#iresmut

[irenadel]

And if the devil... 2/10

Making a banner for this finally for the grand finale coming soon. Excuse to rb. Credit for the Aemond screencap goes to the wonderful Liv @barbieaemond Smut at last, you have been warned Aemond Targaryen x Maid!Reader

Chapter 1 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10

“It won’t always be like this, ya know?”

It is very late at night, and you are only shelling chestnuts because your eyes cannot darn clothes under an oil lamp, no matter how good quality it used to be when it was new. Angus does this often, hang around, lugging his big, awkward arms, thinking he is being subtle and moody about it. A little romantic. Deep thoughts and smart plans. But more often, he ends up looking like a very large, very sullen wardrobe. It would have been endearing if it didn’t make housework so bloody hard all the time. You hand him the other bag and he sits down to work with you. Shells for the chickens to peck at, one bag as a dinner treat, the other for your cousins Bree and Delma to roast and sell. Leftovers from a castle kitchen were often generous.

“I’ll be done with the apprenticeship in no time,” he says, voice still cracking a bit when he’s nervous. You scoff, perhaps unkindly, because he has just started the damn thing, and the gods know if you’ll be able to finish paying for it, but he continues on bravely. “I’ll be bringing in good coin and Delma and Bree will marry and you’ll find a fat, old man who’ll keel over and leave you his shop, and you won’t ever have to work for royal cunts again.”

You cuff him over the head once, and he is more surprised by the meanness of your glare than the blow. You are surprised too, try to soften it by sneaking him a shelled chestnut and cleaning his neck for him. He’s gotten sloppy about washing it since he stopped living at home.

“They’re not so bad,” you say after some time in silence. Angus fidgets but keeps shelling, always a bit uncomfortable when you withdraw to think.

“Is the princess pretty?”

You stop for a moment. You can’t really see him in the dim light of the sputtering lamp, your cousin, near grown now, the pimples still doting his chin. You wish it would go both ways and that he didn’t have to see you either.

You try not to think about the prince and princess when you’re at home. They do not belong here, in the smelly yard, with the scraggly chickens rummaging among the trash and your mud-caked feet. The girl you are around them has no place here either. She’s too wild and headstrong to be kind to Angus when he offers you a cage like he’s offering you a gift.

You try not to think of knives and sapphires and hair so soft and heavy it’s like bolts of white satin.

“They’re all pretty,” you answer disdainfully.

Angus smiles a little meanly, satisfied in your eye-roll and apparent exasperation with royalty. He does not see the fondness come to your face or the way it softness the edges of your mouth and the cast of your eyes.

“You know how to fight.”

He’d cornered you outside the laundry, after dumping Helaena’s morning ewer of water and hauling down half the princess’s laundry. Your eyes were infuriatingly fixed back on the floor. Your head exasperatingly lowered back into submission. He was almost amused to discover your courtesies were just as bad as the first time he’d seen them.

“My prince.”

And Aemond Targaryen did not let himself mistake the dismissal for an honorific as you tried to slither past him, ignoring the question that had not been asked. It was your stubborn push against his body, thrilling and oddly satisfying, stopping immediately after you’d heard the whistle of his Valyrian steel dagger, just a few seconds before he buried it in a beam of aged wood right beside your ear.

A few seconds but not before.

He regarded you with a cock-sure tilt to his head. Stranger and stranger you were, perfectly still now with a handful of prince shoved against your front, trapped against the wall, with Helaena’s porcelain ewer laying in pieces at your feet, and your chest heaving like it had that day at the fountain. Aemond was only vaguely aware of his own stirring arousal until you’d looked up to glare at him with eyes red as fresh blood.

“But you don’t fight well,” he’d said to you and laughed at your indignant flush when you’d been unable to help yourself and faced him at last. “You should be quicker than that. You let things go by you that you don’t have to. A punch.”

He’d given himself the luxury of touching the fading bruise on your cheekbone, both sick and delighted at your shiver of fear, the squirming of your trapped body.

“A dagger.”

He’d wrenched the lovely, deadly thing out of the wooden beam and used the hilt to tilt your oddly pointed chin back towards him. Long hooked nose. The deep set shadow of your eyes. He was missing something in your features, some clue that was there, barely eluding him, distracted as he was by how pink your albino lips were this close up.

He’d offered the hilt of the dagger to your slack, sweat-slicked hand.

“Go on. Try it. You’re quick but I’m quicker. Give me your best shot.”

Aemond had never had much of an idea of how one went about bending serving wenches over furniture, the way his brother would endlessly brag about. Had preferred it that way. Had done his best to forget those few unsettling visits to the Street of Silk besides Aegon. But now he wondered. He wondered too if there was something as rotten and festering inside of him as whatever hid within his brother, because he liked this better. Your racing heart. Your shuddering breath. The impossible to follow train of emotions darting across your face as your hand closed around the offered dagger.

Would you strike?

Would you be too scared?

Unable to?

“You can’t see,” Aemond had whispered the secret he’d guessed against your ear, savoring the broken sound you let out. “At least not well. Here, let me help you, my heart is right here.”

And he’d known he’d made the right choice in you because when he’d placed your pale hand against his equally pale chest, leather doublet opened for a truer strike, your stubby kitten nails had buried into his skin and his prick, half-forgotten in the heat of the moment had twinged in sympathy with your sudden, grimly determined look.

Do it, Aemond Targaryen had thought wildly, do it, do it, do it.

And you did. Dagger clattering to the floor, your knee coming up between his legs and he was on the ground laughing through the pain as you tried to make yourself scarce. Brave enough to knee a prince in the groin, still too scared to stay to face the aftermath. But you did turn around before disappearing into the kitchens. You spat into the ground, glared at him and mouthed something, no doubt a vile insult, something Aemond remembered long afterwards, sometimes in a fury, sometimes in warm satisfaction. Ifak, you had called him between clenched teeth, with a click at the back of your throat that no Westerosi girl could have ever produced and that defiant toss of your hair, like an unbroken wild horse. Walker, in a strange tongue from across the sea, that Aemond had encountered once in an old dusty book and would now eagerly seek out again.

“I’m not a whore for you and your ifak chiftik brother to pass around.”

Aemond had laughed again, rejoicing in the pain. He laughed because he hoped you had kneed Aegon too, thrown a chamber pot his way for good measure. Because you would know better soon. He would teach you better. You would know the difference between a snake and a dragon.

After, he dreamt about you often.

Alone at night. When Ser Criston told him about piety and decorum and the way he would be expected to treat the ladies at court. When his mother spoke of his duty to his future lady wife. Always to him, never to Aegon who could bloody use it. He hated each admonition as much as he treasured it. Knew his mother harped on him only because he would listen, unlike his brother. He would strife for it, the perfection she longed for in any of her children, if only to please her, even though he saw the way the court looked at him. Girls afraid. Women pityingly. Too strange and disquieting if he ever removed the eyepatch. Too intimidating when he kept it on. Always he knew it was better to be fearsome than fearful.

His brother and nephews had taught him that lesson well and he was loath to part with it, even for you.

Still, he dreamt of you instead of simpering ladies. He dreamt of you and shuddered at the visceral memory you conjured, of that first time in the Street of Silk, when Aemond had thought fear long gone from his life only to have his brother bring it back. Strange sounds and smells and hands on him and the faintly nauseous pleasure of the first time a woman had touched his cock, he too young and unready to know what to do or say, she too used to obeying Prince Aegon’s orders to do anything other than her job.

He dreamt of you in those silken sheets, the proud toss of your coarse yellow hair, the odd cast of your red eyes, between his legs, telling him to relax, layback and enjoy himself.

My prince, you would call him as you took him in your mouth the way Aegon’s prostitute had and he swore in his bed, far away from the incense and the oils of that moment, taking himself in hand, thinking of your clenched teeth and angry words. As he fucked his fist in a hurry, angrily chasing the memory of your hissed insult, he would think of every time he had encountered you near Helaena’s room, eyes no longer lowered, feet firmly planted on the stone floor to face him. 

You, too ready to fight him if he moved towards you. He, too ready to rip the bonnet off your head to wrap the heavy length of your braid around his hand. You, too ready to let him pull you into an embrace you knew to be sheer madness.

Because it wasn’t idle curiosity anymore.

It wasn’t simple lust that made Prince Aemond near double over from the strength of his arousal every time he saw a bruise on your blotchy sun-burnt face or an angry red mark around your pale wrist. It was more than desire he felt the first time he saw your split lip and cornered you against a wall again, brushing with his thumb the scab that just hours ago had been seeping blood, breathing too heavily, manhood too hard to think. And this time you had been caught by surprise by his tenderness, unable to summon outrage and false pride to throw him off you or even the common sense to acquiesce to whatever a prince of the realm could demand of you.

No. Prince Aemond’s hunger had awakened in you demands of your own.

You had taken his thumb into your mouth and  bitten down so hard you heard him hiss a breath in and felt him fall into your arms. He had kissed you, his royal Valyrian blood still fresh on your lips, and your tongue had sought his out, even as his hands, one still bleeding, had wrapped around your hips, yanked them towards him, your legs off the floor and around his waist. You hadn’t known what it would be like to fuck a man you wanted so much but Aemond seemed willing to learn with you, ruffling desperately through your thin petticoat and your smallclothes until his cloth-trapped erection had finally rubbed against your heat. Wet, gloriously, smolderingly wet. And he had seen you grimace like you were in pain, a graceless, hungry sound escaping your throat, and he had known Aegon had fucking robbed him. Because this was the way it was supposed to be, and not whatever poor mummery had befallen him in that brothel.

Your mouth sloppily trying to devour his, your arms around his neck, holding on while he pushed his hips into yours, better, sweeter, harder than he had ever fucked any of Aegon’s painted girls. It was impossible, as he let your mouth go and panted against your ear, a deep hungry growl that he had not known he had learnt from Vhagar escaping him, it was impossible to reach for anything more. He wanted inside you, inside the wet, hot promise of your clothed cunt, but would not suffer a second away from you and knew, without a shadow of doubt, that he had been right to refuse, because he felt your hips meet his, you grinding against his throbbing prick, head thrown back against the stone wall and heard, in your desperately muffled cry, heard the first of your peaks. And he had not known anything else after that, except the savage joy of the hunt. Of pushing you against the wall and grinding into your core hard and fast and brutal, chasing after your pleasure, panting harshly, teeth-grittingly determined to fight his own throbbing desire, until you bit your lip to keep from crying out your next peak. Again and again, his hips driving madly into yours as he promised you anything, everything if you would just come for him one more time. He came on your third, because you snaked one trembling hand between your bodies, shoved it inside his laces and wrapped it around him, tight and merciless, looking at him straight in the eye, patch askew, sapphire glinting in the low candlelight, yanking on his prick, once, twice until he was coming all over your hand, legs near failing him as you both toppled unto the cold stone floor, a tangle of limbs and clothes.

You’d wiped your hand gods know where and let him rest his forehead against your racing heart, until his own would stop hammering madly in his ears. It was the way you looked at him after that destroyed him, that trapped him forever in the ribcage that held your own wildly beating heart. Because you looked at him like it pained you. You brushed his white hair out of his face the way you did Helaena’s, tenderly, kindly, the way you had never touched him before. You thumbed the edge of the scar on his cheekbone, and let the words escape your mouth: “You’re beautiful.”

