something sweet?"

You even double checked the number to make sure you didn't text anyone else

He even knew about sizes! And he thought about painkillers! You were more and more touched with each message coming through

And, with the proper instructions, Deuce was on his way to Sam's

He was not embarassed for even a second: he was there on a mission, and he accomplished it successfully without any missteps

...Well, except of his little delay, caused by a pair of nosy boys, who received their proper threats from Deuce for interrupting his mission with their toxic masculinity

He knocked at your door, and for a second he was expecting his mother to open the door; after all, she was the only one he has ever bought these things for before you

You gratefully welcomed him in, waddling your way back to your bed as you inspected the bag he brought you

"Thank you, Deuce. You're a livesaver... How much did everything cost you?"

Deuce saw the tired look on your face, the heavy lids that indicated a lack of proper sleep, and he shook his head

"It's on me this time."

You scoffed, knowing Deuce was also on a budget; as much of a sweetheart and an honors student he was, Deuce deserved to be rewarded

"...I wanna think of a compromise, but my brain is too tired right now."

You groaned, closing your eyes as you rested them for a few seconds

Deuce shook his head at you again and clicked his tongue in fond exasperation

He wanted to be nice and offer you an out, but you were dead set on being nice to him...

"...A latte."

You opened your eyes, looking at Deuce in confusion

"I'm sorry?"

"I want a latte. One of those fancy ones from that café in town. When you're done with the, uh... bear week."

A small snort escaped you as you gave Deuce an amused look

"Bear week? Not shark week?"

Deuce's eyes widened slightly, and he looked away as his cheeks grew warmer

"...Mom never called it that. She always said that fighting a bear is more likely to happen than fighting a shark... and that it sounds cooler."

You nodded, feeling very inclined to agree with his mom, and decided to steal that phrase

You were very relieved to have someone as reliable as Deuce near you, and despite the fact that Deuce wasn't the most diligent person, he always made sure to carry one of your preffered products with him at all times

No matter what kind of teases he received from anyone for it, he knew he was showing a level of care not many would

And while helping you... he was helping himself

He was still dealing with the guilt of being so embarassed when his own mom sent him to buy pads; he couldn't help his mom with such a simple thing even after everything she's done

But he can be more careful this time... more appreciative

『••✎••』

The moment Floyd spotted you in the hallways was when things went downhill: Floyd didn't really bring sunshine and rainbows around with himself

By that point you were used to his shenanigans, but you still gave some interesting reactions

A gasp, a swat to his hand... but never tears

He wouldn't have yelled in your ear if he knew you'd burst into tears: he wasn't in the mood to deal with the aftermath

But he quickly put two and two together, seeing the way you were frozen on the spot, almost trying to pick between scolding him and saying something else

Unbeknownst to Floyd, you were simply trying to get back to your dorm after noticing a pretty sizeable stain on your pants from your period

And the anxiety from trying to go unnoticed put you on edge, making your reaction to Floyd so much worse

"...Please just get me out of here."

Your small plea came after a tense silence, in which Floyd was reading your expression with an almost uninterested look

But he still hoisted you over his shoulder without any hesitation, much to your embarassment

"Floyd...! Not like this, put me down!"

"Eh~? You're so hard to please, little discus!"

Floyd did not put you down, of course

It was causing a bit of a scene, so you decided that, in the end, you'll take whatever got you to your dorm room the fastest

"Alright, fine...! Just get me to my dorm then!"

"Boooring! Why can't we go somewhere more fun?"

Floyd complained while going in the direction of your dorm

"Because I'm not in the mood for fun, Floyd! I..."

Your cheeks turned red, realising you almost revealed something too personal

To your surprise, Floyd didn't point it out; he just pouted as he walked towards your dorm

You reached your dorm room soon thanks to Floyd's long legs, and you were able to change into fresh clothes, easing your anxiety and making you feel like crying from relief

Until you realised Floyd was still in your room, even after you told him you'd be having no fun together today

He looked you up and down, his face betraying his confusion

"Now can you tell me why you were smelling like blood? Did anyone do something? Do I get to deliver a revenge plan and squeeze some aquarium fish?"

Floyd's almost sadistic delivery did not phase you at all, and all you were thinking was that of course Floyd noticed

You had no other option but to explain

"I just... got a blood stain from my, uh... my period..."

Silence.

"...What do classes have to do with that?"

Your eyes widened as you came to a horrifying conclusion: Floyd couldn't know what period were, because he was a merman

You saw your short life flash before your eyes in horror at the prospect of having to explain periods to a teenager... when Floyd just burst into laughter

"Oh, you actually believe that! You are so funny!"

Much to your relief, Floyd's confusion was just a prank; he figured you had your period before you even said anything

He revealed that he took classes about humans, their customs and anatomy when he first decided to come on land

And he also dodged the pillows you threw at him with practiced ease

It was the last time you even talked about it: neither of you brough it up again, and you didn't know how to feel about it

On one hand, you were relieved, but on the other hand, you expected Floyd of all people to ask questions and be all annoying about it

But Floyd didn't really care about things like that

In fact, he found your periods hilarious: your mood swins in particular were funny, and he almost enjoyed making things that you could digest

And he would never admit it, but he felt proud when you seemed to feel a bit better after he helped you during your period

『••✎••』

Every once in a while, you found yourself being enveloped in a hug from behind from the old bat

He would either hand you a piece of homemade chocolate by him or some cute trinket he thought sould cheer you up

Lilia was a very cute individual, and he was surprisingly affectionate for someone who was definitely a teenager and not a retired war veteran attending highschool, so you never questioned it

...until you found Lilia wrapping his jacket around your torso gingerly from behind

"...There we go. Not too tight?"

His cute, softer voice vibrated through your back as he still was glued to you

"It's... not, but why did you..."

"Oh, haven't you heard? Jackets wrapped around waists are the latest fad! It's cool and chic!"

You didn't argue with him on it, especially after you tried to untie the jacket from your waist and were blocked by Lilia, who was still holding you from behind

The proximity was getting to you, and you felt your cheeks flushing, your knees growing a bit weak, your stomach doing flips-

Wait, no. That wasn't butterflies in your stomach, that was a sharp pain from... lower

As you put two and two together, Lilia started walking you down the hallway into a secluded classroom, his hand around your waist and making you two look as casual and unassuming as always

The moment Lilia closed the door of the abandoned classroom, you his your face in your hands from embarassment

"Oh, my god... This can't be happening to me..."

The tone in your voice betrayed how mortified you felt, but was glad that you had this realisation away from prying eyes

You didn't even realise the leak, since you were already using products, and it already felt like you leaked blood all the time...

Lilia only chucked at your realisation

"Khee hee... Someone was a bit caught off guard today, huh?"

Your pathetic whimper was the only answer Lilia received, and his eyes sparkled with mirth

He still brought out his magical pen and waved it gently in the air, muttering something under his breath

"Take that jacket off and turn around for me?"

You did as he instructed, but only because you felt more... dry, all of a sudden

Lilia hummed in delight as he saw the spot being gone, his spell working

"Good. No more damning evidence... Now all you gotta do is go on your merry way."

You sighed in relief and slipped onto an empty chair, letting the small rollercoaster of emotions settle down within you

Lilia was nothing short of a lifesaver, and he handled the situation with so much grace that it left you speechless

When you asked about it, he just laughed

"I'm no stranger to blood."

That was all he said... Not ominous at all /s

Still, you were very grateful at the way Lilia handled everything

Since then, he started being even more doting on you whenever you were in your period

He was almost... motherly in a way

And for some reason, the idea of Lilia as a parental figure didn't seem too far fetched...

He always was on the lookout for any other accidents and even tried talking you into trying the reusable alternatives for your products

What surprised no one was when he became even more eager to supplement you with nutritional food whenever you were low on energy

And so much more disappointed when your nausea made his food somehow even worse to be around

『••✎••』

#twisted wonderland #twst #twst x reader #deuce spade #floyd leech #lilia vanrouge #twisted wonderland x reader #deuce spade x reader #floyd leech x reader #lilia vanrouge x reader

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humanpurposes · 7 months ago

Text

Nightblooms

It was a single night, such a trivial moment, two children sharing lemon cakes in a brothel, but she has not forgotten it. He will not recognise her, surely? // Main Masterlist

Aemond x unnamed female character

Warnings: 18+, smut, angst, sex work, unresolved childhood trauma, implied underage and non-con (not explicitly depicted), mentions of war, violence and death

Words: 9.7k (she's a bit of a monster)

A/n: my humble offering of another Aemond brothel fic. I hope you like :) You can also read this on AO3 if you feel so inclined.

He remembers the bed, the thin curtain draped around it, the slight breeze that drifted in on the night air and made it flutter. The throw was richly decorated, red, black and brown, and he picked at the thin threads of embroidery with his fingertips until his skin was red and white.

The heat in the room was unbearable, the stench of wine, incense, his own sweat clinging to his bare skin. He was weary to breathe the air in, to tarnish himself any further than had already been done.

He flinched as the door opened. The madam was back, now wearing a gown and all her gold jewellery. A silhouette stood behind her, he couldn’t see them properly, concealed in shadows.

“You are shivering, my Prince,” she said.

He could feel it, his knees brought up to his chest and his arms clinging around his legs. His clothes were neatly folded in a corner, his eyepatch atop the pile, he just hadn’t managed to reach for them yet.

“Have some wine if you like,” the madam said.

The silhouette stepped into the flickering candlelight. In years to come her face would fade from his memory, but she was young, perhaps as young as him. She was dressed like the other whores, in a loose gown of blue silk that exposed glimpses of her skin, her shoulder, her thigh through a slit in the skirt. She held a pitcher of wine and a cup in her hands.

“She is undertaking her own education,” the madam said, noting how long Aemond’s eye had lingered on the girl. “She’ll help you bathe and dress.”

He made no sound of protest. The madam took the pitcher. He could smell the sour scent of the wine as she poured it. Already a few cups deep, the numbness of alcohol was starting to wear off and a pulsing pain was blooming in the back of his head. The madam placed the cup on a table and then she left.

The girl took a single step towards the bed. She lifted her arm, holding out her hand to him, as if he were some street dog to be tamed.

He scowled. His left eyelids were sewn shut back then, his wound mostly healed after three years, but still hideous enough that people would stare in shock at the sight of him, the ailing King’s maimed son. The Lords and Ladies of the Red Keep averted their eyes when they saw him. His mother looked at him with tears in her eyes. His father… the last time his father must have looked him in the eye was on Driftmark.

But this girl looked at him unabashedly.

If he had his wits about him he might have scorned her. Smallfolk like her should know their place, they should revere their Princes. He shouldn’t inspire pity, he should inspire fear and awe.

His stomach was turning. Anger coursed through his blood. His eyes were hot and stinging but he would not allow any tears to fall. And he was restless. It was all familiar to him, the frustration, the humiliation. He couldn’t bear to sit on the bed anymore, cowering like a child.

“I have a bath drawn,” the girl said.

He had heard her, but he could not find the will to move, not for a few moments at least, moments which felt like hours.

“I have some cake as well. I find it helps me regain my strength… afterwards.”

He felt his head nod.

“It’s lemon, do you like lemon cake?”

“Yes,” he muttered into his knees.

He watched her fetch a robe from the back of a settee by the fireplace, draping it over her arm. “We only have to go to the next room, not far at all.”

He blinked as he looked at her. He felt the dampness on his cheeks, the stinging cold left in the trail of his tears as another breeze swept into the room.

All the faces around him this night were unnerving. Aegon had been far too delighted with his so-called “gift”. He’d entered Aemond’s chambers with a snarling smile before he’d gripped him by his shoulders and dragged him through the stairways used by servants to stay out of sight. “You are a man now, Aemond. Time to get it wet.”

The madam had a calm gaze, soft lips and small eyes which considered him intently once she had taken the purse of coins from Aegon. The scent of her perfume was sharp and he could still smell it in his nostrils. His stomach lurched again.

“Come,” the girl said.

Hers was the only face he found any ease in, and he could not explain why that was.

She held out the robe for him and asked before she secured the tie at his waist. She went to a small door in the corner of the room which he had not even noticed until then. It led into another chamber where the air was hot and humid but not as suffocating.

A basin stood in the middle of the room. She took out two small brown bottles and let a few drops of oil fall into the water, filling the room with a gentle, fresh scent. “Lavender,” she explained, “and rosemary. They are meant to be calming.”

He stepped into the water, glad to find it just below scolding.

The girl kneeled by the basin, gently pouring cups of water over his hair, running it through with a sweeter smelling oil. She took his hand and allowed him to settle, scrubbing his skin with sugar, cleansing it with an amber soap.

When it was done she rested her chin in her hands at the edge. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

He’d stopped crying now, his limbs felt steadier, more his own. He nodded.

“I don’t feel myself until I’ve washed it all off. It makes me feel as though my skin is truly mine again,” she said.

He felt his hands over his arms, the sweat and the fluids rinsed away, the dead skin scrubbed smooth.

“Thank you,” he said. His voice was thick, unnatural in his own throat.

“Do not thank me yet,” she said with a small smile, and suddenly jumped up to her feet. She walked out of his sight, past his blind spot, but she soon returned with a small wooden box. She kneeled beside the basin and opened the lid to reveal three small cakes, dusted with sugar and topped with thin slices of candied lemons. “Take one then,” she said.

