#its so unnecessarily hot

[outcastpack]

This man has me UNWELL

[mochidoie]

diet pepsi.

listen to - diet pepsi by addison rae na jaemin x reader wc - 10k genre - fluff and hotness, shy!reader, flirty!jaemin, suggestive warnings - shirtless jaemin x4, mentions of a "nude" pic, partying/drinking, a makeout session, aloootttt of sensual tension! a/n - HERE IT IS! thank you all so much for the hype over the preview. i hope yall enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it:) comments and feedback are always appreciated!! i read all of them! update: i still can't move on from that jaemin pic.

Accidentally walking in on your best friend's hot housemate half naked with a towel around his waist in the bathroom was never in your plans. But maybe, it was in his?

“Why do you guys have so much Diet Pepsi in your fridge?” There is a slight cadence of disgust in your voice, judgment for the most part, knowing damn well no one drinks Pepsi – let alone Diet Pepsi. 

Mark shuts the fridge door that you’ve left idly open as you rummage through the kitchen cabinets for a snack. “It was a late night purchase. The store ran out of all the good stuff.”

“Now, it’s left taking up space.” You snarl, picking through opened bags of crackers, chips and candy that aren’t sealed properly. “You guys never have good snacks.” Giving up, you make your way upstairs toward the only bathroom in this entire shared house.

“Well, last time I checked, you don’t live here.” Mark hollers from the kitchen, a bit of sass in his statement. “Yet you’re here all the time!”

“You’re overjoyed I’m always here!” Your body leans over the railing of the stairs, calling out to your best friend in an unnecessarily booming voice and a light giggle at the end of your sentence.

Mark doesn’t respond and you’re deep in the hallway in search for the bathroom that is shared between four college men. Although you’re solely Mark’s best friend, the other three guys have welcomed you into their house as they would their own. Honestly speaking, you’re only rambunctiously annoying when you’re just around Mark. His housemates know you as his shy and sweet friend. 

It’s hard for you to open up to others, despite these people being equally as close to Mark as you are. There is just not enough common ground for you to relate to them, as nice as they are when you’re at their house.

Jeno is probably the most similar to you, a man of few words and a smile that resembles a kind puppy. He doesn’t contribute much to the conversation, but he is always laughing at their shared jokes and silly antics. Haechan is the most different from you, playful and Mark’s nightmare at times. Lastly, there’s Jaemin, a man who you’ve found yourself stealing glimpses of whenever he is near. 

Your heart leaps and twirls at any mention of his name, his whereabouts, him. Though, your crush on Jaemin will never come to light. You only let yourself admire from afar, a man as hot and charming as he is already has an entourage waiting on him. And Mark would never let you live it down that you’re practically drooling over his housemate. 

So as you find yourself in front of the bathroom door, you don’t hear the shuffling on the other side. You mindlessly turn the knob and open to reveal Jaemin, shirtless with a towel low around his waist.  

He doesn’t even flinch at the sudden exposure, clearly engulfed in taking a mirror picture. Both of his arms hold up his soft pink phone, his biceps flexing at the simple position. His broad, wide shoulders are on display and all you see is his bare silky skin. You’re gawking, anyone can see at a mile away, hungry eyes tracing the outline of his toned chest and chiseled abs. 

When he finally acknowledges your presence, a big toothy grin appears on his face. Your name rolls off his tongue excitedly, “you’re right. I am overjoyed you’re here.” His lower register catches you off guard and something inside of you spikes at its rumble.

Jaemin watches as you try to find your words, tripping over your own tongue. He drinks up how your eyes bounce between his face and his bare upper body, lost in his canvas. 

“Sorry!” You quickly shut the door, odd that you’re the one embarrassed when he is the one who got walked in on. Running down the stairs, you slam right into Mark, causing him to fall back onto the couch.

“Whoa! Are you in a rush or something?” Mark groans. His eyes fixate on your flustered expression. “What happened?”

You’re deciding whether or not you should lie to him, committed to not exposing and embarrassing yourself even further. “Just bumped into Jaemin. Does he normally not lock the bathroom door?”

There is a small quiver in your voice, but you try your best to remain nonchalant and calm. Mark raises a curious eyebrow, a shaky grin grows on his lips. You can’t even imagine all the wild and inappropriate thoughts spinning in this college boy’s head.

“That’s weird. He’s usually good about that stuff.” He snickers, “What did you see?”

“Get your head out of the gutter.” You lightly slap the back of his head, but feel heat spread across the tips of your ears and run its way down to your cheeks. “I didn’t see anything.”