And when you said it like this, like you were fighting a losing battle, like it hurt coming out, then Aemond could believe it.

[irenadel]

And if the devil... 5/10

Making a banner for this finally for the grand finale coming soon. Excuse to rb. Credit for the Aemond screencap goes to the wonderful Liv @barbieaemond Smut: The Chapter, Aemond x Maid!Reader

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10

It isn’t the failing light of twilight that drives you both out of the sky, but a drizzle that turns into a storm. Vhagar herself does not care and leaves you both stranded inside a damp seaside cave, just so she can go hunting, with Aemond shouting after her in mock outrage, while you laugh so wildly and girlishly he thinks he’d rather stay here forever if you’ll just keep laughing like that.

You are better than him at gathering what little dry driftwood is to be found and he is better at setting it aflame. Neither of you are any good at fishing with bare hands so you content yourselves with drinking rain and trying to wring the water out of your clothes.

He turns his back to you the moment you pull off your drab servant’s dress and start undoing the ties of your shift. His heart is hammering in his ears and he feels the traitorous flushing return to his face and throat.

If you don’t want to shame yourself, his brother had warned him, not knowing that was all he was now, shame and longing.

You reach for the rapidly warming skin of his neck, through the soaked, beautiful strands of his silver hair, to turn him back to you.

It is his undoing.

The fear in your own face, clammy and white, cheeks starkly red. The way his hands move on their own, to the laces of your shift, taking over your clumsy, cold fingers. He has seen your naked calves before, dreamt of them locked around his waist as he plunged into you, thrown over his shoulders as he kisses the flushed red tips of your toes. He is unprepared for the gut-wrenching, dizzying strength of his arousal at the sight of your bare arms, the ribs he could count, your pert, pink nipples, the angry red scar below your collarbone and the bright purple bruises on your stomach that your nakedness can no longer hide from his hungry, avid eye. He will kill your uncle, string him from his feet and make a present of his useless hand to you. Later. Tonight, he is tearing your underskirts off, unheeding of the ripping sound some of them make, prick hard and ready because you help him, your hands are shaking, your own breath shivering, but still you offer up your long, powerful legs to him. You are white as a ghost all over, as a fresh sheet of vellum, and by all the gods he intends to leave his own mark on you.

He undoes your braid, as he has dreamt of doing incessantly for the past months, wishing to inhale the scent of your wet hair, bring it to his lips and kiss it at long last. Aemond can only hope he could offer you such a tenderness, but all he knows is the cruelty of his urgency for you.

He wraps your hair around his hand, panting madly, almost smiling, once, twice, enough to pull your head back so you will look at him. Enough to wrench a broken sound of pleasure from your throat, a sound that travels directly to the root of his cock.

“What did you say to Vhagar in Dothraki?”

“Davra nayat… good girl”

He doesn’t laugh now, not at the sheer nerve of you speaking to a dragon as if she were a nervous filly. Sees you again, on a saddle at the zenith of the world, face reaching for the wind, as he urged Vhagar higher and higher, to please a stupid, beautiful girl, born of nothing, who owned nothing… except the horizon… except himself.

He rips the ties of his doublet open, grabs your hand, grip so painful he fears he will crush your fingers in his, and places your palm on his heaving chest, his wildly beating heart. Sees you hiss in a breath and presses his face to the naked expanse of your exposed throat.

“Davrat nayat,” he says to you as he shows you how to undo his clothes.

When Aegon’s whore had undressed him, her hands had been soft as silk, her perfume so heady and potent his eye had watered because of it. When she stole kiss after kiss from his lips he had tasted the mint leaves she’d chewed before bedding him. She had called him beautiful and praised the whiteness of his Valyrian skin.

I’ve never been a prince’s first fuck, your grace.

He’d been too dazed to correct her address to him.

Your hands shake as you undo the clasps of his doublet and you curse when one of them resists you. There’s a red ammonia burn on one of your palms, right below your thumb, kitchen scrubbing no doubt. You chew on your lower lip as you peel each layer off him, toss his white linen shirt to one side. Your fingers find the slender, muscled expanse of his waist, brush his own pink nipples, unexpectedly sensitive and ready for touch. And Aemond finds the furious, shivering eagerness of your calloused hands on his chest and neck a hundred times more convincing than the whore’s honeyed words.

When you get to his breeches he pulls your chin up so you can face him. He knows he needs to look at you when you touch him, when you find the hard, eager evidence of how low you’ve brought him.

Your eyes close, brows together as if in pain, when your fingers wrap around his cock and he feels adrift suddenly, by how you fall into his body, into his need, his hips wonderfully, deliriously ready to chase your hand pulling at him.

He grips your chin hard enough to keep his own hand from shaking, bares his teeth in a snarl to keep a strangled moan in and whispers into your ear, as he steps out of his breeches.

“You don’t fight me anymore.”

You don’t answer immediately, and for a few minutes it’s just your panting breath and the slapping, wet sound of Aemond coming apart in your hand, one pull of his cock at the time.

He feels like he is going to lose his fucking mind.

“I decided to stop fighting myself.”

He does not know how to manage for himself. When you tear another kiss from his lips and go on all fours, he does not know how not to strangle one more hungry growl from his throat. When he catches the sight of your pale, pink cunt soaked and ready for him, he does not know how to stop himself from grabbing for your hips, leaving bruises of his own, or how to stop from warring within his breast the twin desires of fucking you like this, with your cunt on display for him or flipping you around so he can watch your face as you fall apart on his cock.

And it strikes him deliciously and unexpectedly that he need not decide, as he flips you on your back, drunk on the resistance of your kicking legs and the capitulation of your arms around him. He can do this as much as he wants for the rest of his life, in as many positions as he can think of.

He near sobs when he finally pushes inside you. No resistance in his way, just the warm, wet, grasping embrace of your cunt around him, clenching, milking him and he can’t stop. His face buried in your neck, your mouth kissing his temples, your breasts pressed against his chest. There’s so many things he wants to do to you. But he can’t stop pushing inside you, grinding into you, snapping his hips against yours. He can’t talk, can do nothing but clench his teeth against the mess of words and sounds that threatens to consume him. 

It’s why he hears you, through the slap of skin against skin.

“My prince.”

He’s dreamed of it so often. Desired it so much. Craved it so ardently… that he can’t help but come at your strangled words. The noise he makes against your neck is shameful. He would have torn himself from your arms if his body hadn’t still been burning. He would have cursed himself for a fool if he still had breath in his lungs. But you are not deceived by his stillness.

“Aemond, are you—“

And he turns from you so quickly you are left more than confused, as dazed and humiliated as he. Both of you, naked in the chill of the evening while Aemond tries very hard not to think of a woman comforting him, the smell of mint leaves, and his brother’s scornful laughter.

“Touch me and I’ll take your fucking hand off,” he snaps back at you, unable to remember why his name on your tongue should be so odious to him, unable to think clearly except that you know so much of him, you should have known better. You have tasted him so thoroughly that he cannot think how to face you after this. No one should know him so well but Vhagar.

You stand up, despite how suddenly cold you are, with your thighs smeared in royal seed, a horribly familiar dread in your stomach as you are once more confronted with a prince who will not to look at you. You had not thought it could have been worse than humiliation, but shame and heartbreak together are too much of a burden to bear. You almost give in again, dismissed again. You almost leave and Aemond almost lets you.

And you will never know who turned around first, but you know your mouth is on his again, kiss so cruel and hungry your teeth draw blood from his dry lips. You know he fights you for control for a moment before you have him on the floor, powerful legs straddling his waist, your dull nails scraping against his nipples so that he chokes back a whine and you bite it off his lips with an angry sound of your own.

“That belongs to me,” you say, as this time, you pinch one of the tender buds on his chest, looking directly into his face, into amethyst and sapphire, before you make him cry out again. “I will not be robbed, little khal.”

He should have chastised you for your presumption, for your nails digging into his chest and your teeth closing around the sharp edges of his jaw. And he would. In time.

It isn’t over until it’s over, Ser Criston had said to him, when he was tired of Aegon’s taller frame and stronger reach giving him the advantage. It isn’t over until you decide it’s over.

And Aemond had decided, ages ago it seemed, that this would never be over. 

His hand in your hand and you guiding him between your legs, until he remembers all the things he knows how to make your body do. That you do them on top of him, your hips swaying over his hand, only makes it sweeter.

He gives you the moan that belongs to you the moment his fingers find their way inside you, ripping a hungry noise from your own lips. One, two, three digits inside you until you can take no more and he is hard again, surprisingly, painfully hard. It is the sight of your beautiful, pale hair barely hiding your grimace of pleasure, your body moving of its own accord, fucking yourself on his hand, until he can take it no more, grabbing a handful of yellow hair and hissing recklessly, thoughtlessly against your bruised lips, “Ride my hand, come on my fingers. I’ll get you a dragon to ride if you do this well.”

He does not know where these promises come from. All he knows is the way your insides clench on his fingers, the way you throw your head back and he can feel you coming all over his palm, as his thumb abuses your hard, eager pearl. He can feel his cock twitch both at the thought of being inside you again and you, pale hair in the wind driving him to distraction, on dragonback.

But it is when you grab ahold of his face, looking straight into his soul, ruby-red eyes still half-lidded from your peak, that he cannot hold back any longer. Because you say it through a half-choked moan and he will make you say it again and again, as many times as he wants, in any position that he so desires, “I’ve got a dragon to ride already, my prince.”

He’s inside you again in seconds, giving you no quarter or preamble, your sex over-sensitive from your recent climax, but Aemond One-Eye is as cruel as any kitchen gossip ever named him to be. He is inside you, bigger than his slender fingers, deeper than any man had any right to be, reaching places you had never even dreamed existed, whispering delicious filth in your ear. Every wonderful, shameful thing you had ever desired from the men who had used you and so easily discarded you.

But not him. Not your prince.

“You are mine,” he says to you, too sharp and too guttural to be entirely Westerosi, with the taste of Old Valyria still on his tongue, drunk on his own blood and the one he takes by nipping at your greedy, eager lips. “To fuck you and use you as I want. Mine and no one else’s, issa jorrāelagon. My sweet, stupid girl. I’ll be the death of you. Come for me, come for your prince.”

And you do. Chasing pleasure, fucking yourself on this beautiful, idiot man’s cock. Knowing he is right about everything and you are lost to him, to the taste of his tongue and his anger and his scorn. And he is coming after you, in wonderful, warm spurts inside you, still hard as you chase your peak, long and drawn, seeming to last forever, with Aemond’s hands tangled in your hair again, urging you on with a rhythmic yes, yes, yes, still hard, still hungry for you.