He bit down on the inside of his lip to hide his amusement at her impertinence. He did as she told him and ate half of one cake in a single bite. A pleasant sourness burst on his tongue, not like the wine, sweeter, zestier. She was right, his mind was starting to feel a little less numb, the life flooding back into him with every breath he took, lavender, rosemary and lemon.

“You have one too,” he said.

“I’m not meant to,” she said, “they’re for the patrons.”

Aemond lowered his chin to look at her. “Take one.” Now it was his turn to deliver the orders.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes darting between him and the cakes.

“If anyone reprimands you I’ll feed them to my dragon.”

Her expression ignited. “Alright,” she said with a sly smile.

They devoured the rest of their cakes and shared the remaining one. She insisted that he should have the other candied lemon.

“Do you really feed people to your dragon?” she asked, wiping the crumbs from her mouth.

Aemond licked the sugar from his fingers. “I’ve not done it yet.”

She seemed stunned at his answer, then she giggled. “Yours is the big one, isn’t it?”

“Vhagar. She was Queen Visenya’s mount during the Conquest.”

“I see her sometimes, flying over the city.”

“She is too large for the Dragon Pit,” Aemond explained, “she nests along the shore of the bay.”

“And roams where she pleases?”

“Never too far from me.”

“No,” she said, her voice wilting, “of course.”

He suddenly wondered what this sad, sweet girl kneeling beside him would do if she had a dragon. He could picture her on Dreamfyre, the mount of his sister. Helaena adored flying and would often guide her dragon to glide above the waters of Blackwater Bay and the hills surrounding King’s Landing. This girl would take her dragon further, he thought, she would soar up above the clouds. Perhaps she would take her dragon over the seas, to Essos, to the Summer Isles, to the far corners of the world.

He did not flinch from her when she offered him a towel and patted his skin dry. She fetched his clothes from the other room, the awful room where he could not breathe, buttoning his shirt with swift fingers, doing up the buckles on his jerkin.

She was not much shorter than he was. She stood close enough that he could smell the lemon cake on her fingers, and there was something sweeter and richer underneath. It made him think of fresh fruit and vanilla, rose petals and nightblooms.

Her eyes drew slowly up from his collar to his face, to the wound slicing through the space where his eye once was.

“Does that hurt?” she asked.

He was no stranger to pain. It had persisted since the incident itself, stinging and shooting through his skull. It once made him cower like a child, but of late it had lulled into more of a passing irritation. Had the extent of the pain subsided, or was he simply used to it now? “Sometimes,” he said.

“How did it happen?”

The years had passed quickly since then. He remembered the joy he felt flying before the moon and the stars over Driftmark on Vhagar, the faces of his nephews and cousins in the dark. He spat cruelties at them. They shoved him, punched him, kicked him. He remembers the taste of his own blood, the crack of Lucerys’ nose under his knuckles, the dust in his eye and then a pain like fire piercing through to his brain.

Three years and he still felt clumsy in his movements. He would often lose his balance or misjudge his steps. He would miss objects as he went to reach for them, and he was still not quite used to turning his head so that he could see past his blind side.

He’d never had to say it out loud before, not all of it. It had been enough for Lord Commander Westerling to find his face covered in blood and the remains of his eye. He had told his father he had been attacked, but it went unheard to the pleas of innocence by the bastards and their mother. The maesters studied his wound. Cole told him he could regain his strength if he worked for it. Everyone else tended to avert their eyes altogether.

She was looking at it, trailing her fingertips over the edges of his scar and the twisted flesh of his eyelids.

“It was the night I claimed Vhagar. I was returning to Hightide and they came at me, Jace, Luke, Laena’s daughters–” he suddenly realised these names meant nothing to her, but she did not seem discouraged.

“Go on,”

“Rhaena, well, Vhagar was her mother’s dragon. She wanted her, but I claimed her first. I was not afraid of them. Baela struck me first. Then Jace and Luke came at me, and Jace had a knife.”

She breathed a small gasp.

“Luke took up the knife. It all happened very quickly.”

“They did that to you, over a dragon?” She said, trailing her touch lower, over his cheek.

He remembered the cool surface of the rock in his hand, hovered over Jace’s head. One of the girls shook her head, begging him to stop. And he did— or he was going to stop…

That’s when Luke had slashed the blade at him.

“I was weak,” he said, brushing her hand away from his face. “It’ll never happen again.”

She tilted her head at him. Her eyes were glassy, like she might cry. Guilt tugged in his chest. He had not wished to upset her.

Then she took a quick breath and went to take up his cloak and his eyepatch. He placed them both on, covering his silver hair with his hood.

She beckoned him to follow with her fingers. They weaved through the close corridors and the few women and men they passed, some fully dressed, some wearing nothing at all. It felt ridiculous and somewhat unbelievable to see how unashamed they all were, women with their breasts out, men with their cocks hanging between their legs.

His stomach turned again.

He reached for the girl’s hand. Her head whipped around and she held onto him, firmly. He didn’t want to lose sight of her, he couldn’t bear the thought of being alone in this place.

Neither of them let go when they reached the doors. People were passing though so they kept close to the wall, face-to-face.

“Can you find your way back to the Keep from here?” she said, only having to whisper.

Aegon had long since disappeared. Aemond had rarely been out into the city, save to accompany his mother to the Sept, or his siblings to the Dragon Pit. He was alone now, no guards, no wheelhouse, but the Red Keep with its turrets, battlements and flickering lights in the windows would not be difficult to locate. He nodded.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“What for?”

“For what happened to you.”

His stomach turned again, less nauseating, more unsettling, uncertain. He supposed this would be the last time he saw her.

“Will you be alright, here?” he said.

She took in a sharp breath and she frowned as though she were in pain. “Yes. The madam is good to me. She keeps me fed and clean.”

But the things they must make her do…

“Go, return to your royal castle and your servants,” she said with a grin. “Far better that I am here and not starving in some gutter.”

So he did. He slipped through the door, his last memory of her being obscured by shadows, perhaps that’s why he could not recall the details of her face.

Walking through the streets of King’s Landing, he had never felt so aware of his body, his skin under his clothes, shifting over his bones. His limbs felt slightly numb, his feet moving of their own will while his mind… was clouded. His head felt heavy and the noises around him were distant. No one paid any mind to the boy trudging over the dirt and cobbles, but he felt the eyes of the gods on him and it made him shiver. They had seen his sins. What if his mother knew where he had been, the things he had done? He imagined her brown eyes, filled with disgust rather than grief.

He could not look at Aegon for weeks afterwards. He shied away from his mother’s touch, especially on his legs, his knees. In the Sept he begged the gods to forgive him. He begged to forget it.

Years went by. Some nights when he felt a certain tension in his stomach and a stirring in his breeches, he’d think of it, the heat and sweat and incense. And after there was no relief, just an emptiness in his chest.

He could wash it all away, with drops of lavender and rosemary oil in his bath, with sugar scrubbed into his skin.

If there was one thing he wished to remember of that night, it was her. He still thought of that girl, a face obscured in shadow, when the servants brought out lemon cakes after supper, when Helaena insisted on walking through the gardens at sunset and the air was sweet with nightblooms. She pointed them out to him, the silvery white flowers growing in the leafy green bushes lining the path, their petals like little moons in the foliage.

“How curious are these,” Helaena had said one evening, “they retract in sunlight, but in darkness they flourish.”

Daylight dies with a golden sunset and night blooms with a sky of red and indigo clouds.

The King’s body is now ash. Sunfyre had the honour of being the dragon to do it. It was a hasty affair, in the hours after Aegon’s coronation, when the chaos at the Dragon Pit still had their family and the Small Council stunned to silence. Aegon wore the steel crown as they stood on a cliff over the bay, waiting for him to give the order. The heads of his mother and his sister hung heavy, but Aemond did not avert his gaze from the flames. He felt the heat on his face, seeping through his skin.

At long last, his father is gone. Aemond has not wept for him, nor does he feel a desire to. His father was once a young man, well loved, so he is told, but to Aemond he was always a frail old man. Save for the few times he ever proved his strength, and even then his strength was only ever resolved for his dearest child.

Rhaenys will have made it to Dragonstone within a matter of hours, and Aegon’s ascension will not come without consequence.

On the morrow he will fly for Storm’s End and secure the allegiance of Lord Borros Baratheon. His mother has assured him this will be a simple enough feat, swords for a marriage pact with one of the Baratheon girls, but a crucial one. His brother will not hold the throne long without Lords to uphold his claim and men to fight for it.

He wonders if the Stormlands will live up to their name; how dull the entire affair will be if it only amounts to flying Vhagar through a downpour of rain. This is the war his mother and grandsire wish to fight, with letters and diplomacy. He is sure the dragons will become restless soon enough. Rhaenyra has been steadfastly sure of her own importance her entire life, and with Daemon at her side, she will not bend the knee without a challenge.

And what of Aegon, is he ready to fight for his crown?

When Viserys breathed his last and the pieces were all finally in play, Aegon had not been where he needed to be. Not in his rooms, not within the walls of the castle. He was squandering his duties, evading the position he was born to, as he always has done. Aemond himself was the one to drag him from the streets of King’s Landing to the Red Keep. Cole had spent hours with him, convincing him to take up the crown rather than fleeing on a ship across the Narrow Sea, to Pentos, to Yi Ti, some far corner of the world where the burden of being their father’s son would not weigh so heavily on his shoulders.

The first place Aemond had thought to look for his brother proved to be a fruitless endeavour. The establishment was a familiar one, and with every step he took along the Street of Silk his memories phased into reality. The knocker on the door was the same. The madam was the same, the same long, auburn hair, the same gold jewellery, the same knowing smile on her lips and a gleam in her eyes.

“The Prince is not here,” she had said. “His tastes are known to be less discriminating.” Of course. Aegon could pay for the most expensive, sweetly perfumed whores in all of King’s Landing, but instead he sullies himself with the scum of Fleabottom, rolling around in the dirt like a pig.

The madam’s gaze then turned to Aemond. She remarked how he had grown. It felt an obvious thing to say. He was no longer the child he was when Aegon first brought him there.

While he and Cole wandered the city in search of his wastrel of a brother, a thought passed through his mind. He thought of a face in the shadows of the brothel, steam rising, gentle hands, the scent of lavender, rosemary, rose, nightblooms…

She could have been there, on the other side of the door, within the walls of the establishment. She would be a woman just as he was now a man. Or she might have left years ago, to a better life, or perhaps a worser fate. Are the lives of the smallfolk not meant to be brutish and short?

A hollowness settles in his chest, restless and hungry, like it’s writhing under his skin. He paces his chambers, reads until the hearth has died and the sky beyond the windows is black, but sleep will not come to him.

In the hour of the wolf, he dons a cloak and retraces his steps.

Men are all the same. They strut into the establishment like peacocks, with an ego that outweighs their purse. They flash a few coins and ask for wine rather than ale, a symptom of refined taste. They run their hands over her body, her waist, her hips and her rear as though she should be grateful for their attention. They tell her uninteresting stories while they drink themselves into a stupor. They convince themselves that it is their charm and decent looks that have her leading them to a bed in a quiet corner of the pleasure house, or falling to her knees and undoing the laces on their breeches. The truth is that she will do what is asked of her, so long as they have gold. It is only motions of the body, and afterwards she can wash it all away.

Until the next night… and then the next… and then the next…

Madam Sylvi has promised her to a Lannister tonight, a man of Lord Tyland’s household, no doubt paid well by the family he serves. He is supposed to be waiting for her but first she must pretty herself for him. She wears a gown of blood red that bares her back and her arms, that will easily fall away with the undoing of a clasp at her neck. She lets her hair fall freely and tints her lips and cheeks with rosewater. Finally she dabs her perfume into her wrists, her neck, on the insides of her ankles, a scent she has worn for years, sweet, rich and floral.

She descends the stairs by the door. At the darkest time of night the pleasure house is alive. Music hums over the laughter, the moans, the cries. The air is thick with the sourness of alcohol and the smell of sweat and sex.

A man with silver hair stands in the entrance hall, Sylvi beside him. They speak with their heads close together, as familiars? As lovers? Sylvi strokes his arm affectionately, with a look glinting in her eye that means she intends to bleed this Targaryen of all the gold he has.

It does not sink in until he looks up, his single eye meetings hers. He wears an eyepatch over his left eye, dark leather obstructing his hair and pale skin.

The eyepatch… it cannot be…

Sylvi had always said men come here to take their pleasure on their own terms. This had not seemed to be the case when last she laid eyes upon Prince Aemond. She had seen them enter, the young Princes, one taller, merrier, with purple wine stains in the corners of his mouth. The other was solemn faced and unsure, ushered into the arms of the madam before she led him upstairs. Sylvi had other patrons to attend to once the deed was done, leaving the burden of caring for the young Prince on her equally young shoulders.

She still remembers him hunched over himself and shivering, the distant look in his eye, frozen in a single moment of time. The most she had been offered after her first time was a cup of moon tea and an order to change the sheets for the next patron.

It was a single night, such a trivial moment, two children sharing lemon cakes in a brothel, but she has not forgotten it. He will not recognise her, surely?

“Her,” the Prince says, “I will have her.”

Her heart drops. She has reached the end of the steps and freezes, looking to Sylvi for instruction. Anticipation stirs in her gut, somewhere between terror and curiosity.