“Bummer, bet you wanted to.” Mark jokes, a fit of giggles erupting from his stomach. 

You roll your eyes and proclaim loudly, “I have no interest in Jaemin.” Liar. The image of his hot body still hasn’t left your mind. It’s catastrophic. Crossing your arms, you plop onto the sofa next to your best friend. 

Right on cue, another voice chimes in. Coming down the stairs, Jaemin dances his hand on the railing. His muscular arms catches your immediate attention as he flaunts around in a tight white tank, his other hand in the pocket of his gray sweats. “Damn, that really hurts my ego, (y/n), especially after you’ve seen me naked just now.” 

Nonetheless, he doesn’t look offended. Instead, a sweet smirk curves upward on his perfect face. You swallow hard, bashful and ashamed yet again that Jaemin continues to ruin you. 

Mark is laughing his hardest, but you don’t hear him. Your heart pounds in your ears, rapidly and loudly. “You weren’t naked, Jaem. Don’t give Mark any ideas.”

Jaemin chuckles, tucking in his chin shyly. His charming smile is subtle, but dazzling. You’re absolutely positive you have tiny stars swimming in your eyes just looking at him. He makes his way past you two, toward the kitchen to grab a Diet Pepsi out of the fridge.

“I’m sorry, I’ll remember to lock the door next time.” He apologizes, taking a sip of his drink and grimacing at the taste.

“What were you even doing in there?” Leave it to Mark to be such a curious cat. You nudge him in the rib and he winces noisily. “I want to know what you saw! You guys are acting so suspicious.” He sends a glare at you.

Jaemin comes up behind the couch. He leans over, handing Mark his phone. On display is the picture you witnessed Jaemin take a few minutes ago and the frontal view is even better than what you saw from the side. Your sharp intake of breath doesn’t go unnoticed by Jaemin, but he doesn’t call it out. 

The picture could be considered a nude, even if it cuts right at his waistline. It’s so scandalous and he doesn’t seem the slightest sheepish about it. If anything, he and Mark are grinning together at Jaemin’s godly body, like two bros appreciating each other’s muscles. 

“Yo, Na Jaemin! This is so crazy, look at that chest work.” Mark giddily hits at Jaemin’s chest, displaying a weird manly affection for his housemate. “All those hours at the gym are paying off. Are you posting this?” 

Jaemin shakes his head. “It’s only meant for special eyes.” He glimpses briefly over at you, but you avert contact quickly. You think about all the people the boys talk about during their drunk kickbacks, but Jaemin is incredibly secretive. I don’t kiss and tell, is what he always says when the guys try to probe him with investigative questions.

You normally try to pretend like it doesn’t bother you, always helping him by telling the boys to mind their own business. Nonetheless, you’re probably the only person in the room who wants to know the most about his endeavors. 

“This is a nude?!” Mark jumps up and throws the phone back at Jaemin, rubbing his eyes in hopes to rid the picture out of his memory. “I love you dude, but I’m not sure if I want to know you’re posing for nudes in our bathroom.”

Jaemin laughs, “C’mon, Mark. You don’t have to have such a big reaction, just say you want me to send it to you too.” Mark shakes his head aggressively and you’re suffocating at the thought that you walked in on Jaemin taking a nude. A swirl of nasty thoughts circle your mind and you gulp at the desires that fill your lungs.

You get up so suddenly that Jaemin and Mark fall silent and wait for your next move. “I’m going home.” You announce, gaze stuck to the ground and fists balled at your side. “I’ll see you later, Mark.” 

“Alright, do you need a ride–”

“No, I’ll just walk. I need to take a breather.” Your legs are moving before anyone can follow after you. You didn’t know what came over you, but spending another second in that room with them meant increasing your chances of saying something regrettable.

The cold breeze of the night cools your hot skin and fresh air clears your mind. It is still early in the evening when you check the time, but it is realistically going to take you 30 minutes to walk back home. You didn’t think it through, frankly, but at least your head is clear from all the dirty thoughts about Jaemin.

Though, you wonder how whoever receives his photo would react. Would they combust the same way you did? Would they be left speechless at such a glorious man? Special eyes. It must be nice to have Jaemin interested in you. 

When you’re left with your own reflection and about a quarter into your walk, a car pulls up slowly next to you on the curb. Initially, you’re cautious as to the random vehicle approaching you so intently. 

However, the driver’s window rolls down and Jaemin calls your name. “It’s dangerous for you to walk. I’ll take you home.”