Still willing after that second peak of his, to put you on your hands and knees, hair undone and more beautiful and perfect than any man you have ever seen before. Eye wild, sapphire glinting in the light of the dying fire, mouth curling in his cruel, hunting-cat smile, that you will never again be able to live without. All of it as he brings your sweet, pink cunt to his lips, dizzy from the smell of your combined lovemaking, dizzy from the knowledge of how that marks you as his and only his. And Aemond, Prince Aemond of the House Targaryen cannot know what it is to you when he runs the first, long, languorous lick against your cunt, smirking at your ragged moan of pleasure. He cannot know that every time you have been on your hands and knees for a man you had known it to be no more than a sham. A sordid, sorry fraud of a union. As if your body had known from the start that no cock and no hands and no tongue could ever serve but Prince Aemond’s. As if you had been waiting all your small, dreary life for his mouth against your cunt, ruthlessly tearing more pleasure out of your exhausted body.

He fucks you like this. The Dothraki way. Remaking the world for you with his claim on this position. Near laughing through the delicious, lingering burn at the pit of his stomach. His thighs straining and tingling because he’s come twice and is looking for a third and the sound of his legs slapping against your arse could've been enough to make him lose it. Except he knows now. That he gets to watch his cock pull in and out of you forever. Any time he wants. Gets to feel you arching against him, deliciously wanton, as desperate for his flesh as he was for yours, as many times as he so desires. And it is perfect, as he pulls your hair, one more time, one last time to prove he can, to drag you back up against him and lick a hot, wet brand up the skin of your neck, until he can whisper in your ear.

“Davrat nayat.”

And when he feels the merciless clench of your cunt he shouts against your fragrant hair, panting, kissing it, as Vhagar lights the night sky, somewhere over the sea, in a torrent of joyous flame.

[irenadel]

Fear Leads the Way

Darth Maul x Reader Filthy porn ahead, Darth Maul and Savage Opress and Reader, eventual pseudo-threesome, but only sexy cuddles for Savage because he's got The Trauma, eventual robodick but right now we're dealing only with Ken Doll Maul. Therefore: TRIGGER WARNING TALK OF AMPUTATION AND LIMB LOSS. Nothing detailed but you have been warned. Chapter 1 of Force knows how many.

It was true what they said, that wild animals were more often afraid of you, than you of them.

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 1

It had begun out of wariness. And Maul’s always short temper when his decisions were questioned, especially decisions he wasn’t entirely confident in. If it bothers you so much, he had snapped at his brother, stay and stand guard. That was usually how it went with Maul and Savage. Shut up and stand guard, was the principle through which they both operated most of the time. Savage seldom objected because he did, always, on some level, want to keep an eye on his brother. It eased some ache within him he did not even want to think about.

And for all his snarling and protests, Maul would agree. It was always better when Savage stood guard. Better strategy. More firepower. Safer.

(Less lonely)

You did not seem to share the brothers’ enthusiasm for a rear guard. At least not in this particular situation.

You had said nothing, though. You weren’t in the habit of questioning Lord Maul of the Shadow Collective and Maul, in turn, often ignored the degree to which you were always still a little terrified of him. You’d been snatched off the streets of Nar Shaddaa to work your magic on Lord Maul’s cybernetics. A present meant to court favor. A trifling bauble. A girl too afraid to do much more than her job for a long time. When he didn’t pointedly ignore it, he spent considerable time and effort convincing himself it was just right and proper that you should be afraid of the sith lord who ruled your life.

But it hadn’t been easy in this particular case.

It had been a mistake, a sign of weakness, Maul decided, to let himself grow used to the certainty of your touch. It had begun with the strong, firm hands you had ran over the tender places between where his cybernetics ended and his flesh began. It had gone beyond anything he should have ever allowed when, still cowed and unsure, but in that moment somehow fearless, you had uttered words like prosthetic genital replacement, sensory recovery, advances in brain and limb nerve arrays. He should have beheaded you then and there. Nipped this in the bud and sealed it with your blood.

Instead he had let you talk to him about the nerve endings of his forearms, still very much alive and intact to feel the tips of your fingers ghosting over them. He had let you stutter about flesh grafts and possibilities, illustrating each suggestion with a tentative touch. He had let you take a traitorous hand to the soft, vulnerable skin of his ears, its sheer sensitivity forgotten years after that initial reckless vanity that had made him pierce them.

There had been a shame and wariness in you he had not understood and then that impossible, naked audacity that had brought your questing fingers to his lips, to his chest, to a hard and aching nipple you had ministered to with nails and tongue and teeth. And then you had been impossible to contain. Because the same knowledge that had made your work on his cybernetics invaluable, had let you crumble him apart like clay. He’d let you press the heel of your hand to the back of his neck that day, the skin on his shoulder blades suddenly, uncomfortably alive, eager to be touched because it had never been touched with tenderness, with pleasure instead of pain.

You had tried to flee him that day, having stepped over a boundary that had never existed between coerced attendant and frightening patient. And he’d snatched you back with one awful, terrible gesture of his impossibly strong arm and you had stayed there, precariously hanging off his body. A body that had seemed so fragile a second ago and now stood horrifyingly solid underneath your hands.

Savage had been there too, as always, watching his brother’s back whenever a vulnerable position demanded it. But Maul had been too focused on the warm proximity of your body and the sudden overpowering aroma of your sweat and arousal, to pay attention to his looming baleful figure. You had not. You had watched with increasing wariness as the tendons on his neck had stood out in stress and horror, monstrously thick and powerful like starship cables. His angry glare had narrowed the moment he’d heard his brother’s first pained noise: a low, deep keening against your neck.

And you had feared, not without reason, that Savage could have killed you then and there. Could’ve used the Force to shake the life off you and thrown you against the wall like an abused ragdoll. You’d watched both of the brothers and knew them capable of that and worse… but for Maul’s second pained noise: a ragged, impossible please against your lips. You had not cared for death in that second, forgotten in the heady realization of what your patient needed, of the whole, absurd, delicious horror of it. Your responsibility to him, your fear of and desire for him, his furious brother watching…

Let him watch, you decided recklessly.

You’d kissed Maul then, after a furtive whisper on the erogenous quality of mouths and he had responded so immediately, so hungrily that you had forgotten about anything else. You had kissed him and he’d almost made you come solely with his mouth on yours, just through his single-focused, aggressive pursuit of the taste of your pleasure, thick in your mouth, gums and tongue.

Savage had not killed you that day, but he had insisted on talking to his brother afterwards. He, so often conciliatory and willing to let things go, had argued with a Maul still half swimming in the hitherto undiscovered waters of sexual desire, that there were things he needed to learn. It had almost been a fight like the one they’d had about zabrak horns and oil and overbathing. Maul being so used to dry, flakey skin and the certainty that if it had been important, Darth Sidious would have informed him, had refused to change his grooming habits for months.

This time Savage insisted.

“It’s just the pheromones,” he’d said to his brother. “Get rid of her.”

There were things said between them about the Nightsisters, about Nightbrothers that disappeared, with a grin instead of a grimace, things that sounded to Maul like superstitious bantha shit. You were not a Nightsister and he was a sith lord. He was in danger of nothing except perhaps getting distracted from his goals. He’d conceded that to Savage and had managed to keep away from you for a whole month, via sheer ornery pride.

It was your apology that got his attention that second time. He had stubbornly relegated you to background noise since the first incident. Haughtily ignored your anxious looks the way he had ignored every distraction Sidious had ever sent his way, pleased that it worked to mollify Savage as much as it had ever worked with his master. The dull ache of your work on his cybernetics was as easily dismissed as your stony silence while he talked to the other leaders of the Shadow Collective. When you had spoken up before he had cowed you into silence and, furious and tight-lipped, you had not repeated your mistake often. 

“My lord,” you had said, choking on the honorific in a way you had not before you’d know the taste of Maul’s tongue. “This will hurt.”

He had clenched his teeth at your intrusion, attempted to overlook its impertinence and then been caught entirely unawares by your firm determination to be acknowledged.

“I’m sorry,” you had said, looking to meet his eyes, venom gone from your look and replaced with the half-fearful, half-softened gaze that had haunted his few moments of peace ever since you’d touched each other that day. You had worked unobtrusively before, as quick and thorough as you could and here you were, trying to get a go-ahead he had never required of you before. “Brace yourself.”

It was tiresome. It was unnecessary. He had known it was coming and had dismissed it, any recalibration of his cybernetics’ digestive aid always created a feedback loop not unlike quick but unrelenting bursts of abdominal cramps. He would have done it himself with help from Savage, but his brother was away, dealing with an upstart Hutt rebellion and he’d had no time to spare for shutting down individual systems so he could bear the agony while working on the whole thing. It was easier to channel that pain towards cowing unruly underlings. Intimidation did not require the razor sharp focus of mechanical work.

Except now. Now he was uncomfortably aware of the careful, slow quality of your work, of your hands where he couldn’t feel them. The cramps lasted a second and then you proceeded. Now, he was annoyingly, half-attentive at all times of what you were doing, figuring out what you were turning off and bypassing at every turn to make sure to keep the pain at a minimum while working… wondering when you would actually touch him.

It was maddening, a karking waste of time.

He’d hissed at you to get on with it, nevermind the cramps, but still been unable to regain focus on the strategy at hand. He’d been forced to dismiss everyone with a snarl, and stared you down, afraid again, unsure again, but still holding his gaze.

Get to work, he’d meant to snap at you.

Stop staring at me, would have worked as well.

Instead, he’d let the small, childish voice inside him, always wary, always ready to fear the worse, but still indomitably willing to risk punishment for the taste of something sweet, request what he hadn’t even known he wanted a moment ago.

“Touch my back.”

Again.

No, not a request, a desperate wail that came out like an order growled through gritted teeth.

You’d let out a breath you hadn’t meant to hold and Maul was inundated by the overpowering stench of your desire, his mouth watering at the thought. Immediately, it conjured phantom sensations, reminding Maul of his own, of the furtive times of his apprenticeship when he’d been terrified and young and burning so badly he’d risked touching himself just to keep desire at bay. Savage had said something about manhood and Nightsister rituals and Maul being lucky to have forgotten what prickling, overwhelming, unquenchable need felt like before he’d met a woman who could use it against him. To have had that safely amputated with his legs and all the rest, stolen from him, put away where he couldn’t reach it.

Maul didn’t feel lucky. He didn’t feel safe or as serenely removed from his own furious, adolescent loneliness as he had before. He felt adrift like he had then, desperate, ready to force you to touch him if you would not do it willingly. But when you capitulated it didn’t feel like that either.

It was worse.

He’d let out a shameful, agonized cry, nearly a sob, because your hands on his back were gentle, were careful, were good. No one ever touched him there, in the center of his back, a place he seldom reached for, which seldom required maintenance or thought. And now it was alive under your hands, sweet stars, under your lips which had immediately, no hesitation, sought out his burning skin and he could almost remember what it had been like to climax, unexpectedly, horrifically and absolutely unprepared for it, when he had been young and angry and unaware of what he had. Except he had been alone then and you were here now, your lips pressed to the place where his shoulder blades met, your hands holding his throat so tenderly it hurt, your own panting frantic because you wanted him and he knew it, just like Savage had said (warned) he would. And he had no control of it, just wanting and wanting and hunger, and surely, surely that was enough, that was sithly, because it did taste like the Dark Side, tacky and thick and slow like burnt molasses, when he turned on you and pinned you down so he could rut in between your legs, grinding a sensationless codpiece against the juncture of your thighs, so deeply frustrated the Force crushed the door of the meeting room to echo him.