“I’m afraid she has been spoken for tonight, but I would be glad to–”

“I will pay double what any other man has promised,” Aemond says with an air of finality. This is an offer that cannot be refused. Perhaps the minor Lord will be disgruntled, but he will be compensated generously. Defying a Prince is treason.

While Sylvi has gone to deal with the outbidded Lord, her legs carry her down the last few steps until she is face to face with Prince Aemond.

He is taller for a start, at least a head above her. His hair is longer, his face is slimmer and sharper, his lips are settled into a slight pout. He carries himself differently, proudly. Her eyes move over his leathers under his cloak. She is not meant to admire the men who seek her services. She is meant to take their coin and fulfil their desires.

“Some wine, my Prince?” she asks, nodding towards the inner chamber, the heart of the pleasure house where the musicians play and bodies mingle out in the open or behind drawn curtains.

He offers her a cryptic “hmm,” and follows her inside.

One of the other girls stands in a corner, carrying a tray of full cups. She passes one to Aemond, his fingertips brushing over her skin as he takes it.

The Prince studies his surroundings like a hunter looking for quarry, lips quirked, jaw tight, somewhat amused but silent. Something tells her he has not returned to the pleasure house in the years since his first visit. This is all unfamiliar to him. He sips his wine and takes a slow breath. No doubt he will prefer somewhere a little more secluded.

She takes his hand and weaves through the room, to one of the adjacent chambers lit by candlelight, large enough to fit a bed and little else.

With the curtains drawn the other sounds fade into nothing. She takes Aemond’s wine and sets it aside, coming to stand before him.

She keeps waiting for him to lean into her, to grab greedily at some part of her flesh, to claim her lips with his. Instead he stands stoically, his chest rising and falling from underneath the thick leather of his tunic.

“Are you not awfully warm, my Prince?” she says in a honeyed voice, one she has practised for years that usually feeds the lie she actually wants what’s about to happen. She trails her fingertips over the shiny silver buckles that conceal him from her, his body stiffening under her touch.

She takes a breath to steady the erratic beat of her heart and the wanting stirring in her belly. It is not often that her own forwardness seems out of place.

She remembers the boy with silver hair. She remembers the scowl on his face, how it melted into confusion and fear. He had needed patience then and she was happy to give it. Because she was ordered to. Because she pitied him. Perhaps because she recognised something in his expression and the way he seemed unsure in his own skin.

She places a hand on his shoulder, testing the waters of how close she can get to him. He does not protest. His nose twitches as he inhales deeply and exhales slowly. “Perhaps we should make ourselves more comfortable?” she says.

He places his hand over hers, guiding it to the top buckle at his collar. His expression is stern, his face bathed in golden candlelight and the shadows caught in the angles of his face. His eye is somehow soft but intent.

Undressing him is not to be rushed. She takes her time with every buckle on his jerkin and pushes it slowly from his shoulders. She untucks his undershirt from his breeches and he pulls it over his head. His skin is smooth, mostly unmarred, save for a small scar in the crook of his elbow that had not been there the last time they met. He is all muscle, lean and lithe. She places her palms at his chest and lets them drag down his abdomen, to the waist of his breeches.

He holds her wrists to stop her.

She looks to his eye, terrified that she might have overstepped.

Instead he kisses her. It’s gentle and chaste, his hand against the bare skin of her back, pulling her against his body. When she teases his tongue with hers he chases it, only for the kiss to become messy and clumsy. She cannot bring herself to dislike his inexperience.

“Wait,” she says, pulling away, putting her hands on either side of his jaw. “Follow my lead,” she whispers, leaning in to capture his lower lip between hers. They find a rhythm then. She shows him to move slowly, to be firmer. As their kiss deepens she allows herself to melt into his arms. Her hips are rocking against his, his hand trailing over her skin until he finds the clasp of her dress. The material falls away as simply as it should, leaving her bare before him.

He studies her the same way he studied the room. How many men have laid eyes on her since she came to this place? Too many to count, insignificant men, who have no names or faces in her memory. She has no shame in her nakedness, but there has never been any doubt in her mind that those men found her desirable. Being under Aemond’s scrutiny makes her tremble. She wonders if the sight of her pleases him. He has enough gold and enough pride to be selective.

He had asked for her though. Why?

He’s staring at her. “They crowned my brother today,” he says.

It is not what she was expecting to hear. “I saw.”

“You were there?”

“No.” The gold cloaks did not empty the whorehouses when they were ordered to fill the Dragonpit with witnesses for the King’s coronation.

Aemond’s attention is on her body now. He reaches for her arm, tracing circles over her skin with his thumb.

She had not seen the King himself but she had seen the crowds flocking. She had heard the tremendous noise of crumbling stone, people screaming, a dragon’s screech. “I saw the dragon. People say it is an omen.”

Aemond’s face darkens but his attention is still on his own hand, now at her waist. With the other he pulls the eyepatch from his head and tosses it towards his discarded shirt. She does not get much of a chance to refresh her memory of his maimed eye before he leans into her again. His lips are at her shoulder, then her neck and it leaves her utterly weightless.

“Your perfume is the same,” he mutters into her skin.

He remembers.

Aemond seems content enough following her lead. He lets her slip his breeches past his hips and take him into her mouth. He lets her sit atop him and grind her core against his hardened cock until her peak washes over her, blissful and warm.

When he starts to buck his hips and dig his fingertips into her hips she decides to give him respite. She sinks herself onto him with a soft sigh. It is a rare opportunity to chase a feeling rather than letting herself go through a rehearsed set of motions.

His eye moves between her face and the space where their bodies meet, as if he cannot decide which is more fascinating. She is pleasantly surprised when he places his thumb at her pearl and circles over her sensitive flesh.

She loses herself in it, how deep he reaches, pleasure rising and tightening until it releases suddenly, violently. She falls forwards on her hands to steady herself.

Before long Aemond lifts her off his cock, finishing himself with a stuttering groan and his seed dripping through the folds of her cunt.

He holds her close, caging her in his arms and bringing her into his chest. There’s a numbness that follows pleasure and she cannot bring herself to care that he is crushing her ribs. It doesn’t matter. She basks in the heat of his skin and the smell of him.

He makes good on his promise of payment. The purse of coins he leaves on the bed before he leaves is worth ten nights with any other patron.

There is less pretence the next time he visits her.

It is only a day later. He comes in the middle of the night, his hair, coat and leather gloves soaked, but there is no rain in King’s Landing. They tear at each other’s clothes and kiss like starved dogs devouring scraps. Aemond holds her by her jaw and her neck. When she draws his teeth over his lip he grins.

Once he is bare she realises his skin is cold and he is shivering.

“You should sit before a fire and warm up properly–”

“No,” he insists, “I just want you.”

She chases her pleasure once more, Aemond’s hands bruising into her hips as he thrusts up to meet her, the coldness of his palms seeping through her skin. This newfound urgency is thrilling and she finds herself curling over her body as her peaks tears through her.

Aemond is not finished with her yet. He positions her beneath him, spreading her legs apart with two wide palms before fucks her with a brutal precision, and he does not stop until he has reached his own end, painting her belly and the tops of her thighs.

After, he takes her into his arms, positioning them both so that he lies under her arm with his head nestled on her chest, between her breasts. She strokes her fingertips through his damp hair, over his skin, all the places where lovers touch each other, his cheek, his neck, underneath his ear, his shoulder. With his arm draped over her stomach he clings to her like he may never know such intimacy again. His skin is still cold and yet she holds him close, determined that she will draw some warmth from him.

Hours pass. Days could pass and she’d be content to lie with him.

“The dragon was an omen, you said,” he mutters.

It takes her a moment to rouse herself. Her eyes had closed, her mind half asleep. “That’s what people are saying. A coronation marred by death must surely only lead to more death.”

She feels his arm tighten over her stomach.

“You’re cold,” she says.

“I was instructed to fly to the Stormlands.”

“Why?”

“To secure the support of Lord Baratheon. He has pledged his banners to my brother’s cause and in return I am to wed his daughter.”

His state suggests to her that he has not yet returned to the Red Keep.

“Is there to be a war?” she says.

He remains frozen for a few moments.

“I believe war may now be inevitable,” he says. She feels his lips brushing over her skin.

“How so?” she says on a quiet breath.

“A boy is dead because of me.”

The coldness of Aemond’s body has decidedly taken root within her, like a fist closing over her heart and throat.

“Lucerys was there, at Storm’s End. Lord Borros shunned him from the hall but I… it wasn’t enough. I pursued him on Vhagar. His dragon is nothing to her, they didn’t stand a chance.”

She is not sure she wishes to hear of this, but a new kind of stillness has settled over her. She is too afraid to move, to disturb him.

“He is the one who took your eye,” she says.

Aemond hums. “He never paid for what he did to me. My father was more concerned with the slanders against my sister than he was with me, with my blood spilled by my own kin.”

She closes her eyes, imagining the little boy from all those years ago is curled up in her arms. She runs her fingers through his hair, undoing the knots and tangles. She cradles his head in her arms so he knows he is not alone.

“His debt is paid now, I suppose,” Aemond says.

It is in the early hours of the morning when he finally leaves, the first glimpses of sunrise chasing night from the sky. She helps him dress and fastens his eyepatch over his head. He leaves another purse in her palm, a more than generous amount.

He comes to her nightly. He is an unhurried lover and fucks her slowly, hovering his lips above hers so that they share the same air, keeping their bodies pressed tightly together as if he wishes to smother her, or else crawl under her skin. She’d let him do it.

It is not simply her body he wants. When they are done he wants to be held, and then his thoughts slip from between his lips.

He had not expected to return to the Red Keep a hero for slaying his nephew, but now he says his mother can hardly look at him. His grandsire, the Hand of the King scorns him for his recklessness, for his impulse for violence that now means the false Queen may strike at any moment. Vhagar circles the city during the day, she sees the dragon when she goes to the market. Aemond insists that his dragon could make short work of destroying any other who would seek to oppose her, but Rhaenyra has dragons to spare. He sits in meetings of the Small Council and watches in despair as the Hand and the Dowager Queen advocate for patience and diplomacy.

“We should be marching,” he says one night, tracing his fingertips over her stomach. “We should secure the support of the Crownlands, adding their numbers to our host. Rhaenyra is isolated enough on Dragonstone, but we could cut her off from her allies completely.”

“And none would stand against you and Vhagar,” she says. Assuring him has become a learned skill these last few weeks.

“Alicent wishes for me to remain here, to deter an attack on the city.”

“That is sound logic,” she says. “The people of King’s Landing will be grateful for your protection.”

Aemond hums irritatedly.

“I for one would despair at the loss of our Prince,” she adds, ghosting her lips over his cheek, where his scar cuts through his skin.

For a little while he entertains her, turning his head to kiss her properly. She slips her hand between their bodies, taking hold of his hardening cock. He melts into her, chasing his pleasure as she strokes him.

“I am ready for more,” he says breathlessly. “I’m ready to fight.”

“As you have proved,” she says, coming to kiss his throat.

In a single breath he is above her, pinning her hands by her head. He positions himself against her, rocking his hips so his leaking tip pushes against her pearl. He knows this about her now, how to draw her pleasure from her body. “Storm’s End was no battle,” he hisses into her ear. “Luke was a child. I want fire and blood.”

“Your time will come,” she says, her voice catching in her throat as he quickens his pace.

“The war must be inevitable,” he pants, “the realm will realise it soon enough. Aegon is the King and yet he is hostage to those with weaker wills.”

“You are his brother,” she sighs as Aemond slips lower to her entrance. “You can convince him to act–”

“Not now,” Aemond says, pushing into her with one sudden thrust. “Just take it, that’s it…”

He fucks her slowly, deeply, with his face buried into her neck. His desperation fuels her own desire, his hot breath against her ear, his pants and his groans. When he is finished he does not leave her wanting, trailing his lips and tongue down her body, her chest, her stomach, driving her towards her own peak with his lips and tongue.

“My grandfather takes my aspirations as insolence,” Aemond mutters to himself as he dresses. “He thinks me weak. He thinks I am still a child.”

“Then he is a fool,” she says, still buried beneath the throw on the bed.

“My mother and grandfather seized the throne, now they will not do what needs to be done to hold it.”

“Perhaps they fear what a war might bring.”

Aemond tuts. “The first blood has been drawn.”

“Do you not…” she pauses when he looks at her, his eye wide, anticipating something he will not wish to hear. “What if Rhaenyra comes for you? What if she seeks vengeance for her son?”

Aemond smiles like he has a secret and stalks slowly towards the bed, her stomach tightening in anticipation.

In some ways, Aemond terrifies her. He has a presence of danger and bloodlust which fades away when she peels away the layers of his leathers. Without his eyepatch, in the warmth of the candlelight, he is the picture of Valyrian beauty, a man who belongs in histories and legends, not the living, breathing realm she exists in.

He leans into her, taking her chin between his fingers to kiss her. She relishes it for as long as she can, knowing it won’t be enough to charm him back into the bed.

He pulls away, reaching into his pocket for a purse of coins. “Let her try,” he says as he places it beside her, “but I will not be easily ended.”

The girls all share chambers, bedrooms and a washroom with basins and baths. She rises early in the morning to bathe, to drop her lavender and rosemary oils into the tub and scrub away the remnants of last night. Before, she would not allow herself to fall asleep until she was clean. Lately she finds an odd sense of comfort in the reminders of her royal patron. Her skin is littered with love bites and bruises, her neck, her collar, her breasts. It shouldn’t be like this. Usually she does what she can to forget the men she has been with.