That annoying, rhythmic sound of your heart starts up again. Normally, Mark is the one who drives you to and back, but even you didn’t think you could stand being in the car with him as he would endlessly tease you about Jaemin. 

“That’s alright. I’m almost there-”

Jaemin gets out of the car and walks around to open the passenger door for you, “it wasn’t a polite offer. I’m taking you home.” His stern tone causes you to comply and enter his car without another attempt to protest.

When he enters the car, the tension in the atmosphere is heavy and thick. He turns off the engine and you can hear the quietness of the night again. You swallow the spit pooling at the back of your throat, unsure how to talk to him. This is the first time you two have been alone together, just you and him in one confined space. You’re usually with Mark when you’re with the other guys.

“I’m actually really sorry, again. I hope you don’t feel weird about seeing me like that.” Your heart crumbles at the genuinity in his apology. Your abrupt leave probably had him thinking he made you feel uncomfortable.

“Jaemin, it’s fine. I already forgot what you looked like and it’s your house. You should feel comfortable doing what you want there.” You’re downplaying all the emotions rising in your throat, but you can’t help feeling guilty at the pout on his glossy lips.

“Mark said that you’re not used to stuff like that. Is that true? Did I make you feel uncomfortable?” Jaemin looks over at you, a hand resting over the wheel. 

You look away, his sultry stare being too much for you to handle. “Mark doesn’t know anything about what I’m used to. I don’t talk about that stuff with him.” 

It’s the truth. You’ve had your fair share of hook ups, drunk makeout sessions at the club, and a previous relationship. So, you wouldn’t say you’re as innocent as Mark always tries to make you out to be to others. However, you’re not throwing yourself at just anyone and aren’t as open to sharing your experiences to people, Mark being one. 

Jaemin nods, acknowledging everything you’re saying. “I noticed you’re usually quiet when all of us talk about our sexual experiences.” 

“You are too, though.” You mumble under your breath, twiddling your thumbs.

“I’m too distracted watching how shy you get at the mention of Haechan getting head.” This statement, paired with his deep voice, is glass shattering. Something drops in your stomach, your feelings and thoughts colliding together into something unidentifiable.

Jaemin looks so good under the streetlamp. Even in the darkness, you can still see the twinkle in his alluring gaze and how much charm he exudes with a simple toothy smile. The desire to kiss him is so magnetic, you can feel yourself breaking at any moment.

“You notice me?” Your brain has lost control over the words that spill from your lips. Your lustful and romantic feelings go into overdrive, saying things you’ve never dared to say.

It is his turn to send you a confused look, as if it is the most ridiculous question you could have asked. “Of course I do. It’s hard not to. You… have such an effect on me. I talk about it all the time to Jeno and Haechan.” 

This is shocking news to you. You’ve always been under the impression that the other three had no interest or a second thought about you, let alone Jaemin of all people. At the end of the day, you’re just Mark’s best friend and you’re only really there because of him. His housemates are respectful and don’t linger for too long when you’re around, so it never occurred to you that would be a topic in their conversations.

You stutter and approach slowly, “what do you talk about?” 

Jaemin chuckles, shaking his head and starts the car. “Can’t tell you. Just know that I like it when you’re around.” He starts driving you home and you can feel the conversation fleeting. But you don’t want to stop, you want to peel him layer by layer until he is at his core. 

You two drive for some time in silence. When he approaches your neighborhood, he hits you with one sudden question. “Do you have feelings for Mark?” This is the one of many times he has surprised you tonight.

“No!” You refute excessively. “We’re strictly friends. He is nowhere near my type.” It is a question you get pretty often, given that you two are attached at the hip. Nonetheless, the thought of you and Mark together romantically makes you gag. He is nearly your brother at this point. 

Jaemin raises a curious brow, “what is your type?” 

He pulls into your driveway and you’re presented with a window of opportunity. You dance with the possibility that Jaemin could actually be yours. After tonight, he definitely confirmed that he notices you. 

Jaemin peers over with innocent eyes and a soft smile. His elbow rests on the middle console and his large hands hold the bottom of the steering wheel. And you can’t believe that after all this time, he has been looking at you with such an endearing gaze. Gathering all the courage you have left, you clear your throat. 

“Guys like you.” You say, rather breathlessly. You see his pupils dilate and his lips part at the sudden flirtatious confidence. It’s like a lightbulb switches on inside his head. For once, you have left him speechless. “Goodnight, Jaemin. Thank you for bringing me home.” 