You held him against it, did not let him lose the thread of this impossible, horrible desire, as you struggled out of your work jumpsuit, wrapped your legs and arms around him and whispered soft, filthy encouragement in his ear. 

“Please oh, please, please, please,” you’d said so quietly he felt it more than heard it, your warm, humid breath making him shudder. He hadn’t known how much he would need your eager, ready submission. How good it would feel to hear you acquiesce, hear you surrender, hear you beg. “I can’t,” you’d stuttered, as much at a loss as he. “I’m so wet for you, please, talk to me, I’m so close, talk to me and make me come.”

That he could feel, not against the gaping absence where his genitals had been once, but desperately snaking a hand between your bodies, your wetness soaking through the leather of his gloves, nostrils suddenly flooded with the stinging, musky aroma of your sopping sex. He would have dived between your legs, would have devoured the source of his distraction, gotten rid of this shameful weakness and run you throw with his lightsaber for good measure, but you held him and all he could do was obey your sweet, keening moans, as gone as he, your own nipples fervently pressing against his chest, your mouth warm and soft against the tender skin behind his ear, your nails scratching that terrible, wonderful spot at the center of his back. And he was rutting against you again, grinding and almost feeling it, whispering his own fervent filth, because it helped coalesce the stabs of want, just like you said it would, diffused as they were all over the remains of his body. It helped to tell you he was your lord and master and have you desperately agree. It helped to hold you down as he was pumping his codpiece against your wet, eager core, to squeeze your throat and tell you, nothing explicit because he knew so little of it, but what he wanted of you, what he felt you were doing to him, return it a thousandfold because you deserved it, for teaching him to want this, to need it, to cling to it like he had clinged to life and breath when he was a child and Sidious was killing him slowly.

“I’m going to ruin you,” he’d growled at your throat, a promise of payback, a threat. And you were coming and he was hearing you come and he could almost feel it himself, dizzy and bright painful white like combat meditation. He didn’t know if it had been like that before Lotho Minor, before Naboo, before Kenobi, but it was like this now and he was swimming in the white, hot-searing nothingness of it, of your moans, of your smell and your wetness and you were his, his, his, like his lightsaber, like his destiny, like Savage and it was a freefall, as terrifying a freefall as any possession had ever been for Maul, something to cherish always becoming something you could lose.

[irenadel]

Small Graces

Mitzi x Mordecai The animated short took over my brain and re-ignited the hots I have for Mordecai. Filthy porn ahead, beware. I'm not brave enough to make this furry. Everyone is a human here. Pre-canon. Lackadaisy glory days when Atlas was still alive. Some mild spoilers for the last couple of comics, so read at your own risk.

Part I

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Unprofessionalism notwithstanding, Mordecai abhorred falling asleep in his clothes. It was liable to wrinkle them and require his pants be sent to the dry cleaners yet again this week. At least someone (he earnestly hoped it had been himself, he shuddered at the thought of strange hands touching his feet) had had the sense to take his shoes off and neatly drape his bloodied jacket and vest over one of the apartment’s plush chairs.

And there was the small matter of keeping a lookout for anyone seeking revenge for the recent bloodshed on his boss’s estranged wife.

He supposed it had been the steady ticking of the clock which had lulled him into sleep. On difficult nights he always slept with a pocket watch close to his ear… But his was most certainly still securely tucked into the pocket of his vest, and he didn’t see a clock anywhere in Mrs. May’s Bohemian though, he begrudgingly accepted, tidy bedroom. It wasn’t a clock. Ah. The high sweet keys of a piano emerged from his cottony, still half-unconscious perception (it had been a lot of blood loss, he wouldn’t have volunteered for lookout duty if Viktor hadn’t been in a sorrier state than he was). A metronome. He should have known, though somehow hadn’t expected it from Mrs. May’s self-admittedly hodgepodge musical education.

There’d been a man in the tenement building Mordecai grew up in who had fixed and tuned pianos for a living. Sometimes when he was working, he would use the metronome for some unknowable purpose. Mordecai had always liked the sound.

He let it draw him out of sleep now. Let it provide him with an excuse not to bother, or be bothered, by the lady of the house. It was still dark out, still dangerous, though the hint of a slowly graying sky promised him a ready reprieve. Soon he could be back home, change into fresh clothes, and never have to think about having had to intrude into a married woman’s private chambers. Nevermind that this married woman should have been in her husband’s home, not in some dingy apartment where Mordecai had to keep a lookout for her. He couldn’t pretend to understand what happened in a normal marriage, let alone one with any sort of turbulence to it.

The steady tick of the metronome, the accompanying slow, high notes of the piano let him tune out the distracting reality of the room, let him focus on his post at the window. He would not think of the confounding Mrs. Atlas May. He would not think of her vanity behind him, or the brush disgustingly full as he supposed it was with human hair. The whiff of perfume and cosmetics. The slept in unmade bed or any dirty clothes that–

But the bed was made. It had not been so when he arrived, when he’d woken up its occupant in the middle of the night. And someone had cleaned her vanity, down to putting her brush and combs away… The same someone who had draped his bloodied clothes upon the back of a chair, maybe taken his shoes off when he had curled up in the window sill… the same person who could have fallen asleep again but had chosen to stay up and occupy herself with something outside the bedroom, giving him space…

He’d known Mrs. May a long time. He’d known she was smarter than she let on, more perceptive… He hadn’t realized she was also kind.

“Would you like some coffee, sweetheart?”

He’d nearly jumped out of his skin, had certainly scrambled off his perch in the window sill. He hadn’t heard the piano stop because the metronome was still going.

“Thank you, Mrs. May, but not presentl–”

He’d turned to at least acknowledge her presence and was jarred into full alertness by the sight of Atlas May’s wife in nothing more than a nightgown and a robe. He averted his gaze immediately, brushing past her on his way out the door, unable to keep from shuddering at the extraneous, unexpected contact.

“I’ll just give you a minute.”

He fled into her little parlor for safety, finding himself drawn to the still ticking metronome. A good enough excuse to keep his back to her and allow her the grace of an inconspicuous exit.

“Sugar, you can give me ten or twenty minutes,” she drawled, still leaning on her bedroom’s door frame. “I’m still not putting on any clothes before the sun is out. You’ll just have to make your peace with it, honey.”

She gave him no time for further discomfort, sitting herself back down on the piano’s bench and resuming her practice. He was frozen in place, unable and unwilling to cede her the territory she had just gained. He should go back to his post at the window, pretend none of this had taken place and hope it would not be mentioned to any of their mutual acquaintances.

She didn’t play the same high, melancholy melody as before, but a set of scales. Somehow, that was better. Somehow, the repetitive, rising and decreasing nature of it soothed him. He wouldn’t look at her but still he felt some of the tension ease from his shoulders and found himself suddenly aware of how exhausted he was. It had been a long night.

“You can sit down, sweetheart, you don’t have to stand at attention”

He glared at her, not dignifying her comment with an answer but still not finding in himself the energy to move back to the window.

“… if it makes you so miserable, I can dispense with the babysitter, Mordecai.”

He tried not to roll his eyes at her. “Mrs. May, your husband made it clear—“

The piano stopped with a sudden, dissonant twang. “What my husband wants is no longer my concern.”

The venom in her voice embarrassed him. This whole situation was simply intolerable. He wanted to cringe back from it and suddenly the thought that all her small kindnesses, her attire and her proximity may have been an attempt to involve him in some kind of petty revenge against Atlas… it was too much. Spite could be so tiresome.

“How ever much I appreciate your courtesy Mrs. May, I wish to play no part in your marital strife.”

She stared at him, half dumbfounded, half immeasurably wounded. He was not prone to sentimentality but somehow her big green eyes (beautiful, he’d often heard the boss comment what beautiful eyes his wife had, personally he was indifferent to them) made him fidget.

“Mordecai sweetheart,” she said tiredly, closing the piano’s fallboard over the keys. “I know it must be hard to understand, but not everything a married woman does is about her husband.”

There was a certain exhausted defiance in the way she looked at him that made him uncomfortable. His mother had looked like that at times after his father had passed away. It made his cheeks burn with a guilty sort of flush.

Atlas is still alive, he wanted to say, don’t look at me like that, Mrs. May.

But he said nothing, just returned her tired gaze with a bewildered one of his own and watched her silently give up. She made to get up from the piano, one hand reaching for the metronome to stop its steady ticking and he panicked. He didn’t want her to go back to her bedroom, disrobe even further and sleep in the bed he would have to be near if he went back to his lookout spot. Out of options to detain her further, he did the one thing he could think of: he acquiesced to her request and sat down on the bench beside her.

There was a certain satisfaction in seeing those usually languid, knowing eyes widen in surprise, and his stomach did a flip at the hint of a smile dancing on Mrs. May’s unmade but still very rosy lips. She flipped the fallboard back back up and started her scales again. Mordecai let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

Up close, she didn’t smell like cosmetics as she usually would have, no slight sheen of sweat as he had always known her to have, from her exertions on the stage or the dance floor. Had she bathed too, while he slept? For his benefit? He forced himself not to squirm on the bench, suddenly aware of the bare, warm flesh beneath her thin nightgown and robe. He should not have sat down. For all her skimpy costumes back in her stage days, Mordecai had never personally been so close to a woman in such a state of undress. It made him nauseous, made his skin itch, made him…

She’d stopped playing.

“Mordecai honey,” she said tentatively. “Do you need a minute?”

For a second he didn’t understand what she meant. Then he became aware of the rapidly forming bulge beneath his silk pants.

He clambered off the bench, against the piano’s keys, their frantic, offkey protest mirroring his own frantic, strenuous desire to flee. He would have, if she had tried to touch him, would have ran if Mrs. May hadn’t left her seat on the bench and taken a slow, deliberate step back.

“Darling, it’s alright,” she’d said softly, so kindly it made him even more anxious. He wanted to blame her for this. Her and her uncharacteristic concessions to his innumerable peculiarities, so often points of contention or mockery. He wondered if she had planned this. Would have found it easier to retreat in a fury if she had. He wondered how she could have undone him so thoroughly, how she could’ve known, as she seemed to have guessed everything else, that nothing but the scent of her clean skin and talcum (no perfume, no artifice) could have left him in this dizzy, pitiful state of arousal…

But she didn’t seem to know what to do anymore than he did.

He could see her make up her mind in real time. Felt his whole body thrum with anticipation the moment she stepped into his space. It must be the blood loss or the drugs still swimming in his veins that kept him frozen in place. He must still be under the influence, woozy from adrenaline, or he would have never allowed this, never considered this. Would have never let her get so close. So close he could feel the heat of her body beneath her nightgown. So close he marveled that it was not enough.

“Mrs. May—“

“Honey, if you call me ‘Mrs. May’ again while we’re doing this, I’ll scream.”

She didn’t scream though. And for a short, panicky second Mordecai was afraid she would try to kiss him. Mrs. Ma– Mitzi did not. Did she know he could not stand it if she tried to kiss him? Even when she threw one arm around his neck, running her nails up his scalp in a way that made him forget about propriety, promises or even the wrinkles sure to form on his pants, all she did was lay her forehead against his while he panted madly, waiting, hoping, aching… Her other hand found the front buttons below his belt, deftly undoing them before snaking inside. Did she know he could not take anything else? All the secret, lewd things he’d heard others whisper about, the ones that had seemed too full of fluids and other people’s filth, the ones he’d scoffed at  (wondered at)... did she know this was the only one he could stand? He looked at her pleadingly, not recognizing himself, so desperate he was almost ready to tell her she could try to put her lips on him, anything, anything at all to quench this needy, wanton fire on his skin.