They share their duties. This morning she is to help wash the bed linens, and find cheap grain and cuts of meat from the markets.

The clothes she wears are modest, covering her arms and her neck, unflattering to her figure. Some people still eye her with disgust, with hatred. You can always spot a whore. What can strangers know of her? Can they see through her skin and see her sins as the gods judge them all from the seven heavens? It was not as if she had chosen this path for herself out of an endless number of possibilities.

Sometimes she remembers the life she had before, a woman’s laugh, a particular taste on her tongue, a tune humming in the back of her mind she can’t quite piece together. She used to think the gods had forsaken her, but now she thinks they do not concern themselves with the lives of people like her. So she finds little point in looking to the past, of imagining a future for herself. She survives and that is enough.

Summer is nearing its end. There is no warmth to be found in sunlight obscured by clouds. People walk quickly, keeping their belongings in deathly grips. A woman with a babe in her arms begs the baker to accept one copper instead of five for a loaf of bread. A man despairs that the apothecaries cannot offer him a medicinal herb from Lys for his sickly daughter. The shipping lanes are blocked by the Velaryon Fleet holding the Gullet, and no ship can get in or out of King’s Landing. A woman cries for her son, a rat catcher, his body hanging from the walls of the Red Keep.

She gets what she needs to, grain she will bring back to the kitchens for the cook to turn into plain tasting flatbread. A butcher sells her tough cuts of beef for a reasonable price to go into a stew. He worries that there have been no imports of salt or sugar. How is the city meant to preserve food for the fast approaching winter?

“It’s the fucking war,” he grumbles, “why can’t the King just burn the ships so the rest of us can eat?”

In the distance she hears drums, the clatter of horse hooves against the cobbles. She keeps her basket tightly on her arm, not stopping to make eye contact with the people she passes, past the stalls, mules, the buckets of sewage and dirty water falling from windows above her head.

As she emerges from one of the side streets her way is suddenly blocked by masses of people. She had guessed some sort of procession was afoot. This is no celebration, it is lamentation. People weep and wail around her, a mass mourning that she does not understand, and yet she feels it in her chest and behind her eyes, an urge to cry.

Over the sea of bodies before her she sees two women in an open carriage, richly dressed with black veils over their faces. Petals fall from windows and footbridges. People cry the name of Queen Helaena and Dowager Queen Alicent.

She finds a small ledge to lift herself onto at the base of a statue. What she sees could stop her heart. This is a funeral procession. Queen Helaena’s carriage follows the body of her son, wrapped in a green and gold shroud, with flowers woven into his white hair. For a moment she tells herself the boy is an effigy, that he could be made from wax or porcelain.

“Behold the work of Rhaenyra Targaryen!”

The whispers follow her as she scurries back to the pleasure house. The Prince was slain in his sleep. Two assassins cut his head from his body. They made his mother and twin sister watch.

Bile rises in her throat as she hands cook the cuts of meat, blood seeping through the wrappings. She swallows it down.

When Aemond comes to her that night he is more subdued than usual. He pulls her into his arms and she strokes her hand over his hair.

“My nephew is dead,” he utters. He sheds no tears, he seems confused more than anything.

Rhaenyra’s retribution had come then, swift and brutal, a son for a son.

She undresses him but he leans away when she tries to kiss him. They lie back on the bed and Aemond settles his head on her shoulder.

“My brother is in a rage and wants Rhaenyra dead. My sister has not left her rooms; I tried to go to her but she would not speak to me,” he says.

“How did it happen?”

“There were two. One was a gold cloak. They found him at the gate of the gods with Jaehaerys’ head in a sack. He confessed the other was a rat catcher.”

Now the bodies of a hundred men hang by their necks, though only one of them is guilty.

“Daemon sent them to kill me,” Aemond says, “but I was out.”

She rests her fingers at the pulsepoint on his wrist to remind herself his heart is still beating. “You were with me,” she says. She feels the guilt weighing in her chest. While she and Aemond had kissed and fucked and held each other, a boy had a lost his life, the very body she had seen paraded through the streets.

“In truth I am proud that he considers me such a foe, that he would seek to murder me in my bed.”

She cannot tell if she admires him for it or not, to gamble with life as though it means nothing.

Aemond is watching her, his hair loose and framing his face. “Do you think he fears me?”

She has never seen Aemond wield a blade. She’s never seen him ride his dragon, not up close. She’s never seen him fight with his fists. She’s never seen him slur his words and throw away threats in a drunken argument. He is always composed. He is always softly spoken, and in a way that terrifies her more than it should. They say the blood of the dragon runs hot. Aemond’s blood does not seem to burn, rather it simmers under the surface of his skin.

“Perhaps he fears what else you might be capable of.”

Aemond is the closest she has ever seen him to tears. His eyelashes are damp and heavy, his seeing eye vibrantly blue and glassy. “You think me a monster,” he utters.

She could never say it, could she? But this is a man who took the life of his own kin as a reparation for his eye. Violence is carved into his face, beautiful, set with a gemstone, but it is there nonetheless.

She brushes her fingertips over his cheek and plants a delicate kiss to his lips. After only a few moments he shrugs her off and repositions himself, curling into her lap like a child, clinging to her limbs and the fabric of her gown.

“I lost my temper that day,” he says. “I should have known Vhagar would not relent. I am sorry for it.”

Her blood runs cold. Should she be glad to hear he is remorseful? He may not be a cold hearted killer, but destruction lives at his fingertips.

She reaches for his hand and he takes it. His touch is gentle and hesitant. “There was no justice in what happened to you,” she says, “blood has paid for blood…” but where does it end? With Lucerys? With Jaehaerys? With the next?

Aemond says nothing. She feels his tears slip onto her legs, his fingernails forming crescents in her skin.

Remorse will not return Rhaenyra’s son to her, it will not bring back the little Prince paraded through the streets of King’s Landing.

She clings to him, hoping she can ease whatever torment plagues him, and banish what darkness consumes him.

She never tires of the sight of him. His body bare, his hair tied away from his face, the uneven edges of his sapphire glinting in the lowlight, laid out beneath her. She runs her hands over his chest, tracing the lines that are familiar to her now. “I want to taste you,” she says sweetly, knowing he’ll already be desperate for her.

He hums quietly to himself. By the slight smile threatening to break in the corners of his mouth, she knows he is content.

“On your knees then,” he says, and positions himself to sit at the end of the bed.

She runs her tongue over his length first, finishing with a teasing lick at the tip where he’s already weeping. She takes him into her mouth gradually, pushing a little deeper with every bob of her head. He is her Prince, he takes his pleasure from her and holds her hair from her face but it is she who sets the pace, who revels in his moans as his mind lulls.

But he pulls her head away by her hair before he finishes. Suddenly she’s on her back and he’s kneeling over her with his fist moving furiously over his cock. He reaches for her breast and squeezes. In the morning when she bathes, she’ll look at the bruises and remember how he touches her. Her own had slips between her legs, tracing circles over her pearl at the thought.

This pleases Aemond. His brow hardens and his jaw falls. “Fuck, are you going to finish with me?” he whispers.

She nods in reply, her breath catching as a whimper in her throat.

His grip on her breast tightens. She winces at the pain and it only fuels her own pleasure. She succumbs to her senses, chasing the feeling in her gut that only wants for release. Her fingers work frantically over her wet and wanting cunt.

“Make yourself come for me, that’s it,”

She obeys him with a cry, her body reduced to a shaking, dazed mess as Aemond reaches his own end. She watches his seed spurt from his cock, warm as it paints her skin.

He has habits, she’s noticed. He does not spill inside her. Of course, with the nature of the establishment there is no shortage of moontea, but she never questions him when he removes himself. He prefers to see it on her skin.

Targaryen bastards are not uncommon in King’s Landing, commoners with silver hair. It is said Prince Aegon himself has sired many on the women of Fleabottom. Perhaps the idea is distasteful to Prince Aemond. He is discreet. He does not bring drinking companions with him to the pleasure house and he keeps his hood up as he enters and exits.

He takes a cloth and wipes his seed from her skin. She bites back another jolt of anticipation in her spine. She would take more from him, but instead he lies beside her, curling into her embrace, tucking his head into her chest.

He could fuck her quickly and be done with it, it would be more efficient. He could take a different girl each time. He could have one brought up to the castle. Yet since the day of the King’s Coronation he has found his way into her arms to her each night. In these quiet moments she lets herself think there is a reason for it.

They trace their fingertips over each other’s skin and he tells her things she shouldn’t know, that the King has named a new Hand in Ser Criston Cole, that while Queen Alicent seeks to avoid open war, Aegon wants to fly headfirst into it.

“It’s not his place. He’ll not stand a chance against Meleys or Caraxes.”

The names are strange to her. Sometimes it feels like a cruel joke, a reminder that some Silk Street whore is not meant to understand the realm he exists in. Other times it feels like an honour, like he’s gifted her a part of himself, a glimpse into his mind.

“He is no warrior, but he wishes to live up to his namesake. He wants for glory alone; it is a reckless pursuit but he would risk his life for it.”

“He is the King, is it not his war to fight?” she says.

“He is not capable of it,” Aemond says, “but I…”

It is not a thought he dares to finish.

King Aegon wears the crown of the Conqueror, or so people say. She’s never seen a real crown. She’s seen paper ones worn by the mummers in the square, and she’s seen girls wearing wreaths of flowers on their heads for the festival of spring. They are only delicate things. Real crowns are made of gold, silver and steel. As Aemond’s eye flutters shut he looks divinely peaceful, but unsettled where his sapphire continues to stare at her. She pictures a crown of spring flowers fashioned from steel and imagines it upon her Prince’s brow.

Footsteps thud upon the stone floor, too close to the curtain, closer than anyone should dare to come near. She lifts her head as it’s drawn back.

It takes a moment for them all to realise what’s happening. Several faces stare at her– at Aemond. One of the men has silver hair, shorter and choppier than Aemond’s. He bares his teeth as he grins.

She sees a flash of fury in Aemond’s face as he turns to face them.

The silver haired man starts to laugh, the sound shrill and unpleasant. His friends do not join him. “Aemond the fierce!” he cries, pointing, staring.

Ameond parts himself from her instantly. He retreats as far as the edge of the bed, hunched over himself, his knees in the crooks of his elbows. He keeps his head hung, not looking at the men and the leader of their pack. He does not look at her, he does not look at anything.

She sees the child he once was, frightened and confused.

The man staggers towards the bed, clearly half out of his mind by the smell of wine drifting from him when he perches on the bed. On instinct she covers her breasts, devastated to realise her robe is out of reach.

“And here I thought you were as chaste as a fucking septon! You know,” he says to his companions, “I brought him here for his first too. And how far you’ve come, curled in the arms of a whore like a greenboy!”

There’s a bite to his– the King’s words, a cruelty that only makes Aemond shrink further into himself. Her heart aches for him, that she cannot help him.

“Are you tired, brother? Did you fuck her like a hound?” An idea he emphasises with an impersonation of a hunting dog.

Aemond doesn’t move or speak.

Still in hysterics, Aegon turns his gaze to her, unashamedly lingering on her chest and her legs. “Hard luck for your squire, Ser Martyn,” he says, drawing his tongue over his lips, “as pretty as this one is, she is very much occupied.”

His laughter is the only sound in the chamber and it pierces her skull.

Aemond starts to shift. Helplessly she reaches out her hand, unsure of what it is she intends to do. He doesn’t take it. He doesn’t even look at her.

He stands before the King and his companions. His humiliation has melted away. In the place of the boy is a man who speaks calmly and clearly. “Your squire is welcome to her. One whore is as good as another.”

He strides from the chamber and she is entirely forgotten.

Or so she wishes that were true. There are still four men in her midst. And she is still, for all the hours she has spent in Aemond’s company, a whore in a pleasure house.

I've kinda given up on taglists, sorry <3

A/n: I'm quite happy with this! I've been playing with the idea in my head for a few weeks, then I saw episodes 2 and 3 and it just had to happen. Would be very cool if you wanted to let me know what you think :)

#my fics #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen oneshot #aemond targaryen smut #hotd fanfic #hotd fanfiction #house of the dragon fanfiction #house of the dragon fanfic #aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond x oc #aemond x ofc

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tragedy-machine · 15 days ago

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“Edwin, do you ever think about… what it’d be like if we went to school together?”

“I cannot say that I do, Charles.”

“I do, sometimes. About how life would be like if we were both alive and attending St. Hilarion right now.”

“I assume your vision does not include any of our classmates being killers?”

“Nah, ‘course not. Times are different now, aren’t they? So… what do you think?”

“Well, you would be a star of the cricket team, no doubt. And you can certainly bounce a ball without letting it fall for a very long period of time, so maybe a football star, as well.”

“I don’t know about being a star, but– cheers.”

“Of course. Indeed, given your natural charisma, one might readily surmise that people would be most inclined to gather about you. If they possessed any sense whatsoever, your classmates should eagerly seek to make your acquaintance. You would graciously give everyone the time of day, much as you do with our clients, and they would be endlessly charmed by you. ”

“Now you’re really overdoing it, mate. What about you?”