You exit his car, but he is quick to follow. “What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t walk you to your door.” You almost make out the slight shakiness in his voice and you’re giggling at how dazed you’ve gotten him.

Approaching your door, Jaemin turns your cheek to face him. His hand remains hot against your jaw and you think in any second, he might lean down and kiss you. He’d kiss you to the point where you’d turn to goo right at his feet. 

Your knees grow weak under his hooded stare, “goodnight (y/n). I’ll let Mark know that I got you back safe and sound.” With that, his hand drops and he starts taking a few steps backwards toward his car. Disappointment is evident in your reaction.

Your shaky hands unlock the front door and you look back to see Jaemin leaning against his car waiting patiently for you to enter. When you get inside, your back slides down against the door, heart beating fast, and you wallow in the emptiness that Jaemin has left you with. 

The only noise filling the air is the sound of his car pulling out of the driveway. Then, your phone buzzes in your pocket and the notification causes your jaw to drop. 

Na Jaemin (Mark’s Housemate): 1 Attachment

“Holy shit.” Jaemin’s nude flashes back at you and you’re taking everything in. The events earlier today come flooding back into your memory. Lustful desires cause your stomach to stir, tracing the lines of his collarbones and following the protruding vein on his shoulder.  

Na Jaemin (Mark’s Housemate): for your special eyes xx

Na Jaemin (Mark’s Housemate): still have no interest in me?

Blinking at the thread of texts, your head is empty and a lump forms in your throat. Na Jaemin, the man that you are. 

mark lee-ave me alone: Party tonight, you coming????

mark lee-ave me alone: It’s been like almost two weeks since we hung out, do i need to file a missing person’s report? 

you: i’ve got finals 

mark lee-ave me alone: you finished finals we literally share calendar schedules… why u avoiding me

you: why are you guys alcoholics 

mark lee-ave me alone: sounds good ! see u tn hehe

Tossing your phone onto your bed, you groan into your pillow. It has been a while since you went over, let alone seen Mark. After the moment you had with Jaemin, you aren’t entirely sure if you’re ready to face him again. You had nearly fainted from all the emotions he put you through that day. 

He also didn’t reply to your text, but then again, you didn’t give him much to work with. This is Na Jaemin you’re talking to and the last thing you want to do is to scare him away. So, the best response you came up with was the blushing emoji and embarrassment hit you all over again.

Nonetheless, you went back to that photo every night since and its effects remain the same every time. Widened eyes, hot cheeks, butterflies in your lower abdomen, wild thoughts. It has gotten to the point where your phone suggested making it his contact picture, causing the bashfulness to catch up to you.

Your phone buzzes again and you’re rolling over to expect another text from Mark. Instead, your heart rubs at your chest at the appearance of Jaemin’s name on your screen.

Na Jaemin (Mark’s Housemate): can’t wait to see you tn

Mark must’ve told them about you coming to the party. All it takes is one simple text and your feet are kicking in the air. Excitement replaces the dread that you were feeling before and you’re jumping out of bed to find a cute outfit.

When you finally get to the house, a mixture of nervousness and anticipation bubbles inside of you. While you’ve looked forward to seeing Jaemin before, this time is completely different. He unlocked something that you can no longer control. 

Mark lets you in, slightly buzzed, and the house is already packed with drunk people. Haechan is on aux as per usual with his perfectly curated party playlist. Jeno has a large bottle in his hand, pouring a line of shots on the kitchen island like a skilled bartender. 

You’re unconsciously scanning the room for Jaemin, Mark’s words going in one ear and out the other. “It’s quite a turnout. We didn’t expect so many people would show!”

When you take a quick look around, many are unfamiliar faces. Most of these had to be friends of his housemates, knowing how small Mark keeps his circle. 

“What is this party even for?” Yelling over the loud music, you swear there will be ringing in your ears tomorrow morning.

“We’re celebrating the end of the semester!” Mark cheers, excitedly with a big goofy grin. “The guys mostly wanted an excuse to get their friends together and have some fun.”

“That’s surprisingly more wholesome than I thought.” You nod, noting the pretty girls moving their hips in the dark and crowds of guys surrounding the keg. “Very fun.” You say sarcastically and follow Mark through the maze of hot bodies.

The kitchen is unrecognizable. Half empty glass pitchers and plastic cups line the sticky marble counters, they were definitely not getting their rent deposit back with all the tarnish.

It wasn’t your first time at one of their parties, but it had been a long time since they’ve thrown something of this scale. It surprised you, mostly because everyone who lived here seemed so laid back that you didn’t expect the large magnitude that they could draw in.