Her hand was enough. Wrapping around his penis, firmly, hotly pulling at him. He’d only done this to himself a couple of times during the first desperate pangs of adolescence. It shouldn’t have surprised him how much better it would feel when someone else did it for him. It shouldn’t have surprised him how much more skilled she was at it. He was mortified at the whimper that escaped him, his glasses fogging with a sweat he suddenly could not care less about. Her eyes were half-lidded, her lips almost a smile, as she stroked him again and again, good God, to the rhythm of the metronome.

“Mitzi,” he keened desperately and heard her throaty, low chuckle before he saw the first real smile he had seen all evening break out on her face.

She must know, surely she must know how good it was, how crazy it drove him to have this done to him properly. He bared his teeth, letting his head hang back, keeping his hips still out of sheer stubbornness. He would not interrupt her blissfully rhythmic strokes. He’d surrendered any protests he could have. She knew better, knew him better than he knew himself. Knew he would prefer the chaffing to any improvised lubrication. Knew the only kind he could allow was what she could gather from the weeping tip of his erection, with her sharp little nails, running down his length again and again, again and again, all to the steady ticking of the metronome behind him. He was swimming in that even, predictable tick, tick, tick. Swimming in the heat at the pit of his stomach, in the sweet smell of her skin and her lady’s talcum, mysterious and alien and clean. Balls tight, nipples tingling, his skin so hot and needy he felt it would crawl off him any minute now, any second…

“Mordecai sweetheart,” he heard her one more time, searing lips against his neck. “Come for me.”

He hadn’t known the words would make a difference. They did. He screwed his eyes shut, hands braced against the piano and felt his balls empty themselves in her hand, his hips lost at last, pumping of their own accord against her. He, for once in his life, utterly heedless of the mess he was making, while choking on her name, Mitzi, Mitzi, Mitzi, like a prayer.

When he came back to himself, Mordecai realized she was panting against his throat too, her other hand still firmly cradling his neck, whole body draped across his own heaving one. The wound on his shoulder throbbed dully, and for a moment he was at a loss before this overwhelming, bounteous humanity in the form of Mitzi May, still in her nightgown, one hand covered in the shameful, evidence of his transgression. For a moment he felt like he could heave.

He felt like a fool when she used her clean hand to extricate a handkerchief from somewhere – the lady in her had thought of the handkerchief, the ballroom bawd had thought to stock it even into her undergarments – and used it to clean him up so thoroughly and expertly he was left dumbfounded. Deeply, heartbreakingly grateful. Almost ashamed of his brief, furtive revulsion.

“Thank you,” he managed, pathetically sincere.

Mitzi smiled at him again, something watery hiding behind her large doe eyes, which he could, at last, admit were beautiful beyond measure.

“Thank you,” she countered. “I needed that.”

Mordecai didn’t know if it was the haze of orgasm, danger or gratitude, but he touched her of his own accord then. He reached for her face and felt nauseously delighted when she leaned into his hand. He did not know if he would ever understand his sex’s fascination with beautiful women… but he understood this much. He felt reckless with the knowledge, almost drunk on it. He felt generous but afraid, suddenly, that whatever this was, would evaporate as morning dew…

When Mitzi made to go dispose of her soiled handkerchief he grabbed her wrist with sudden, forceful intent. It felt delicate, birdlike under his hands, capable as they were, of such brutality. He felt a thrill in that new awareness of her fragility, compounded by her still racing pulse and the lingering warmth of their exertions on the thin skin stretched over her veins. Reckless, heedless of consequences or even his own inclinations, he pulled her closer grabbing two ample handfuls of her hips and buttocks. He risked his forehead against her stomach and was exhilarated both at his persistent desire to touch her and her clean, handkerchief-free hand on his hair, carding fingers through the mess they had made of it. Together.

“Take a bath,” he’d risked the order, looking up at her from his seat on the piano’s edge. He was glad she bit her full unpainted lip, seemingly pleased, instead of cutting him down with a condescending “sweetie” or an icy glare. His heart was hammering at his daring. “I’ll meet you in your bed.” 

[irenadel]

The First Part of All my Joy

I need some motivation to work on the second part of this, everything is the same but slap some fangs and vampiric shit on the supes, there's a lot of gore here, smutty gore, you have been warned.

This is for @blindmagdalena because who else would be responsible for this really?

Part I

Homelander, the world’s best-kept, bloodiest secret, would only feed on the evildoer, he had told you when you had begun allowing those sharp teeth near your body. Your relationship, he had made clear, would therefore remain wholly within the limits of human capacity, in spite of any vampiric fantasies you might have entertained. Just as the criminals and scum of this world, you were here to serve a purpose. They, food; you, company.

It had surprised you once you learned more about the etiquette of his kind, that he would bother with company at all. Strange that despite his terrifying power, he would still engage in sex… with you. The others you had met, in fleeting, brief glimpses, were either much more deceptively human or so removed from mortality that they could not comprehend you in any terms but those of blood. Herd, they called you, never directly addressing you, always when talking about you to Homelander, even when you were in the room with them, ghoul, vessel… thing.

And sometimes he did make you feel like a thing, when he laid you on the bed he never slept in and bid you be still, just let him smell you, let him touch you, don’t even think of moving. Ignoring, the way he always did, your trembling and the rancid smell of your fear the moment he pressed his open mouth to your neck or thighs, so close to your carotid artery that you were sure some night he would be the end of you. On those occasions, you felt almost ashamed whenever you came, knowing how inconsequential your orgasm was for him. He never begrudged it, but he also never acknowledged it.

Sometimes though, when he came inside you, one hand at your throat to keep you from moving, you seemed to be not a thing to him, but someone else. Please, he would say to you and not to you, one more, I’ll be good. Often, you wondered who that was…

The more you grew to know him, the more you began to suspect that it was not merely that he preferred to eat only what he meant to kill, but that he could not help killing it. You began to see certain things in a different light: his refusal to put his mouth on your sex no matter how close to it he would get or his insistence that you not be allowed anywhere near Vought Tower when you were on your period or had an open wound. But most tellingly, how whenever Homelander kissed you, it was always clear, in the hostility of his passion, the overwhelming assault of his tongue and lips, that this was the next best thing to devouring you.

You had known it to be true the day you entered his room unannounced only to slip on a puddle of his latest meal. It was the salty-bitter scent of your hysterical tears which had saved you then, rising above the coppery mess you had fallen in and stopping him dead in his tracks, hand already fisting your hair, gaping maw already poised above your rapidly pulsing jugular. The hand had stayed and so had his legs straddling your waist, but he had risen upright as soon as he could, putting as much distance between his blood-splattered mouth and your own thin flesh. He’d proceeded to masturbate furiously over you and had known he would never find anybody like you again, because through your crying, through your terror, he had been inundated with the unmistakable stench of your arousal. He’d come, harder than he ever had before, with your eyes fixed on his pleasure-wracked face, your sweet pink tongue licking your own lips.

You’d never asked about the poor devil you’d both been covered in that day, but he’d ventured some of the truth then and the rest you had guessed. This was why he had intimacy with no other of his kind, because so few could withstand him. This was why he engaged in human sex… with you, someone who would not embarrass him with her accidental death, someone who would not be missed…

Inevitable then, that in your fervor and his ever-slipping hold on you, you had come to cut your tongue on one of those sharp canines you loved so much. After all, he was so often in control of you when you were together, and even more often, in control of nothing else. It wasn’t even a slight prick, but a full-on bleeding gash which made Homelander moan piteously into your mouth, made his hands wrap so much more forcefully around your arms that for an instant you foresaw and accepted your death.

He had managed to stop himself, half-way to sucking on your wounded tongue, erection pressed so close to the juncture of your thighs that you could feel your pussy contracting at its absence, his eyes glowing a dull, gorey red against your closed eyelids… you breathed desperately the moment he let you go, watching with sympathy the heaving of his own chest as he pulled back from you.

“I can’t,” he’d said and added, almost as if convincing himself. “I shouldn’t.”

There was a desperate, old wound in his glowing eyes, in the way they could not move away from your blood smeared lips. You could not know about Madelyn, or the way your pulse thundered in his ears, how covetously aware he was of the pulpy contraction of your lungs and how easily his hands could get to them, bring them to his greedy, starving lips. He’d learned long ago, the harsh lesson of limited supply: that once he had consumed you, there would be no more of you left to enjoy. And it was then and there that Homelander accepted he could not abide that. He wiped the blood off his mouth, still panting, undone for once. 

And you, fragile and weak as you were, reached towards him then, foolish hands trying to cup his face only for him to step back from them.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

But you didn't listen this time. You slipped one finger in your mouth and brought the pinkish saliva coating it to his lips. He groaned at the contact. Eyes rolling back in pleasure at the first taste of your diluted blood, his own hands reaching for yours, ready to keep them near his mouth, his teeth.

“Stop,” you said, perhaps not as firmly as you should and the miracle was that he did, glowing eyes snapping open. For a moment you held each other’s gaze and unaware as you were of the innumerable battles raging within him. That he had been here before. That he despised you, small, petty creatures that you were. That he scorned this weakness in him, this lack of control and this… dependence on you. Because you were nothing to Homelander, nothing, just a human, just a little ghoul of a girl, sniffing after power, sniffing after horror you could not possibly comprehend. Nothing… except that he wanted you with the howling force of every unfulfilled need in his long, unhappy life…

“I can’t,” he repeated, hating how it came out as a plea, hating how you looked at him knowingly, sympathetically, aware as you were of his shame… that he can’t stop once he starts…

“You already did,” you said sweetly, voice gaining confidence as you watched him come to the realization himself. “I’m still here… I’m okay… I know you can do it again.”

There was a heavy pause. The tender new thing between the both of you, almost stillborn. 

“For me.”

At your words, he snapped to attention like a bloodhound to the hunt. You wondered if he was considering what you’d said… or preparing to launch himself at you. The venom in his boyish blue eyes and the furious tension of his jaw, of his clenched teeth, made your guts turn to ice. But he nodded, quick and furtive, and you knew suddenly, there was no turning back now.

[irenadel]

The First Part of all my Joy

This should be the second and final part of this. Same warnings: smut, blood, gore. Bits of people lying around. Vought being generally horrible. I may do another fic and properly crossover this shit with World of Darkness, but for the time being this should be it. Once more, I blame @blindmagdalena for everything. This belongs to her and she should take responsibility for it and take it on walks and feed it fresh blood.

Part I

Part II

The bowels of Vought Tower were pitch dark, but Homelander did not bother with turning on lights he did not need. Even still, he could see how you looked away from the faint outline of the heavy, locked doors dotting the walls, refusing to look into their small, clinical windows. Your eyes were sharp for a human, but he tugs at your hand, your fingers numb from the sheer strength of his grip. He’d not have you distracted by those cocksucking leeches in there. You would be needing your wits about you now that he’d made his choice.