“Me? Oh. I would… greatly delight in the study of languages. I have heard it said that schools nowadays offer a wider array of them within their curriculum. Literature, too, holds a special allure for me; indeed, I might even volunteer my services in the school library, simply for the opportunity to spend more time there or attend a study club. Science has also been a source of fascination for me—chemistry in particular, I could well imagine devoting a lot of time to it.”

“Mhmm, go on.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“What of your friends?”

“I have not considered– perhaps other members of the literature club? Our recent adventure in the States have shown me that although people are decidedly still not my forte, it is possible for me to make acquaintances with them if they share my interests. If they are not dreadfully insufferable, that is to say.”

“And…?”

“And?”

“C’mon, how do we meet?”

“Oh. Realistically, I do not think our paths would cross. You would have more than enough friends interested in sports and music and other activities you enjoy, and I would never set foot near a gymnasium or a music room. We are an unlikely pair, after all.”

“...what? You don’t think we’d be friends if we were at school together?”

“I merely mean to say— as I have mentioned— with a sufficient company of good and worthy friends around you, you would have little cause to seek me out at school, particularly as we would be spending our time entirely differently.”

“Edwin, that’s horrible. A load of tosh, if I’ve ever heard one. I refuse to believe that. We could meet in class, or– maybe I’d have trouble with English, it’s never been my favorite, could never get my letters correct, could I? And since you’re so good at it, you’d offer to tutor me.”

“You believe I would offer?”

“‘Course, you’re proper kind like that, aren’t you? Or I’d ask you and you wouldn’t be able to say no to me.”

“So certain I would not be, even right from the beginning?”

“Isn’t that how our first meeting went?”

“...touché. You can be quite persistent. However, that does not mean you would have to befriend the boy who tutors you.”

“I liked you right when I met you, didn’t I? It’d be the same.”

“You are awfully confident regarding the matter.”

“Yeah, mate. Think about it, we may be an unlikely duo, but against all odds, we met. We stayed together. And will stay together. We’d find each other in every universe, just like we had in this one.”

“...who is the one ‘overdoing it’ now?”

“Come off it, mate! But just think about it, we’d go to uni together, you’d study– English or, or Law, you’d make a great lawyer, you know, and I– I don’t know, I’d study something too, and we’d live together.”

“Would we start a detective agency together as well?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Alive Boy Detectives does not have the same ring to it. Neither does Alive Men Detectives.”

“We’d figure something out.”

#charles “do you ever think about...” rowland #dead boy detectives #my posts #edwin payne #charles rowland #payneland #dbda #dead boy detective agency #painland

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hisfavegirl · 1 month ago

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Endless Devotion- Daemon Targaryen x Sister!Reader

Summary : Though the kingdom’s future was always at the forefront, it was the love between you and Daemon that would defy fate, a love that transcended the barriers of duty. The day you were born, the future had already been written for you, and yet, you and Daemon would challenge it with every breath you took, every moment you shared.

Daemon Masterlist.

You were the third child of Prince Baelon and Princess Alyssa, born on a stormy night that claimed the lives of your mother and twin brother. The Maesters had whispered of your slim chances, but somehow, you survived—a fragile yet fierce reminder of the strength that ran in your blood.

Growing up, you were cherished by your father, Baelon, and doted on by your older brothers, Viserys and Daemon. The bond between the three of you was unbreakable, though it was clear that each of your brothers saw you in very different lights.

Viserys was gentle, the older brother who would read to you by the fire or braid your hair as you told him stories of your dreams. He had a natural inclination to protect you, a role he embraced as the future King of the Seven Kingdoms.

Daemon, however, was something else entirely. His affection was fierce, his attention constant. He was protective, yes, but also possessive. There was a sharp edge to his love for you, a depth that seemed to go beyond the bonds of mere siblings. Where others might have dismissed it as Daemon’s usual intensity, you could feel the weight of his gaze, the way his hand lingered on yours a moment too long, and the way his mood darkened whenever you spoke of marriage or suitors.

As you grew older, you noticed how Daemon’s attention never wavered. He always found excuses to be near you, whether it was accompanying you on dragon rides or sitting too close during family feasts. His words were often veiled with deeper meanings, and his actions spoke volumes he didn’t dare to put into words.

You loved both your brothers dearly, but with Daemon, there was an undeniable tension, a connection that made your heart race even when you wished it wouldn’t. You often found yourself questioning the nature of his affections and, more troublingly, your own.

As the years passed and the politics of the realm began to weigh on your family, Viserys took his place as heir to the Iron Throne, and Daemon’s restless spirit grew more pronounced. But no matter how far he roamed or how much chaos he caused, his attention always returned to you.

You couldn’t deny the warmth his presence brought or the way his protective nature made you feel safe, even as whispers in the court began to stir about the true nature of Prince Daemon’s feelings for his beloved sister.

The Throne room was heavy with tension as you stood beside Daemon, the newly crowned King Viserys sitting on the Iron Throne before you. His calm demeanor belied the storm brewing in the room. You glanced at your older brother, your heart heavy with uncertainty.

Viserys’s voice was steady, but there was a finality in his tone. “It is time to secure the future of our house, for the good of the realm. Daemon, you will marry Lady Rhea Royce of Runestone. The Vale is a strong ally, and this union will solidify our ties with them.”

Daemon stiffened beside you, his hands curling into fists. He shot Viserys a glare so intense it could have melted steel. “You expect me to marry her? A woman I have never met, with a temperament as cold as the mountains she comes from?” His voice was sharp, his disdain evident.

Viserys ignored his outburst and turned to you, his expression softening slightly. “And you, my sweet sister. Lord Jason Lannister has expressed interest in taking you as his wife. A match with the Westerlands will bring great strength and wealth to our house.”

Your breath caught in your throat, and you felt the weight of Daemon’s gaze shift to you. His anger now burned hotter, directed at your eldest brother. “A Lannister? You would send her to Casterly Rock, to be a trophy for that pompous lion?” His voice grew louder, echoing through the hall.

Viserys’s expression hardened. “This is not a debate, Daemon. These matches are for the good of the realm, not for personal desires.”

“You mean your desires,” Daemon snapped, stepping forward, his anger barely restrained. “You sit on that throne and play the dutiful king, but you forget who we are. She is a Targaryen, not some pawn to be traded for gold and swords!”

You placed a hand on Daemon’s arm, trying to calm him, but his fury was like a wildfire, consuming everything in its path. “Daemon,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “Please.”

He turned to you, his face softening for a moment as he saw the uncertainty in your eyes. But when he looked back at Viserys, his rage reignited.

“If you think I will stand by and let this happen, you are mistaken,” Daemon growled, his voice low but menacing. “I will not let her be taken from me.”

Viserys rose from the throne, his patience thinning. “You will obey, Daemon. Both of you will. This is my decree as your king.”

Daemon’s lips curled into a bitter smile, his voice dripping with venom. “Then perhaps I am no longer fit to be your brother, if all I am to you is a sword to wield and a pawn to marry off.”

With that, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the hall, leaving you standing there, torn between your loyalty to your eldest brother and the fiery love and devotion of the younger.

Viserys sighed heavily, his face a mixture of frustration and sadness. “He will come to understand, in time,” he said, as if trying to reassure himself more than you.

You stood your ground, your heart pounding as you faced Viserys, who had returned to his seat on the Iron Throne. His expression remained stern, but you could see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes as he regarded you.

“Brother,” you began, your voice steady despite the turmoil swirling within you. “You must reconsider this decision. Daemon is not someone who will take this lightly, and you know it.”

Viserys exhaled sharply, leaning back against the cold iron of his throne. “You think I don’t understand Daemon? I’ve been dealing with his impulsiveness and defiance all my life. He will learn to obey, as we all must for the good of the realm.”

You stepped closer, your gaze unwavering. “You may think you understand him, but you do not see what I see. Daemon will not accept this. He will do whatever it takes to undo what you’ve decreed, and you know as well as I do that his methods are… dangerous.”

Viserys frowned, his fingers drumming against the armrest. “And what would you have me do, sister? Set aside what is best for the realm because of his temper? Because of his… feelings for you?”

The weight of his words settled over you, and for a moment, you hesitated. “This isn’t just about his feelings for me,” you said softly. “This is about preventing a fracture in our family—one that may be impossible to mend. Daemon’s anger is like a wildfire, and once it begins, it will burn everything in its path. Including you, including me… including the realm.”

Viserys looked at you, his expression softening ever so slightly. “You think I enjoy this? That I take pleasure in making decisions that hurt those I love? I must think of the greater good.”

“Then think of the consequences, Viserys,” you pressed. “Think of what Daemon might do. He is loyal to his family, yes, but his loyalty to me is stronger than any bond you could force upon him with a marriage to Rhea Royce. And if you send me to Casterly Rock… you will lose him. Completely.”

Viserys rubbed his temple, weariness etched into his features. “Daemon must learn to control himself, and so must you. I cannot rule with my heart alone, sister.”

“You must rule with wisdom,” you countered. “And wisdom means understanding the consequences of your actions. I am begging you, Viserys. Think this through before it is too late.”

For a long moment, silence hung between you. Viserys seemed to weigh your words carefully, his gaze searching yours for answers. Finally, he spoke, his voice heavy.

“I will consider it,” he said, though the exhaustion in his tone betrayed his uncertainty. “But know this, sister—whatever happens, I will do what I believe is best for House Targaryen.”

You nodded, though your heart remained heavy with doubt. As you left the throne room, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this was far from over—and that Daemon’s reaction to all of this would shape your family’s future in ways none of you could yet foresee.

You made your way to the training grounds, where the sound of clashing steel and labored breathing filled the air. Your eyes immediately found Daemon, his silver hair damp with sweat as he ruthlessly swung his sword at a weary guard. The poor man could barely keep up, his shield trembling under the relentless force of Daemon’s strikes.

“Daemon!” you called out, your voice cutting through the din.

He didn’t stop. His sword continued its brutal arc, forcing the guard back until the man stumbled and fell to one knee. You took a step closer, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Daemon, that’s enough!”

Still, he ignored you, his focus fixed on his opponent. The guard, clearly terrified, raised his hands in surrender, his weapon slipping from his grasp. Daemon sneered but finally lowered his sword, stepping back as the man scrambled to his feet and fled the training yard.

Daemon turned to face you, his expression cold and furious, his chest heaving. His violet eyes burned with anger, though whether it was directed at you or someone else, you couldn’t tell.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, his voice low but sharp. “Go back to Viserys if you’re here to plead his case.”

You stepped closer, refusing to be intimidated. “I’m not here for Viserys. I’m here for you.”

He scoffed, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “What do you want, sister? To tell me to fall in line? To bow to his commands like a dutiful dog?”

“No,” you said firmly, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling inside you. “I’m here because I know you. I know how angry you are, and I know what you’re capable of when you feel cornered.”

His jaw tightened, and he turned away, gripping his sword so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Then you should also know that I won’t sit by while he takes everything from me.”

“You think this is about taking from you?” you demanded, stepping closer. “Daemon, this isn’t just about us. This is about the realm, about alliances, about keeping peace.”

He turned back to you, his eyes blazing. “To hell with the realm! To hell with alliances and peace! You are my sister, my blood, and I will not stand by while he gives you to some Lannister!”

“Daemon,” you said softly, your voice breaking slightly. “I don’t want this any more than you do. But if you do something reckless, if you act out of anger, it will only make things worse. For both of us.”

For a moment, his anger faltered, replaced by something raw and vulnerable. He took a step closer, his hand reaching out to cup your face gently. “I cannot lose you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I won’t.”

You placed your hand over his, your heart aching at the desperation in his words. “You won’t lose me, Daemon. But we have to be smart about this. We can’t fight Viserys on this—not like this.”

His gaze searched yours, his anger giving way to a deep, simmering frustration. Finally, he sighed and stepped back, letting his hand fall to his side.

“Then tell me what to do,” he said, his voice quieter now but still tinged with defiance. “Tell me how to fix this without losing you.”

You hesitated, unsure of what to say. But one thing was clear—you would have to tread carefully if you wanted to protect both Daemon and yourself from the storm brewing around you.

You grabbed Daemon’s hand, pulling him forcefully away from the training yard. He resisted slightly, his voice sharp with frustration.

“Where are we going?” he demanded, his tone laced with irritation.

You didn’t answer, your grip tightening as you led him through the winding corridors of the Red Keep. He huffed behind you but didn’t pull away, his curiosity piqued by your determination.

Finally, you arrived at the council chambers where Viserys was still seated, reviewing documents and speaking with an advisor. He looked up as the door swung open, surprise flashing across his face as he saw you enter with Daemon in tow.

“Leave us,” you commanded, your voice steady and firm.

Viserys frowned but waved his advisor away. The room emptied quickly, leaving the three of you alone. He set his quill down and folded his hands, his expression expectant. “What is the meaning of this?”

You stepped forward, releasing Daemon’s hand but keeping him close by your side.

“You call yourself a king of fairness and justice,” you began, your voice steady but tinged with anger. “Yet you would take from us the right you claimed for yourself.”

Viserys raised an eyebrow, leaning back slightly in his chair. “And what right is that?”

“The right to marry the one you love,” you said sharply. “You chose Aemma, a woman you cared for deeply, despite the fact that the match was orchestrated by our grandfather. You didn’t resist it, not because it was your duty, but because it was what you wanted. And now you sit here, dictating our futures without a care for what we want.”

Viserys’s gaze hardened. “It is my duty as king to secure alliances for House Targaryen. Aemma was a choice that benefited the realm, as are these marriages I’ve proposed.”

Daemon stepped forward, his voice low and laced with anger. “Aemma was no mere alliance to you. She was your love, your comfort. Do not twist the truth to suit your decisions now, brother.”

You glanced at Daemon, grateful for his support, before turning your focus back to Viserys. “We are not pawns to be moved on your board, Viserys. We are your family. Your blood. Do not expect us to accept this without question.”

Viserys’s jaw tightened, his frustration evident. “And what would you have me do? Allow you to marry whomever you please, damn the consequences for our house?”

“Yes,” you said firmly, your voice unwavering. “If it was acceptable for you, why not for us? Do you fear that granting us the same freedom will make you appear weak? Or do you fear that we will make choices that do not align with your vision of the future?”

For a moment, the room fell silent, the tension between the three of you palpable. Viserys stared at you, his expression unreadable, before his gaze shifted to Daemon, who was watching him with barely concealed disdain.

Finally, Viserys sighed, rubbing his temples. “You speak boldly, sister, but you fail to understand the weight of a crown. The realm demands sacrifices, and those sacrifices often begin with us.”

Daemon scoffed, his tone biting. “Spare us the lecture, brother. You made your sacrifices with Aemma, but they were sacrifices you were willing to make. Do not expect the same from us when you refuse to acknowledge our desires.”

Viserys hesitated, the weight of your words clearly affecting him. He looked at you again, his gaze softer now, though still conflicted. “And what do you propose, sister? That I abandon my plans entirely?”

“I propose that you listen,” you replied, stepping closer. “Listen to us, to what we want, and find a solution that benefits everyone. You owe us that much, at least.”

Viserys leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful but strained. “I will consider it,” he said finally, though his tone lacked certainty.

It wasn’t the answer you wanted, but it was enough for now. You turned to leave, Daemon following close behind, his steps heavy with frustration.

“Do you truly think he’ll change his mind?” Daemon asked as you walked down the corridor.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, glancing at him. “But I had to try. For both our sakes.”

He was silent for a moment, then reached out to gently squeeze your hand. “If he doesn’t, I’ll find another way. I won’t let him take you from me.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, but you said nothing, the weight of the situation pressing down on both of you as you continued walking together through the shadowed halls of the Red Keep.

You and Daemon walked together through the halls of the Red Keep, the silence between you heavy with unspoken words. The weight of your conversation with Viserys bore down on your shoulders, leaving you feeling drained and uncertain.

You glanced at Daemon, his expression unreadable as he walked beside you. Though his face betrayed little, you knew him well enough to sense the storm of emotions brewing within him.

“I love him, you know,” you said softly, breaking the silence. Your voice wavered slightly, but you kept your gaze forward.

Daemon stopped walking, forcing you to halt as well. He turned to face you, his silver hair catching the faint light from the torches lining the walls.

“I know,” he replied, his tone low but steady. “You’ve always loved Viserys. Just as you’ve always loved me.”

You swallowed hard, your heart tightening at the truth of his words. “But it’s not the same,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes softened, the anger and frustration from earlier giving way to something deeper—something raw and vulnerable.

“I’ve always known that too,” he said, stepping closer to you. “And I’ve never cared. Because I know you, just as you know me. You don’t want to lose him, but you’re terrified of losing me.”

You felt tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “I don’t want to lose either of you,” you whispered.

Daemon reached out, his fingers brushing against yours before taking your hand firmly in his. “You won’t lose me,” he said, his voice firm. “No matter what happens. Viserys can scheme and command all he likes, but I will not let him separate us.”

His words sent a wave of relief through you, though the fear still lingered. You knew how determined Viserys could be, and you knew the lengths Daemon would go to defy him.

“You promise?” you asked, your voice trembling slightly.

He tilted his head, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I promise,” he said, his tone carrying that familiar hint of mischief. “Even if I have to burn the realm to the ground, I will not lose you.”

You let out a shaky laugh, his words both comforting and unsettling. But that was Daemon—wild, unpredictable, and fiercely loyal to those he loved.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” you said, squeezing his hand.

He chuckled softly, his grip tightening ever so slightly. “With Viserys as king, it just might.”

The two of you resumed walking, the tension between you eased but not entirely gone. You didn’t know what the future held, but as long as Daemon was by your side, you felt a flicker of hope amidst the uncertainty.

Two days had passed since your conversation with Viserys, and in those two days, the weight of his decision loomed over you like a storm cloud. Despite the pressure, you and Daemon continued to find solace in each other, meeting in secret within your chambers or his, navigating the hidden paths of Maegor’s Holdfast with the ease of familiarity.

This morning, however, was different. A summons had come from Viserys, commanding both you and Daemon to meet him in the council chamber. The air was heavy with anticipation as you and Daemon walked side by side through the Red Keep, the silence between you filled with unspoken thoughts.

When you entered the chamber, Viserys was already seated at the head of the table. His expression was stern but not unkind, and you noticed a hint of weariness in his eyes. The room was empty save for the three of you, the absence of the councilors adding to the tension.

Viserys gestured for you both to approach, and as you stepped forward, he sighed deeply, his hands resting on the arms of his chair.

“I’ve thought long and hard about this,” he began, his voice steady but tinged with exhaustion. “And I’ve come to a decision.”

You exchanged a glance with Daemon, your heart pounding in your chest.

“I was wrong to try to dictate your futures without considering your wishes,” Viserys admitted, his gaze softening as he looked at you. “You were right, sister. I made my choice with Aemma, and it was a choice I was fortunate to have. You and Daemon deserve the same.”

Your breath caught in your throat, the weight of his words sinking in.

“I’ve informed House Lannister and House Royce that the arrangements have been canceled,” Viserys continued, his tone firm. “You will marry each other, as you both clearly desire. I only hope this decision brings you happiness and strengthens our house.”

Daemon let out a quiet laugh, the sound laced with relief and triumph. “You’ve finally seen reason, brother,” he said, his smirk unmistakable.

Viserys shot him a pointed look but didn’t argue. Instead, he turned back to you, his expression softening further. “I only ask one thing of you both,” he said.

“What is it?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Do not let your love for each other blind you to the responsibilities you bear as members of House Targaryen,” he said. “The realm looks to us for guidance, for strength. Be each other’s strength, but never forget the weight of the crown.”

You nodded, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “Thank you, Viserys. I promise we will honor our house and our family.”

Daemon’s hand found yours, his grip firm and reassuring. “You have my word as well, brother,” he said, his tone uncharacteristically serious.

Viserys smiled faintly, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Then it is settled. The preparations will begin at once.”

As you and Daemon left the chamber, the reality of what had just transpired began to sink in. For the first time in days, you felt a sense of hope and relief, the weight of uncertainty lifted from your shoulders.

Daemon turned to you, his smirk returning as he leaned closer. “It seems the gods favor us after all,” he said, his voice low and teasing.

You laughed softly, your heart light for the first time in what felt like forever. “Perhaps they do,” you replied, your hand tightening around his.

As the two of you walked through the halls together, you couldn’t help but feel that this was the beginning of something extraordinary—a union born not of duty, but of love and unyielding loyalty.

You laughed uncontrollably as Daemon suddenly lifted you off the ground, throwing you over his shoulder as if you weighed nothing.

“Daemon! Put me down this instant!” you demanded, half-laughing, half-protesting, as you squirmed in his grip.

He only chuckled, his voice rich with amusement. “Not a chance, sweet sister. A betrothal like ours deserves to be celebrated.”

“Celebrated? By making a spectacle of me?” you shot back, still laughing as he carried you with effortless confidence.

“Precisely,” he replied smugly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Daemon strode confidently to where his horse was waiting. Setting you down briefly, he helped you into the saddle before mounting behind you, his arms resting comfortably around your waist as he took the reins.

“And where exactly are we going?” you asked, trying to sound annoyed, though you couldn’t hide the smile tugging at your lips.

“To the Dragonpit,” Daemon replied, urging the horse forward.

“The Dragonpit?” you repeated, your curiosity piqued.

He grinned, leaning closer to your ear. “Caraxes and Maraxes deserve to know about our betrothal, don’t you think?”

Your heart skipped a beat at the mention of your dragon, Maraxes, and Daemon’s Caraxes. The two dragons had always shared a bond, much like their riders.

The ride through the bustling streets of King’s Landing was exhilarating, Daemon’s confidence radiating behind you. His presence was as steady as the rhythm of the horse’s hooves, and you found yourself leaning into him slightly, the excitement of the moment overtaking your initial protests.

When you arrived at the Dragonpit, the cavernous structure loomed before you, filled with the faint echoes of dragon growls. Daemon dismounted first, his hands quick to help you down.

Inside, the air was thick with heat and the unmistakable energy of dragons. You immediately spotted the familiar forms of Caraxes and Maraxes, their red and silver scales gleaming faintly in the dim light.

Daemon smirked as Caraxes let out a low growl, his serpentine neck arching toward his rider. “There’s my boy,” he murmured, stepping closer to greet his dragon.

Meanwhile, Maraxes let out a low rumble of recognition, her sharp eyes locking onto you. You approached her with a smile, placing a hand on her warm scales. "Hi my love," The bond between you and your dragon was as strong as ever, a connection forged over years of shared battles and flights.

“Do you think they approve?” you asked, glancing at Daemon as he ran a hand along Caraxes’ neck.

He smirked, his eyes glinting with that familiar mischief. “They’ll have to. They’re bound to each other, just like we are.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at his audacity, though his words carried a truth you couldn’t deny. Standing there together with your dragons, it felt as if the world had aligned perfectly for this moment—a celebration not just of your betrothal, but of the bond you shared, one that had always felt inevitable.

You watched the Dragonkeeper closely, noting the concern in their eyes as they observed Caraxes and Maraxes. One of them, a young man who had worked with dragons for years, hesitated before speaking.

“Maraxes and Caraxes have been acting out recently,” he said, voice low. “They’ve been more aggressive than usual, particularly Maraxes. We thought something was wrong.”

The other Dragonkeeper, an older woman, nodded in agreement. “It’s unlike them. We’ve been keeping a close eye, but nothing we do seems to settle them.”

You exchanged a glance with Daemon, who stood quietly beside you. The air around them felt thick with the dragons’ restlessness. However, as the Dragonkeepers’ gazes shifted toward you and Daemon, their expressions shifted from concern to shock.

Maraxes, normally a force of nature, moved with an uncharacteristic calmness. She stepped forward slowly, lowering her massive head toward you. Then, in an almost deliberate motion, she nudged you gently, pushing your body toward the area where she and Caraxes slept. It was a soft nudge, but it was clear that she wanted you to follow.

“Maraxes…” you murmured in surprise, but you allowed the dragon to guide you. You took a cautious step forward, feeling the weight of the moment settle around you. Daemon followed close behind, a knowing look in his eyes.

As you reached the resting place of your dragons, your breath caught in your throat. There, nestled among the bedding of fireproofed hay and soft stone, lay four dragon eggs.

The sight of the eggs made your heart skip a beat. You knelt slowly, reaching out with trembling fingers. The eggs were large, their shells shimmering with an iridescent glow, a mixture of deep reds and silvers that mirrored the colors of Maraxes and Caraxes.

Daemon stood behind you, his eyes softening as he spoke. “This… explains everything,” he murmured. “They’ve been guarding these. Their aggression, their restlessness—it was to protect their future.”

You felt a rush of emotions—pride, awe, and a profound sense of connection. The change in Maraxes and Caraxes was not just a random shift in their behavior; they had been preparing for something, something bigger than the two of you had expected.

“I didn’t know…” you whispered, your fingers tracing the smooth surface of one of the eggs. “They were expecting.”

Daemon moved to stand beside you, his voice low and reverent. “Neither did I. But it makes sense now. They’ve been waiting for their offspring. They’ve always been protective, but now… this is their legacy.”

The Dragonkeeper, who had been watching in stunned silence, finally spoke. “It’s extraordinary. The dragons have chosen to trust you both in ways we never imagined. Not only are they accepting of you as their riders, but now, they’ve given you their future.”

You felt a sense of awe wash over you, realizing that this moment was more significant than anything you could have imagined. Caraxes and Maraxes were not just dragons bound to their riders—they were family, and they were passing on their legacy to you.

Daemon placed a hand on your shoulder, his gaze intense but filled with something softer, something deeper. “This is just the beginning, my love. We have something far greater ahead of us now.”

You nodded, the weight of the moment settling in. You had always known that your bond with Daemon and the dragons was something extraordinary, but now, you understood just how much more it truly was.

The eggs lay there, waiting, as if the dragons were telling you both that they were ready for this next chapter—to share their legacy, their power, and their future with you.

After returning to the Red Keep with Daemon from the Dragonpit, the exhilaration of discovering the dragon eggs still lingered in your mind. As you made your way through the corridors, a servant approached and informed you that Queen Aemma had requested your presence in her chambers.

You exchanged a glance with Daemon, who smirked slightly. “Go on,” he said, his tone teasing. “I’m sure she’s been planning our wedding more than we have.”

Rolling your eyes but smiling softly, you left Daemon and made your way to Aemma’s chambers. When you entered, you found her seated near the window, her delicate hands working on a piece of embroidery. The golden light of the setting sun bathed the room in a warm glow, and she looked up with a gentle smile as you approached.