He’d been constantly reminded of Soldier Boy ever since his uneasy alliance with the humans had begun. From them it had come as a hopeful tale and from his people, as a cautionary one. Pathetic, some had whispered about him. Too enamored with his food, others had said. Too hungry for their praise and not hungry enough for their lives. It was to be expected, he would get dirtied like his sire, if he chose to continue wallowing in the mud. But they never said it within earshot. At least not for long…

He had taken the warning to heart, even if the others thought him a fool. He had looked into the fate of his maker and he had to hand it to them… If the humans were useless at everything else, then they had at least found better ways to restrain his kind, than mere words. (No matter how sweet your words had tasted to him.) Vought had said soviets. They had claimed they would never, but one thing Homelander had known about humans even before he had begun to be so closely associated with them is that they would ALWAYS.

He’d made you go into the room first, cavernously dark and blanketed in dust as it was. A part of him wanted you to see what you had asked of him, wanted you to know he understood. You humans would never be content without abasing your betters… this was proof…

The chair that had held Soldier Boy was bolted to the floor and Homelander was almost sure he’d have to make a concerted effort to tear it off the floor. Same with the straps on it. With one huff from the canisters of gas he had taken from the lab, maybe he could begin to understand why and how his sire had never made it back across the Atlantic. He heard you swallow dryly, felt the sweet spike of your pulse and had to remind himself to be gentle when he grabbed the bird-like bones of your jaw to turn your head up to him. He could crush your tearful face in his hands, like a ripe melon, knew he should, but could do nothing but look at your moist, deceitful eyes and hate you silently.

“I don’t want to hurt you–”

He cut you off with the painful pressure of his hands on your face and a raised lip that was too much like a snarl for you not to freeze at the hint of white canines it revealed.

“You fucking do, sweetheart,” he whispered against your hair, enjoying your choked sob, tried not to sound too bitter himself. “But it’s alrighty. It’s all okey-dokey, my sweet girl. I fucking want you to.”

And though you lowered your gaze, unable to look him in the eye, you did as you had agreed. You strapped him on the chair, weeping still, but stinking so much of arousal and fear that Homelander felt light-headed with desire. It was with the last strap in place that he felt the weight of the room shift.

“Lift your hips,” you ventured, quickly, almost like you were afraid of your own power, wiping at your beautiful, flushed face but still he felt the order course through his veins like poison, to the tip of each finger, making him feel almost alive. He didn’t obey though, waited, shoulders heaving and mouth open like he still needed to breathe, waited to see what you would do.

You didn’t disappoint.

One knee besides each one of his thighs, eyes fixed on his own, no longer blue, but blown out rings of black bordered by glowing red, you janked his belt open and his pants down to his knees. His outraged lounge for your face was stopped only by the metal strap around his neck. Still, it groaned dangerously, Homelander straining against it.

You both panted, staring at each other, and he watched you lick your lips nervously with all the fixed-eyed intensity of a hunting cat.

“Don’t even think of moving,” you said, and he gnashed his teeth at his own words thrown back at him, like he could grind them to a pulp beneath teeth grown suddenly sharper with rage. Though your voice trembled, your hands did not, firm against his stomach, so tantalizingly close to where he needed them that his muscles quivered in anticipation. Moist eyes and dried lips, your face a mess of emotions, still you knew exactly what you needed to say. “Just let me touch you, just let me smell you, just be a sweet boy for me.”

The sound that escaped his lips was so broken and desperate, he would have been ashamed if he didn’t want it so fucking much. His hips did lift on their own then, forcing your hand against the swell of his straining erection and through the haze of need he was glad to hear you gasp. He was glad to sense the pulsing heat between your own legs, to catch the scent of you, sweet like the blood of strangers just wasn’t anymore. Sweet and addictive and deadly.

“Tell me what you want,” you commanded again, voice grown firmer, hand reaching for his neck, a mirror of his own just moments ago. And he fought it, like he’d fought every command he’d ever received, like he’d rather tear himself to pieces against barbed wire instead of just letting someone else take it off, Soldier Boy had said to him, years ago, in another lifetime.

But it was just so much harder to fight your loving voice, the feeble pulse of your gentle human heart, your cloying sour-sweet perspiration, than it had ever been to fight anything else, even his own kind.

He strained against the metal around his neck, your lips so close to his he could almost taste them, could almost gnash at them and consume them, along with your tongue and teeth and gums. But you didn’t move and he couldn’t.

“You know what I want,” he threatened, his voice rumbling so much lower that it echoed in this god-forsaken cell of a room. Inhuman, monstrous, so powerful it made your knees week and your innards turn to ice. But you stood your ground.

“I don’t know it, sweet boy,” you responded breathlessly, hands caressing up, up his neck towards his face, thumbs gently, dangerously rubbing at his curled-back lips, at his gritted fangs. Taunting him, daring him to do what he had been dying to do since the first moment he ever laid eyes on you. “I don’t know it until you tell me.”

He whimpered at your hand traveling downwards to wrap around his cock, head lolling sideways, desperate perhaps to hide how much he had needed this, how much more of you he still did. What would the others say if they could see him now? Desperate, shuddering mess that he was. That he was pathetic. That he was weak. That, at last, he had been brought low by his love of humanity’s adoration.  The crowd’s. Yours. He bit at his own lip to keep the plea – the fucking plea that should have been a demand, an offering you should have laid at his feet long ago – from his traitorous mouth. Love me, he wanted to say, love me please. Love me like the others had not. Love me and set me free from this fear.

But he could not.

“Feed me,” he admitted at last, wanting it to sound like a threat but shamefully – wonderfully, deliciously – having it come out like prayer.

In your mercy, you granted it.

He saw the fear of pain in your eyes when you reached for the razorblade. The fear of himself. Good, he thought viciously, as you should. In that infinite, frozen moment, eyes fixed on each other, he wished he could desire something different for you. But all he could think of was the dirty steel aroma of your razor blade sweetly intermingling with the glorious copper of your blood, the muscle encased bird-bones of your hands that he wished he could crack open and suck the marrow from.

The first drop hit his lips from above, like divine rain. He could never make you understand how the human orgasm would pale in comparison to the intimacy of knowing your blood and flesh. Could never explain that it was this knowledge making him fight against his restraints, making the thick metal around his arms and legs and shoulders groan cavernously, like a wounded beast. That if he could just bite down on your hand and dig into your flesh,  burrow within you, he could know you at last. Know your love for him.

He was almost indifferent to you impaling your sweet cunt on him, but you slipped so dangerously close to his mouth he was orgasmically triumphant for a second, the strength of your thighs around him nothing that could ever stop him. But you made a sound again, a moan that sounded suspiciously like his name, and he could almost feel the beast inside him recoiling, snapping to attention. Your blood suddenly tasted to him like endorphins and adrenaline and your own ecstatic pleasure and he was gone.

He was pumping up with hips barely able to move against the straps that held him, but you were grinding down and it was almost enough then and there. The blood and the sex, the weak, shameful human intercourse that made you keen so sweetly, that made his traitorous body respond to yours, wanting both to consume you and be consumed by you.

So he could let you do this, he thought desperately. He could let you fuck yourself against him, let you use him like a fucking toy. Let you feed him from your hand, your blood smeared on his mouth. Could let you get as close to destruction as anyone ever had with him and then let you live.

“Back,” he cried out, hips chasing after the poor facsimile of pleasure that orgasm could give him, because if that was all he could have after the white-hot burn of your blood, he would fucking TAKE IT. “Get the fuck back.”

And though you did, obeying him through the haze of your own impending climax, still your blood soaked hand remained on his face, so near his mouth he fought to reach it. Gentle, he almost heard from you, echoing commands Madelyn had given him, so long ago he wished he had forgotten. Commands that had gone unheeded, commands he had rent apart as he had rent her apart. He could not take it if he had to apologize to the pieces of you as well.

But you didn’t speak and that saved you. Sense of self-preservation lost to pleasure, all you could do was shout as you came, so loudly he was sure the other cocksuckers in their cages could hear your sweet screams. And he was coming too, right after you, lost in the ecstasy of your blood and the smell of your wetness and his cum and the metal that held him suddenly cracking against his overpowering need to crush you to him. Hold you and drown himself in the crook of your neck while he pumped himself empty into the vice-like grip of your pussy.

But not kill your, not you, never you.

Because even if you hadn’t said it, still he knew it now, the blood in your veins sang it for him, the oxygen caged in the latticework of your trachea swore it, the meaty thump of each heartbeat proclaimed it. You DID love him. Loved him so much the threat of annihilation held no power over you.

He held you until his heart stopped thundering in his ears, too captivated by its sheer living quality to hear any of your words. You had tried to get up to clean the wound on your hand and the greedy, ever-hungry beast inside him had held you fast.

“Saliva,” he had rumbled, still too drunk on blood and sex to be coherent about it. He’d had to explain he could close your wound by licking it and admit neither you nor him trusted him enough to do so. In the end spitting on the wound had to be enough. But he found himself amazed at your reckless generosity when you offered your now healed hand to his mouth.

“You can clean the blood up,” you said almost timidly. “But be careful.”

He stared at your anxious face and took the offered morsel almost furtively, half-afraid you’d change your mind. He licked each digit so thoroughly clean, only to then wipe the remaining blood smearing his mouth with his own fingers and licking those clean as well, that you understood this would not be a common occurrence.

“You’ve been so good,” you said, trying to sound reassuring, glad at your attempt when you saw the stupid, earnest nod he gave you. You burrowed into his arms, struggling not to look at the wreckage of the chair that had been meant to hold him.  “What are we going to do now?”

[irenadel]

Just started adding my fics to my Ao3 profile in case anyone's interested. I'm gonna be adding the RP and maybe the Homelander asks at some point. XD Don't hold your breath cause I'm trying to give them a once over before I do that so it might take a while.

I'm Irenadel at Ao3 too. I'll add it to the MasterPost.

[irenadel]

And if the devil... 6/10

Making a banner for this finally for the grand finale coming soon. Excuse to rb. Credit for the Aemond screencap goes to the wonderful Liv @barbieaemond Smut, Aemond x Maid!Reader

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10

Aemond had asked in the dark of the cave still, only to get his answer under the bright, open sky. He’d asked against the damp skin of your neck, still hungry for you, for your history as much as your body.

“Your braid… what victory does it stand for?”

And it pleases him to see how pleased you are, that he had gone looking for the knowledge to ask his question. Asked Grand Maester Mellos and been directed to an old dusty tome he’d found less than useful and then to an old, equally ramshackled sea captain who had told him enough stories of the Dothraki that he had known half of them must be outrageous lies.

But this one he had cherished. This one he had asked again, after rescuing you from a reprimand by the keep steward, for your untimely disappearance. He’d asked it in the wind of the sea cliffs again, because he’d seen it whip your pale, yellow braid behind you, stark like his own Valyrian white hair was stark, against the Targaryen black coat and trousers he had lent you for the occasion.

“I will show you khalakka,” you had said with that laughter he wishes never to stop hearing, as he’d urged you back on Vhagar. “Take me to the sky.”