“There you are,” she said warmly, setting aside her work. “I was beginning to think I’d have to send someone to drag you here.”

You laughed softly and took a seat across from her. “I was at the Dragonpit with Daemon,” you explained. “But I came as soon as I heard you wanted to see me.”

Aemma’s smile widened, but there was a glimmer of mischief in her eyes. “Ah, Daemon. I suppose he’s too busy parading you around on dragonback to think about the details of your wedding.”

You couldn’t help but laugh again, feeling a sense of comfort in Aemma’s presence. She had always been kind and supportive, treating you more like a sister than just her sister-in-law.

“I thought we could discuss the arrangements,” Aemma continued, her tone softening. “Your gown, the feast, the decorations… all the things that men don’t think about.”

You nodded, grateful for her guidance. “I’d appreciate that, Aemma. I’ve hardly had time to think about any of it.”

She reached for a small chest beside her and opened it, revealing swatches of fabric in various shades and textures. “I had these brought in for you,” she said, holding up a piece of silvery fabric that shimmered in the light. “I thought this might suit you—something that reflects your connection to your dragon and your Targaryen heritage.”

You ran your fingers over the fabric, marveling at its softness and beauty. “It’s perfect,” you said, already envisioning the gown that would be made from it.

Aemma smiled, her expression thoughtful. “You’ll look radiant,” she said. “And I know Daemon won’t be able to take his eyes off you.”

The warmth in her voice made your heart swell, and you reached out to squeeze her hand. “Thank you, Aemma. For everything.”

She squeezed your hand in return, her gaze steady and full of affection. “You’re family,” she said simply. “And you deserve to be happy.”

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of laughter and planning as you and Aemma discussed every detail of the wedding. For the first time in days, you felt a sense of peace, knowing that you were surrounded by love and support as you prepared for this new chapter in your life.

As you opened the door to your chambers, the familiar warmth of the room greeted you, along with the sight of Daemon standing near the fireplace. The golden glow of the flames reflected off his silver hair, giving him an almost ethereal presence. His arms were crossed casually over his chest, but there was an intensity in his gaze as he turned to face you.

“You’re here,” you said, raising an eyebrow as you approached. “I expected you to be… elsewhere. At the brothel, perhaps, celebrating your last night of freedom with Mysaria.” Your tone was teasing, but there was an edge of curiosity beneath it.

Daemon chuckled, the sound low and rich, as he stepped closer to you. “Is that what you think of me?” he asked, his lips curling into a smirk.

“Is it not true?” you countered, tilting your head. “You’ve always been so fond of such places. Why not indulge one last time before you can’t go back without consequences?”

He laughed again, this time louder, and shook his head. “You’re sharper than a Valyrian steel blade, aren’t you?” he said, his voice tinged with amusement. “But no. I haven’t set foot in a brothel—or seen Mysaria—since you came of age.”

That caught you off guard. You stared at him, trying to process his words. “What?”

Daemon stepped even closer, his expression softening as he looked down at you. “Do you really think I’d waste my time there, knowing what I know now? After realizing how much of myself I gave to the wrong people, the wrong pursuits?”

You blinked, still trying to make sense of his words. “What are you saying, Daemon?”

He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your face. His touch was gentle, but his gaze was anything but—it was intense, almost searing. “I’m saying that for too long, I gave my attention to the wrong women. Women who didn’t matter. Because I was too blind to see what was right in front of me.”

Your breath caught, your heart pounding in your chest. “Daemon…”

He smiled then, a rare, genuine smile that softened his features. “You’ve always been the only one who mattered,” he said softly. “And I’m not going to waste another moment pretending otherwise.”

The weight of his words settled over you, and for a moment, you could only stare at him, your emotions a whirlwind of disbelief, hope, and something far deeper.

“Then why are you here?” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “If not to celebrate your last night of freedom?”

Daemon’s smile turned into a smirk as he leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear. “Because I’m not losing my freedom,” he murmured. “I’m gaining you.”

The fire crackled softly in the background as his words hung in the air, and for the first time, you realized just how much this marriage meant—not just to you, but to him as well.

Daemon’s gaze softened as your hand gently caressed his cheek, your touch tender and full of unspoken emotions. His lips parted slightly as if to say something, but before he could, you rose onto your toes and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his lips.

For a moment, the world seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you. When you finally pulled back, your eyes met his, a quiet intensity passing between you.

“I’m lucky to have you, Daemon,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. The raw honesty in your tone made his jaw tighten, though his eyes glimmered with something vulnerable.

He opened his mouth to speak, but you continued before he could, your hand still cradling his cheek. “If our father were still here…” you paused, a pang of sorrow in your chest, “he’d be proud of us. Of you, especially.”

Daemon’s expression faltered for a moment, his confident facade cracking as he absorbed your words. His hand came up to cover yours on his face, his touch warm and steady. “You truly believe that?” he asked softly, his voice almost uncertain, as if he needed to hear the answer more than anything else.

You nodded, your thumb brushing against his cheekbone. “I do. He would have seen the man you’ve become—the man who fights for what he wants, who protects those he loves. He’d be proud of you, Daemon. Just as I am.”

Daemon exhaled deeply, his forehead leaning against yours. “You give me too much credit,” he muttered, though there was a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Not nearly enough,” you countered gently, your own lips curving into a smile.

For a long moment, the two of you stood there, wrapped in the warmth of each other’s presence, the flickering firelight casting soft shadows around the room. It was a moment of quiet understanding, a bond stronger than any words could convey.

And in that moment, you knew—no matter what challenges lay ahead, as long as you had each other, you could face anything.

The two of you sat in comfortable silence near the window of your chambers, the cool night air filtering in as stars scattered across the dark sky. Daemon’s arm was wrapped possessively around your waist, his grip firm yet comforting. Your head rested against his shoulder, and the steady rise and fall of his chest matched the rhythm of your own breathing.

He broke the silence, his voice low and curious. “Why did you name your dragon Maraxes?”

The question made you smile softly as you turned your gaze toward him. He was looking down at you with a mixture of curiosity and fondness, his fingers absentmindedly tracing small circles on your side.

“She reminded me of Rhaenys’ Maraxes,” you said after a moment, your tone thoughtful. “The strength, the grace… Even as a hatchling, she carried herself like she knew she was born to be something great.”

Daemon smirked faintly, his eyes reflecting the dim glow of the moonlight. “And you always did have a penchant for the stories of our ancestors. I remember how you’d make me read them to you when we were younger.”

You chuckled, leaning further into his warmth. “Those stories are part of who we are, Daemon. Rhaenys and Maraxes… they were a force to be reckoned with. I wanted my dragon to carry that legacy, to remind the world of the power our family holds.”

He tilted his head slightly, his lips brushing against your temple as he spoke. “Maraxes suits her, just as you suit her. Both proud, unyielding, and utterly impossible to ignore.”

You laughed quietly, a soft blush creeping into your cheeks. “And what of Caraxes?” you asked, glancing up at him with a teasing smile. “He’s as wild and unpredictable as his rider.”

Daemon grinned, unbothered by your playful jab. “Caraxes and I understand each other,” he replied. “We don’t need names steeped in history. We make our own.”

Your smile softened as you looked back at the sky. “That’s why we work, Daemon. I carry the weight of the past, and you carve the path for the future. Together, we balance each other.”

Daemon didn’t respond immediately, but the way he held you tighter said everything. In his embrace, you felt the promise of a shared destiny—one that neither history nor the future could take away.

Your wedding day was meant to be perfect, and every detail had been meticulously planned. Yet, the air was thick with tension as a heated argument unfolded between Daemon and Viserys.

Daemon stood firm, his voice sharp and unyielding. “We are Targaryens. The blood of Old Valyria flows through our veins. This wedding should honor our ancestors with an Old Valyrian ceremony.”

Viserys, seated on the Iron Throne, was equally resolute. “This is a union that will be celebrated across the Seven Kingdoms. You will marry in the sight of the Seven, as is tradition.”

You stood silently between them, your heart heavy as you watched your brothers clash. Daemon’s jaw was set in frustration, while Viserys exuded the authority of a king determined to have his way.

“I’ve allowed this match to proceed,” Viserys added, his tone sharp with warning. “But do not mistake my indulgence for weakness. If you insist on this foolishness, I’ll put an end to it. Daemon will wed Rhea Royce, and you will wed Jason Lannister.”

The room fell silent, the weight of Viserys’ threat sinking in. You looked at Daemon, whose expression was a mix of fury and disbelief. His hands clenched at his sides, and you knew he was moments away from saying something he would regret.

Before he could speak, you stepped forward, your voice calm but firm. “We will marry in the sight of the Seven,” you said, your words directed at Viserys but meant for Daemon as well.

Daemon turned to you, his eyes searching yours for an explanation. You met his gaze with quiet determination, silently pleading for his understanding.

“This is about more than just us,” you continued, your voice steady despite the turmoil in your heart. “A wedding in the tradition of the Seven will solidify our union in the eyes of the realm. It will bring stability, which is what we need most right now.”

Daemon’s jaw tightened, his frustration evident, but he said nothing. You reached out, placing a hand on his arm. “It doesn’t matter how we marry, Daemon. What matters is that we will be together.”

Viserys nodded approvingly, his stern expression softening slightly. “It’s good to see one of you understands the bigger picture,” he said, his tone dismissive.

Daemon didn’t respond to Viserys. Instead, he turned to you, his violet eyes filled with unspoken words. After a moment, he gave a curt nod, his hand brushing against yours in a silent promise.

As you left the throne room together, you whispered, “Thank you for trusting me.”

Daemon’s lips curved into a small, wry smile. “You’re lucky I love you,” he muttered.

Despite the tension, his words warmed your heart. Whatever challenges lay ahead, you knew you would face them together.

You entered Aemma’s chambers, the faint scent of lavender filling the air as sunlight streamed through the windows. She stood near a mannequin, admiring a breathtaking white gown made of the finest silk. Her face lit up as she saw you approach, her hands clasped together in excitement.

“There you are,” Aemma said warmly, gesturing for you to come closer. “I’ve had this gown specially made for you. I want your wedding to outshine even mine.”

You stared at the gown in awe. The intricate embroidery shimmered in the light, delicate patterns of dragons and fire adorning the fabric. The train was long and flowing, a masterpiece of craftsmanship, while the fitted bodice sparkled with tiny gemstones.

“You’ll be the most beautiful bride the realm has ever seen,” Aemma said, her voice filled with determination. “This wedding will be the grandest of all, as it should be.”

You smiled softly, touched by her efforts. “You didn’t have to go to such lengths, Aemma.”

“Nonsense,” she replied, waving her hand dismissively. “You’re my sister now, and this is the happiest I’ve seen Daemon in years. This marriage is a celebration not just for you, but for the family.”

She guided you to stand before the gown, motioning for her handmaidens to help you try it on. The silk felt cool against your skin as the dress was carefully draped over you. Aemma adjusted the neckline, stepping back to admire her work.

“You look perfect,” she said, her eyes glistening with pride.

You turned to look at yourself in the mirror, the sight taking your breath away. The gown fit you like it was made for you alone, the shimmering silk enhancing your natural beauty.

“I hope Daemon doesn’t cause trouble just so he can get a glimpse of you before the wedding,” Aemma teased, a playful smile on her lips. “He’s been restless ever since Viserys gave his approval. He might just break tradition.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “He’s always been impatient.”

Aemma took your hands, squeezing them gently. “I want you to know how happy I am for you,” she said, her voice soft with emotion. “You and Daemon… you belong together. This wedding will mark the beginning of something truly beautiful.”

Tears threatened to well in your eyes, but you blinked them away, nodding. “Thank you, Aemma. For everything.”

She smiled, pulling you into a warm embrace. In that moment, you felt the love and support of family surrounding you, giving you strength for the journey ahead.

After trying on the gown Aemma had prepared for you, you made your way to the throne room, which was abuzz with preparations for your fast-approaching wedding. Servants scurried about, setting up tables and arranging decorations with meticulous care. The banners of House Targaryen hung proudly from the walls, their red and black sigils casting a regal presence over the space.

You paused, taking it all in—the grandeur, the anticipation. This was more than just a wedding; it was a union that would be remembered for generations.

As you stood there, lost in thought, you felt a familiar warmth at your back. Daemon’s hands slid gently around your waist, his touch both possessive and comforting. He leaned in close, his breath brushing against your ear.

“I’ve seen you in your gown,” he whispered, his voice low and teasing. “And I can already tell they’ll speak of your beauty for centuries.”

You turned your head slightly, catching his smirk from the corner of your eye. “You couldn’t wait, could you?” you replied, a mix of amusement and exasperation in your tone.

“Patience was never one of my virtues,” he admitted, his arms tightening around you. “But it’s not just the dress. It’s you. I’m not sure the Seven or even the old gods could have made something more perfect.”

You felt your cheeks flush, but you quickly composed yourself, glancing at the bustling preparations before you. “Everything is coming together,” you said softly. “It feels… surreal.”

Daemon shifted slightly, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder. “It’s fitting, isn’t it?” he said, his voice softer now. “A grand celebration for us. For what we are and what we will build together.”