And there you had shown him, counting the spikes on Vhagar’s neck as you had counted each step when climbing the rigging of a ship, so you would know your way back in spite of your poor eyesight. A braid because you had ridden the poison water, and led your little khalasar to safety. All eleven cousins and aunt and cranky, useless old uncle, safely delivered to their family across the Narrow Sea.

And he had shouted back at you, foolish, beautiful girl. Bold enough to get off a dragon’s saddle and climb her up and down like a sailing vessel. He’d watched your stance low, your knees following the rhythmic, oceanic flow of Vhagar’s powerful back, the way you had learnt to jump atop a horse’s back, atop a ship’s fore yard. Always sent aloft because you had never been afraid of heights you could not see. His own coat whipping behind you as you looked back at him, daring him to leave his post at the wheel of his great beast and come pursue you among the clouds.

He keeps the course steady for the both of you then, even though he almost feels the steady pressure of your strong hands, as Vhagar surely does when you soothe her gargantuan flanks and scratch her old scales off. No fear, no hesitation.

And so at night he lets himself reign free. Peeling his own clothes off your body, as ghostly white as his, like he is undressing himself, like they are his own hands reaching back to him, for once as tender to him as to anyone. He holds back your hands with a sharp smile, even as he longs for them on his own back, soothing his own nervous flanks. And when he lets you, he feels for the first time in years, like he is finally master of himself, of you. Even if you do test him almost as often as Vhagar does.

It matters little. Every fight ends as it should have always: with your skirts over your hips and your arse in the air and his hands between your legs making you swear to obey your prince. Sometimes it’s his cock too. Sometimes, when he’s so hard it hurts, when you’ve peaked twice already and are still arguing, when he knows if he fucks you he will be as good as gone, senseless to anything but the feel of your sweet, wet cunt… then he will go on his knees and bury his face between your thighs.

And he will not know who has won that round, as he hungrily devours your folds, tongue seeking your sweet insides, lips wrapped around your pearl, his hands cupping your arse as hard and covetously as he can, sometimes one of them slipping between his own two legs, making him feel almost ashamed that he cannot eat your cunt without palming himself through his breeches.

It’s only fair, he will think at the sound of your strangled moans, it’s only fair because he’s seen you do the same, when you’ve draped him over the big chair in his rooms and you are sucking him so greedily he can barely remember his own name, let alone what whores are or are not supposed to do.

But it is a much more dangerous affair by day.

When you both have places to be, and he feels tempted to excuse your absence in the kitchens or the laundries or even Princess Helaena’s rooms because your prince needs you and no, it cannot possibly wait. And no, no other chambermaid will do.

Years of sullen humors and his relentless command over his own face serve him well when he has to stand there and purposely not watch his mother the queen instruct you on the proper state of the rooms with your thighs still sticky with his release, with his own prick still wet from you, half-hard and growing harder at the thought that even the queen cannot command you like he does.

No one can.

He gets into a fight with his sister, the first and only in his life. Because Aemond tries to have you re-assigned to his rooms and finds resistance on both fronts. You, shooting him an angry glare in front of witnesses, one he should chastise you for instead of thinking he can lick the unhappy grimace off your lips. Later, he promises himself. Helaena looking so resigned and betrayed it makes the bottom fall from under him, makes him cling to every wound to his pride, every time he has had to fight for his place and the respect it should have garnered him, makes him reach for a viciousness he cannot keep up in the face of Helaena’s soft voice and lonesome reproach.

“She was my friend first.”

The result is worse, far more dangerous… but also so much sweeter it is fatally distracting. The result brings you to ruin and it is no wonder neither of you could have seen it coming, because you are yet to know, intimately and thoroughly, how no good deed goes unpunished.

Because you tell him that if it bothers him so bloody much, he can damn well show up at his sister’s now and again. Like there isn’t enough work to go around, with two little ones and a third one on the way and a useless wine-sop for a husband.

You needn’t sweeten the deal with jabs at Aegon.

Still it takes him three days to brave Helaena’s room and the nursery.

Still when he gets there he feels himself acutely an intruder.

The jealousy returns, twofold this time, because it is so much worse to discover that neither you nor his sister need him. And that if you did, you would have found him about as useless as Aegon. Angry and too proud and too used to a place where it had been only you and him and the language you had begun speaking in tandem.

He does not know this new tongue, and he is loath to admit incompetence.

But you do not accept the excuse of ignorance from him. You do not accept the gaping distance between Aemond and Helaena, so natural to them both, set long ago, by sex and duty and inclination. You hand him little Jaehaera when you must take her twin brother into your arms because the princess needs to lay down on the couch and cannot manage with a pregnant belly and a squirming little boy. His niece (his niece) looks at him, frankly unimpressed and still sucking her thumb, and he stares back at her, trying to find his straight nose, strong chin or domed forehead anywhere in this small, living creature that carries his blood. She has nothing of him except their shared Valyrian hair and eyes, and thankfully nothing of Aegon’s either. He fiercely hopes his brother’s heirs look all Helaena and nothing like their sire and would have found in himself even more goodwill for them if Jaehaera hadn’t immediately started crying.

You pay his panic no mind, because you’ve a little prince and pregnant princess to contend with and tell him to stop being a huge lump and scaring the wee girl by looking at her like he wants to slit her throat and maybe try rocking her a little. It does not work. But when he hangs her upside down that does garner a peel of interested laughter and more is to follow when he throws her (ever so gently, ever so carefully) into a nest of pillows at the foot of the princess’s couch.

And that is the beginning of the end for all of you. Because Aemond finds himself smiling, finds himself happy, perhaps for the first time in years. And happiness makes him careless.

Happiness makes him stay overlong in his sister’s rooms. Watching her teach you a court dance in spite of the babe inside her, longing to join because he does know the steps, half-remembers them from when those things used to matter to him. Reading to the both of you from the fanciful histories of Old Valyria, him reading because Helaena’s hands and eyes are busy preserving one of her insects in glass or needlepoint and because your poor eyesight and poorer coin have precluded you from learning how to read. And Aemond tries very hard not to feel childishly victorious over all imagined rivals because when you watch him read it’s like he’s doing magic. You watch him like you watch Vhagar as she breathes fire and climbs the sky with the beat of her mighty wings. And if Aemond chooses his reading material with more care, perhaps too many passages on Queen Visenya’s sword-slender figure and pale, braided hair… well, it’s only his sister Helaena, adding another red silk thread to her embroidery of a bloodied heart, who looks at him knowingly.

You, for your part, look at him like he strung the sun and stars on the heavens.

And he is drunk on that look. He is unwary of that look. Rejoices too much in it to see his royal mother and grandfather take note of it, or the way you raise your head like a hound on the scent whenever Prince Aemond passes near. Not a lovesick girl. A lovesick girl would have been less dangerous and easier to explain away. No, you look to your prince like a devoted soldier to his beloved general, tight and drawn like an arrow ready to be let loose.

You look at him like you would die for him, like you would kill for him. You look at him like the words are ready to spill from your mouth.

Blood of my blood.

It’s about Helaena that the queen approaches him first and perhaps because it is about her and decorum and the preservation of Aegon’s dignity, Prince Aemond finds it easy to dismiss her concerns. Why shouldn’t he mind the little family that his good-for-nothing brother has chosen to abandon?

After all, you had been right about that much. Helaena had needed the support and flourished under it. Unhappy and suspicious of his presence at first, as surprisingly jealous as he himself had felt, still she opens up to the smallest kindness like a flower to the sun. And why shouldn’t he offer her more of it? Now that he knew it was in his power, now that you had shown him he could, why should he be cautious of his affection for her? 

Why shouldn’t he hold his little niece as he studied High Valyrian? Why shouldn’t all four of you come trotting to watch his weapons training? Why shouldn’t he be allowed to carry his nephew to the yard, show him how to hold a practice sword in his chubby little fists and even let him get a good whack at him with it? (And if the princess gasps and you near-snigger at little Jaeheaerys’ good aim, who would notice your brazenness except everyone?)

It is his grandfather who puts his foot down at last, calling Aemond into the Tower of the Hand.

The queen escorts him, no doubt, to ease the news for him. The matter is addressed simply and succinctly: end it, or he would end it for him. And there was a rage in his breast woken by his Lord Hand’s order, that Aemond did not know he carried within himself. A moment where he could have laid hands on his mother’s blood, where he was ready to let loose all the recriminations he had never been allowed to even acknowledge. That he had only ever done what was asked of him. That it was the Valyrian blood in his veins that let his grandfather sit where he was and speak so acidly to him. His blood and his dragon and all the rest. He had never gone whoring, never shamed himself (never behaved like Aegon) and here he was, being told off like a badly behaved child, for the crime of not being miserable.

But he was his mother’s son as much as he was a prince and he held his tongue.

Otto Hightower didn’t look up from the scroll he was writing and had simply said, “It would have been easier for you if you had picked someone beautiful. Less offensive to your prospects. As it stands, you better end it quickly before anyone else takes notice.”

He was ready to commit parricide at that moment.

His mother must have seen it in his face. She hadn’t been quick enough to stop him unsheathing his dagger and burying it in his grandfather’s scrolls, but she was still gentle enough to pry his hand off the leather grip (the one you’d made for him! braided by your own hand, leather strips bought with your own coin, dyed in the Dothraki style) of his blade. She’d pulled him back from the edge of some unspeakable horror he’d been about to unleash. Fire and his own mouth fixed in a snarl, retribution for this and every other humiliation he had ever suffered. He’d been halfway down the steps of the tower, still panting angrily, before he’d noticed his grandfather hadn’t even looked up from his work. Before he’d noticed his mother’s arms were still around him, supporting him, taking him away from yet another fit of violence that he would never have been able to take back.

Like his eye.

“My dagger,” he’d said in a daze. “She made that for me. I need to—”

His mother wasn’t angry. Or contemptuous. She just placed a hand on his chest, to stop him from going back up the steps. She looked exhausted… disappointed. Like she couldn’t have this conversation again. Like she was talking to his brother.

“This needs to stop, Aemond. Your grandfather may be unkind but he isn’t wrong. For your sake, and your sister’s and that poor wretched girl’s… you have to stop.”

He’d held back the immediate violent recoiling of his body only because he was always painfully aware of how much smaller his mother was. How much more careful he needed to be. If it had been Ser Criston, his grandfather, even the king himself he might’ve…

“I’ve done nothing worse than Aegon!”

“You’ve done nothing better either!” His mother had hissed back, with a fierce viciousness he suddenly recognized as his own. “She isn’t a bed warmer, Aemond! Don’t treat me like I’m a fool. You carry on like this is a courtship. Everyone can see it! And you with not even the decency to hide it! Gods be good but I thought you were smarter than this!”

And that stung. It stung because he had not known until that moment that his mother had ever thought him smart. He was ten years old again, too stunned by duty and pain and the grief on his mother’s face to tell her just how deep his own ran.

Still he knew he must hold the course steady for the both of you.

“I’m not ashamed of her.”

“I’m ashamed of you!” And Aemond had choked back a wounded cry, gritted his teeth to trap the sound behind them, had even managed to keep his eye defiantly dry even as he knew he was a few words from begging. Pleading with his mother not to make him do this. “Have you considered her at all? That you could cost her her position! That you could get her with child!”