You turned in his arms to face him, your eyes meeting his. “And what is that, Daemon?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“A legacy,” he replied without hesitation. “A bond stronger than dragonfire, one that no one—not even Viserys—can break.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, and for a moment, the chaos around you seemed to fade away. All that remained was him, and the unyielding certainty in his gaze.

“Come,” he said suddenly, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I’ve grown tired of watching others make preparations. Let’s see to the dragons instead. Let them know that soon, we’ll be joined as one.”

You couldn’t help but smile, allowing him to guide you away from the bustling throne room. As always, with Daemon by your side, the future felt both thrilling and inevitable.

You gently patted Maraxes’ powerful back, feeling the familiar warmth of her scales beneath your hand. The wind whipped through your hair as you soared high above the Red Keep, the world below appearing as small as a map laid out on a table.

Beside you, Daemon and Caraxes raced ahead, the Blood Wyrm’s elongated form slicing through the clouds with ease. Caraxes let out a piercing roar, its cry challenging the skies themselves.

Maraxes, not one to be outdone, responded with a thunderous roar of her own, her wings beating harder as she surged forward. You gripped her saddle tightly, leaning closer to her neck to encourage her.

“Show them, Maraxes,” you murmured with a grin, the thrill of the flight coursing through you. “Show them what you’re made of.”

With a sudden burst of speed, Maraxes lunged forward, her massive wings cutting through the air with precision. The distance between you and Daemon began to close rapidly.

Daemon glanced back, his silver hair shining under the sun, and you caught the smug smirk on his face falter as Maraxes closed in.

“Is that the best you’ve got?” you called out, your voice carrying over the roar of the wind.

He laughed, the sound carried to you by the wind. “Careful, my love,” he replied, steering Caraxes into a sharp dive. “I’d hate for you to lose your nerve.”

But you didn’t falter. Maraxes followed Caraxes’ lead, diving with grace and speed that rivaled even the most seasoned dragons. The ground rushed toward you, but you trusted her completely.

As you leveled out beside Daemon once more, the two dragons roared in unison, their voices blending into a symphony of power and dominance. You and Daemon exchanged a glance, the exhilaration of the ride mirrored in his eyes.

“Maraxes is a true queen,” he said, his tone filled with pride.

“And Caraxes a worthy prince,” you replied with a playful smirk.

Together, you guided your dragons into a synchronized ascent, their forms weaving through the sky like a dance. In that moment, it wasn’t just the bond between you and Daemon that felt unbreakable—it was the connection you shared with your dragons, the legacy you were creating together, and the love that burned as fiercely as dragonfire.

You dismounted Maraxes with practiced ease, patting her side gently as she let out a low, satisfied growl. You turned toward Daemon, who had already slid off Caraxes and was approaching you with a small smirk on his face.

The two dragons, seemingly understanding their riders had finished their flight, began to walk together toward the Dragonpit. Their massive tails swayed lazily as they moved side by side, a rare display of harmony between the two fierce creatures.

Daemon’s attention, however, was solely on you. His sharp violet eyes took in your slightly disheveled appearance, a teasing glint in them. Without saying a word, he reached out and gently tucked a strand of your hair back into place, his touch lingering for just a moment.

“You look as if you’ve just fought in a battle,” he said, his voice warm with amusement.

You laughed softly, brushing dirt from your sleeve. “Flying with Maraxes always feels like a battle—she doesn’t let me relax for even a moment.”

Daemon grinned, his gaze flickering to the retreating forms of the dragons. “She’s a reflection of her rider, then. Stubborn, relentless, and utterly magnificent.”

You rolled your eyes at his words but couldn’t help the small smile that crept onto your lips. “And what does that say about Caraxes, then?”

“Loyal, fierce, and just unpredictable enough to keep things interesting,” he replied smoothly, his grin widening.

Shaking your head, you allowed him to help you onto his black horse, a sleek and well-bred creature that always seemed to mirror its master’s confidence. Once you were comfortably seated, he climbed on behind you, wrapping an arm securely around your waist.

The ride back to the Red Keep was peaceful, the rhythmic clatter of the horse’s hooves filling the quiet between you. Daemon’s hold on you was firm yet comforting, and as the walls of the castle came into view, you leaned back slightly into him, finding solace in his presence.

“You know,” he murmured near your ear, breaking the silence, “this is how it should always be. You, me, and the dragons.”

You tilted your head slightly to glance back at him. “And what of the world that waits for us within those walls?”

Daemon’s lips curved into a wry smile. “Let the world wait. For now, it’s just us.”

His words settled over you like a warm blanket, and as you passed through the gates of the Red Keep, you couldn’t help but wish that this moment could stretch on forever.

The day of your wedding had finally arrived, and your chambers were bustling with activity even before the first rays of sunlight graced the horizon. Aemma, ever the perfectionist, had gathered her trusted ladies-in-waiting to ensure every detail of your preparation was flawless.

You sat before a large mirror, dressed in the finest silk undergarments, as one of the maids carefully wove intricate braids into your hair. Aemma hovered nearby, her sharp eyes inspecting every detail, from the embroidery on your gown to the gleaming jewelry laid out on the table.

“This will be the grandest wedding the realm has seen,” Aemma declared with confidence, adjusting the tiara that would soon rest on your head. “You will be the vision of perfection, as you deserve to be.”

You gave her a soft smile, but your attention was pulled elsewhere. From the corner of your eye, you could see the faint outline of Daemon standing behind the sheer curtain at the far end of the room. His unmistakable figure was partially hidden, but you could hear the faintest sound of his chuckle.

You turned slightly in your chair, catching the amused glint in his violet eyes through the thin fabric. “Daemon,” you said firmly, though your lips quirked into a knowing smile, “you’re not supposed to see me before the ceremony.”

His voice came through, low and teasing. “I’m only ensuring my bride is being treated properly. Wouldn’t want them to dull your shine before the day even begins.”

Aemma turned toward the sound, her face a mix of exasperation and amusement. “Daemon, you’re being ridiculous. Out!” she scolded, waving a hand toward the curtain.

He only laughed softly, his silhouette lingering for a moment longer. “I’ll see you soon,” he murmured, his tone laced with a promise, before retreating out of sight.

You shook your head, warmth blossoming in your chest despite yourself. Aemma returned her attention to you, adjusting the intricate neckline of your wedding gown with care.

“He adores you,” she said softly, her expression unexpectedly tender.

You met her gaze in the mirror, a quiet smile tugging at your lips. “And I, him.”

Aemma’s smile deepened, and she patted your shoulder gently. “Good. Now, let’s ensure you’re ready to take his breath away.”

You were fully prepared, dressed in the stunning gown Aemma had so carefully designed, every detail perfect. Now, it was Viserys who stood by your side in the carriage as you made your way to the Sept.

The ride was quiet, the clattering of the wheels over the stone streets filling the silence. Viserys sat across from you, his face soft yet tinged with a sadness he couldn’t entirely hide. His violet eyes lingered on you, taking in the serene expression on your face and the subtle joy radiating from you.

“You look… just like Mother,” he finally said, his voice low and thoughtful. “She would have been so proud to see you like this.”

You glanced at him, touched by his words. “And Father?” you asked gently.

A small smile tugged at his lips. “Father would’ve been furious that you were grown enough to marry,” he replied, his tone lightening. “But he’d have been proud, too. Proud of you and of the match you’ve made.”

The mention of Daemon brought a new look to his face—one of conflicted fondness. He sighed and leaned back in his seat. “You and Daemon… You’ve always been inseparable. I only hope this union will bring you happiness, as much as it does the realm.”

You smiled softly, your fingers lightly brushing over the delicate fabric of your gown. “Daemon and I will do our duty, but this marriage is not just for the realm. It is for us.”

Viserys’ gaze softened further. “You and Daemon, happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for either of you.”

As the carriage approached the Sept, you caught a glimpse of the banners of House Targaryen flying high, the crowds gathering to witness the union.

Viserys reached out and placed a reassuring hand over yours. “The realm will celebrate today, but remember, this is your moment. Take it, and let no one tell you otherwise.”

You nodded, your heart steady with resolve. Today, you would not just be a bride but a queen of your own destiny, standing beside the man who had always been your closest confidant and deepest love.

You walked gracefully down the aisle, your arm linked with Viserys’. The grand Sept was filled with lords, ladies, and knights from across the realm, all gathered to witness the union. The light from the stained-glass windows painted the room in hues of gold and red, illuminating the Targaryen banners that hung proudly from the high arches.

At the altar stood Daemon, his usual air of confidence softened by the rare, genuine smile gracing his lips as he watched you approach. His violet eyes held yours, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to fade away.

Viserys gave your hand a gentle squeeze before passing it to Daemon. His expression was one of reluctant acceptance, but you knew he cared for you deeply. Daemon took your hand, his grip firm yet tender as he pulled you closer.

The septon began the ceremony, his voice echoing through the sacred hall. He spoke of duty, love, and the strength of bonds forged in the light of the Seven. You barely heard the words, your focus entirely on Daemon—the man who had been your constant companion, your fiercest protector, and now, your husband.

When the time came to exchange your vows, Daemon’s voice was steady, yet laced with emotion as he spoke:

“With fire and blood, I bind my life to yours. From this day until my last, I am yours, and you are mine.”

Your own voice did not waver as you responded:

“Through the storms and flames, I will stand by your side. My heart is yours, now and forever.”

The septon proclaimed you husband and wife, and the crowd erupted in applause as Daemon leaned in, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that sealed your union.

As you turned to face the cheering crowd, Daemon whispered into your ear, “You were born to be mine, and now, the realm knows it.”

The two of you walked down the aisle together, hand in hand, ready to face whatever the future held as one.

The cheers and laughter of the gathered lords and ladies filled the air as you and Daemon stepped into the Great Hall of the Red Keep. The grand space was adorned with Targaryen banners, their crimson and black colors illuminated by the glow of countless candles. Tables were laden with the finest foods and wines from across the realm, a feast fit to honor the union of House Targaryen’s bloodline.

Daemon’s arm rested over yours as you descended the steps from the royal carriage. His smirk grew as he surveyed the crowd, his confidence radiating as always. You could feel his pride not only in himself but also in you—his wife, his equal.

The room fell silent as you both entered the throne room. All eyes turned to you, their murmurs of awe unmistakable. Your gown shimmered under the light, its white and silver fabric a reflection of the stars themselves, while your Valyrian features were framed perfectly by the intricate braids of your hair.

Daemon leaned in close as you paused at the entrance, his lips brushing your ear.

“They’re not here to celebrate the feast,” he murmured with a teasing tone, “They’re here to see the most beautiful woman in the realm.”

You smiled and gave his arm a light squeeze, your gaze sweeping across the room before the two of you moved forward, walking together with regal poise. At the center of the hall, Viserys stood waiting for you both, his expression a mixture of relief and joy as he raised a goblet to toast your union.

“Tonight, we celebrate not just the joining of two hearts but the strength of House Targaryen!” Viserys declared, his voice carrying across the hall. “May their love burn as brightly as dragonfire and stand as strong as the stone of Dragonstone!”

The crowd erupted into applause, and the music began to play. Daemon turned to you with a playful glint in his eyes, extending his hand.

“Shall we give them a dance to remember, my wife?”

You took his hand with a soft laugh, allowing him to lead you to the center of the room. As the two of you began to dance, the rest of the hall seemed to blur into the background, leaving only the two of you, your love, and the fire of House Targaryen burning brightly in your hearts.

The music swelled through the hall as you and Daemon danced, your movements perfectly synchronized as though you had been dancing together all your lives. The room faded away, leaving only the two of you in each other’s gaze.

Daemon’s hand rested firmly on your waist, guiding you effortlessly across the floor, while his other hand held yours with a gentle yet possessive grip. His violet eyes were locked onto yours, filled with an intensity that only he could convey. There was no one else in the world for him in that moment but you.

“You are breathtaking,” he whispered softly, his voice low enough for only you to hear.

You smiled, your heart warming at his words. “And you look every bit the rogue prince they whisper about,” you teased lightly, though your tone was filled with affection.

His smirk deepened, but the love in his eyes never faltered. “Let them whisper. They’ll never know the truth of how you’ve stolen my heart.”

The music continued, and the guests watched in awe as you and Daemon moved as one, the perfect embodiment of Targaryen royalty. The way he spun you, the way you moved together, and the way he brought you back into his arms spoke volumes—this was not just a marriage of duty, but of deep, undeniable love.

When the music ended, the hall erupted in applause, but Daemon did not release you right away. Instead, he pulled you closer, his forehead resting gently against yours as he whispered, “We are bound now, by fire and blood. Always.”

You nodded, your voice just as soft. “Always.”

As the applause echoed around you, Daemon pulled you in even closer, his breath warm against your skin. He didn’t wait for the crowd to settle, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was full of promise, passion, and love. The world around you disappeared as you melted into his embrace, the kiss deep and slow, as though he was claiming you in front of everyone.

The sound of distant chatter faded as you lost yourself in the moment, feeling the weight of the vows you had just exchanged, the love you had built, and the bond that now tied you together. His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you even closer, as if he couldn’t bear to be apart from you for even a moment.

When the kiss finally broke, Daemon rested his forehead against yours, his breath ragged. “I never want to be without you,” he whispered, voice filled with raw sincerity.

You smiled, your heart full, and softly replied, “And you never will be.”

The crowd continued to cheer, but it was just the two of you in that moment, lost in each other, knowing that this was the beginning of your forever.

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