And he had barely a moment to think of the ruinous implications of that, the cold weight of foreboding in his belly, before his mother was plunging on.

“I’d hoped at least she would be discreet. She always was before.”

Time stopped.

His face frozen in a grimace of pain.

His mother realized her mistake almost immediately, still a moment too late to take it back, as a hundred little pieces fell in place, creating a picture he would sooner rip his other eye out than behold.

“Before?” He’d let out, suddenly looming over the small figure of his mother, suddenly putting the whole of his will in keeping his body from trembling in rage, in the need to know, know, what he had already guessed.

And it was the tired resignation in Queen Alicent’s face that let him know, that killed whatever brief, boyish hope there had been in him that this could not be true. “Did you think you were the only prince taking advantage of the maids?”

[callsigncrash]

I never liked vampire tropes but I love this so much

The First Part of all my Joy

This should be the second and final part of this. Same warnings: smut, blood, gore. Bits of people lying around. Vought being generally horrible. I may do another fic and properly crossover this shit with World of Darkness, but for the time being this should be it. Once more, I blame @blindmagdalena for everything. This belongs to her and she should take responsibility for it and take it on walks and feed it fresh blood.

Part I

Part II

The bowels of Vought Tower were pitch dark, but Homelander did not bother with turning on lights he did not need. Even still, he could see how you looked away from the faint outline of the heavy, locked doors dotting the walls, refusing to look into their small, clinical windows. Your eyes were sharp for a human, but he tugs at your hand, your fingers numb from the sheer strength of his grip. He’d not have you distracted by those cocksucking leeches in there. You would be needing your wits about you now that he’d made his choice.

He’d been constantly reminded of Soldier Boy ever since his uneasy alliance with the humans had begun. From them it had come as a hopeful tale and from his people, as a cautionary one. Pathetic, some had whispered about him. Too enamored with his food, others had said. Too hungry for their praise and not hungry enough for their lives. It was to be expected, he would get dirtied like his sire, if he chose to continue wallowing in the mud. But they never said it within earshot. At least not for long…

He had taken the warning to heart, even if the others thought him a fool. He had looked into the fate of his maker and he had to hand it to them… If the humans were useless at everything else, then they had at least found better ways to restrain his kind, than mere words. (No matter how sweet your words had tasted to him.) Vought had said soviets. They had claimed they would never, but one thing Homelander had known about humans even before he had begun to be so closely associated with them is that they would ALWAYS.

He’d made you go into the room first, cavernously dark and blanketed in dust as it was. A part of him wanted you to see what you had asked of him, wanted you to know he understood. You humans would never be content without abasing your betters… this was proof…

The chair that had held Soldier Boy was bolted to the floor and Homelander was almost sure he’d have to make a concerted effort to tear it off the floor. Same with the straps on it. With one huff from the canisters of gas he had taken from the lab, maybe he could begin to understand why and how his sire had never made it back across the Atlantic. He heard you swallow dryly, felt the sweet spike of your pulse and had to remind himself to be gentle when he grabbed the bird-like bones of your jaw to turn your head up to him. He could crush your tearful face in his hands, like a ripe melon, knew he should, but could do nothing but look at your moist, deceitful eyes and hate you silently.

“I don’t want to hurt you–”

He cut you off with the painful pressure of his hands on your face and a raised lip that was too much like a snarl for you not to freeze at the hint of white canines it revealed.

“You fucking do, sweetheart,” he whispered against your hair, enjoying your choked sob, tried not to sound too bitter himself. “But it’s alrighty. It’s all okey-dokey, my sweet girl. I fucking want you to.”

And though you lowered your gaze, unable to look him in the eye, you did as you had agreed. You strapped him on the chair, weeping still, but stinking so much of arousal and fear that Homelander felt light-headed with desire. It was with the last strap in place that he felt the weight of the room shift.

“Lift your hips,” you ventured, quickly, almost like you were afraid of your own power, wiping at your beautiful, flushed face but still he felt the order course through his veins like poison, to the tip of each finger, making him feel almost alive. He didn’t obey though, waited, shoulders heaving and mouth open like he still needed to breathe, waited to see what you would do.

You didn’t disappoint.

One knee besides each one of his thighs, eyes fixed on his own, no longer blue, but blown out rings of black bordered by glowing red, you janked his belt open and his pants down to his knees. His outraged lounge for your face was stopped only by the metal strap around his neck. Still, it groaned dangerously, Homelander straining against it.

You both panted, staring at each other, and he watched you lick your lips nervously with all the fixed-eyed intensity of a hunting cat.

“Don’t even think of moving,” you said, and he gnashed his teeth at his own words thrown back at him, like he could grind them to a pulp beneath teeth grown suddenly sharper with rage. Though your voice trembled, your hands did not, firm against his stomach, so tantalizingly close to where he needed them that his muscles quivered in anticipation. Moist eyes and dried lips, your face a mess of emotions, still you knew exactly what you needed to say. “Just let me touch you, just let me smell you, just be a sweet boy for me.”

The sound that escaped his lips was so broken and desperate, he would have been ashamed if he didn’t want it so fucking much. His hips did lift on their own then, forcing your hand against the swell of his straining erection and through the haze of need he was glad to hear you gasp. He was glad to sense the pulsing heat between your own legs, to catch the scent of you, sweet like the blood of strangers just wasn’t anymore. Sweet and addictive and deadly.

“Tell me what you want,” you commanded again, voice grown firmer, hand reaching for his neck, a mirror of his own just moments ago. And he fought it, like he’d fought every command he’d ever received, like he’d rather tear himself to pieces against barbed wire instead of just letting someone else take it off, Soldier Boy had said to him, years ago, in another lifetime.

But it was just so much harder to fight your loving voice, the feeble pulse of your gentle human heart, your cloying sour-sweet perspiration, than it had ever been to fight anything else, even his own kind.

He strained against the metal around his neck, your lips so close to his he could almost taste them, could almost gnash at them and consume them, along with your tongue and teeth and gums. But you didn’t move and he couldn’t.

“You know what I want,” he threatened, his voice rumbling so much lower that it echoed in this god-forsaken cell of a room. Inhuman, monstrous, so powerful it made your knees week and your innards turn to ice. But you stood your ground.

“I don’t know it, sweet boy,” you responded breathlessly, hands caressing up, up his neck towards his face, thumbs gently, dangerously rubbing at his curled-back lips, at his gritted fangs. Taunting him, daring him to do what he had been dying to do since the first moment he ever laid eyes on you. “I don’t know it until you tell me.”

He whimpered at your hand traveling downwards to wrap around his cock, head lolling sideways, desperate perhaps to hide how much he had needed this, how much more of you he still did. What would the others say if they could see him now? Desperate, shuddering mess that he was. That he was pathetic. That he was weak. That, at last, he had been brought low by his love of humanity’s adoration.  The crowd’s. Yours. He bit at his own lip to keep the plea – the fucking plea that should have been a demand, an offering you should have laid at his feet long ago – from his traitorous mouth. Love me, he wanted to say, love me please. Love me like the others had not. Love me and set me free from this fear.

But he could not.

“Feed me,” he admitted at last, wanting it to sound like a threat but shamefully – wonderfully, deliciously – having it come out like prayer.

In your mercy, you granted it.

He saw the fear of pain in your eyes when you reached for the razorblade. The fear of himself. Good, he thought viciously, as you should. In that infinite, frozen moment, eyes fixed on each other, he wished he could desire something different for you. But all he could think of was the dirty steel aroma of your razor blade sweetly intermingling with the glorious copper of your blood, the muscle encased bird-bones of your hands that he wished he could crack open and suck the marrow from.

The first drop hit his lips from above, like divine rain. He could never make you understand how the human orgasm would pale in comparison to the intimacy of knowing your blood and flesh. Could never explain that it was this knowledge making him fight against his restraints, making the thick metal around his arms and legs and shoulders groan cavernously, like a wounded beast. That if he could just bite down on your hand and dig into your flesh,  burrow within you, he could know you at last. Know your love for him.

He was almost indifferent to you impaling your sweet cunt on him, but you slipped so dangerously close to his mouth he was orgasmically triumphant for a second, the strength of your thighs around him nothing that could ever stop him. But you made a sound again, a moan that sounded suspiciously like his name, and he could almost feel the beast inside him recoiling, snapping to attention. Your blood suddenly tasted to him like endorphins and adrenaline and your own ecstatic pleasure and he was gone.

He was pumping up with hips barely able to move against the straps that held him, but you were grinding down and it was almost enough then and there. The blood and the sex, the weak, shameful human intercourse that made you keen so sweetly, that made his traitorous body respond to yours, wanting both to consume you and be consumed by you.

So he could let you do this, he thought desperately. He could let you fuck yourself against him, let you use him like a fucking toy. Let you feed him from your hand, your blood smeared on his mouth. Could let you get as close to destruction as anyone ever had with him and then let you live.

“Back,” he cried out, hips chasing after the poor facsimile of pleasure that orgasm could give him, because if that was all he could have after the white-hot burn of your blood, he would fucking TAKE IT. “Get the fuck back.”

And though you did, obeying him through the haze of your own impending climax, still your blood soaked hand remained on his face, so near his mouth he fought to reach it. Gentle, he almost heard from you, echoing commands Madelyn had given him, so long ago he wished he had forgotten. Commands that had gone unheeded, commands he had rent apart as he had rent her apart. He could not take it if he had to apologize to the pieces of you as well.

But you didn’t speak and that saved you. Sense of self-preservation lost to pleasure, all you could do was shout as you came, so loudly he was sure the other cocksuckers in their cages could hear your sweet screams. And he was coming too, right after you, lost in the ecstasy of your blood and the smell of your wetness and his cum and the metal that held him suddenly cracking against his overpowering need to crush you to him. Hold you and drown himself in the crook of your neck while he pumped himself empty into the vice-like grip of your pussy.

But not kill your, not you, never you.

Because even if you hadn’t said it, still he knew it now, the blood in your veins sang it for him, the oxygen caged in the latticework of your trachea swore it, the meaty thump of each heartbeat proclaimed it. You DID love him. Loved him so much the threat of annihilation held no power over you.

He held you until his heart stopped thundering in his ears, too captivated by its sheer living quality to hear any of your words. You had tried to get up to clean the wound on your hand and the greedy, ever-hungry beast inside him had held you fast.

“Saliva,” he had rumbled, still too drunk on blood and sex to be coherent about it. He’d had to explain he could close your wound by licking it and admit neither you nor him trusted him enough to do so. In the end spitting on the wound had to be enough. But he found himself amazed at your reckless generosity when you offered your now healed hand to his mouth.

“You can clean the blood up,” you said almost timidly. “But be careful.”

He stared at your anxious face and took the offered morsel almost furtively, half-afraid you’d change your mind. He licked each digit so thoroughly clean, only to then wipe the remaining blood smearing his mouth with his own fingers and licking those clean as well, that you understood this would not be a common occurrence.

“You’ve been so good,” you said, trying to sound reassuring, glad at your attempt when you saw the stupid, earnest nod he gave you. You burrowed into his arms, struggling not to look at the wreckage of the chair that had been meant to hold him.  “What are we going to do now?”