“Did you want something to drink?” Mark grabs a beer from the fridge, politely squeezing his way through those leaning against the appliances. 

You shake your head, “not right now.” He lifts a curious brow at your bottom lip between your teeth. Could he tell you were anxiously waiting for someone? 

“So, where have you been lately?” Your mind is extremely overstimulated with everything happening around you, and of course, Mark decides to have an open conversation in the middle of his densely packed kitchen area.

Shrugging, you play it off like everything is normal. “Needed a break from you. You bitched about me coming over all the time, so I chilled out.”

Mark takes a swig, clearly not believing you. “That’s the real reason why? There isn’t anything else regarding someone who lives here?”

He is prying, digging, scheming. You can see it in his smug face when he knows he hit a soft spot. “Do you want to tell me? Because it seems like there’s something going on that you won’t tell me.”

“It’s just interesting.” He shrugs, “Jaemin insisted on going after you the night you walked out. Care to tell me what happened?” Mark giggles to himself like a high school girl sharing secrets. Rolling your eyes, the twitch of your lips curve into a small grin. 

“Is that so out of his character?” You cross your arms, “Jaemin has always been a gentleman unlike you, who let me walk home in the dark when you know it takes me 30 minutes.” 

Your best friend throws his hands up in defense, “I was going to go! Like I said, Jaemin beat me to it. He just grabbed his keys off the hook and told me he got it.” 

“After you told him I felt uncomfortable?” Anger rises in your voice. Quite surely, you sound more offended than you actually are. Nonetheless, that explanation from Mark did irk you a bit when Jaemin had told you.

Mark looks sheepishly at you and takes a timid sip. “Well, didn’t you? Isn’t that why you stormed off?! When have you ever talked about nudes, or having sex for that matter?” 

Scoffing, you couldn’t believe him. Your face gets warm from the spotlight he has you under. It’s complete disbelief that fuels your next line and you shout over the music, “That doesn’t mean I don’t have sex. I have sex!” 

“Who is having sex?” The baritone voice sneaks up from behind you and a hot hand touches the small of your lower back. You seize up at the physical intimacy, turning around to see Jaemin looking as charming as ever. The pure visual of him has hearts in your eyes.

Mark laughs, not noticing how Jaemin snakes his hand around and rests it on your hip. He pulls you a bit closer so that your body leans against his strong arm. “We were just talking about what happened between you two a couple of weeks ago.”

Jaemin nods, as if he understands the situation completely without much context. He looks down at you and smiles sweetly, “did something happen between us?”

He doesn’t break eye contact with you, barely paying attention to Mark, who you’ve also tuned out of this conversation. The quiver in your voice is obvious and Jaemin’s eyes gleam upon hearing your sudden shyness. “No. You just drove me home.” 

“Yeah, you heard it here first.” Jaemin switches to an excited and peppy demeanor, as if all is well and you two aren’t acting extremely suspicious.

Though, Mark is incredibly oblivious so he isn’t hard to fool. He doesn’t press on and gets pulled off to the side by Haechan to fix one of the speakers, leaving you and Jaemin alone among the drunken party goers. Your throat feels like it's closing in on itself, nervousness building your stomach yet again.

Jaemin swiftly turns you to face him fully, both hands holding your arms as he admires how you’ve dressed up tonight. “I’ve always liked this shirt on you. How have you been? I noticed you haven’t come around lately.”

“I’ve been busy.” You’re as quiet as a mouse, but Jaemin hears you loud and clear. You’re extremely conscious of the two of you openly together for everyone to watch or listen in, but Jaemin’s attention is solely on you.

“Busy avoiding me?” The way he asks is lighthearted. He isn’t trying to instigate the way Mark was, it's playful and unserious, even if the question did hold some genuine curiosity.

“I don’t know.” It’s easier for you to be truthful with Jaemin compared to Mark. After that brief chat in his car, you felt like you could be honest with him as he was with you. As if somehow, that one pivotal night changed the dynamic of your nonexistent friendship completely. 

You feel connected to him. Seen by him. “If I did something wrong to make you want to avoid me, you gotta tell me.” Jaemin begins, sincerity heavy in his round eyes and tone. 

However, you stop him from continuing. “There is nothing wrong with what you did. I liked it, alot. I avoided coming because you make me feel nervous and shy.” Perhaps you are revealing too much too soon, but you can’t help it with the way Jaemin looks at you. 

He grins, “you’ve always been nervous and shy around me. Those feelings never stopped you from coming around before.” 

You’re stunned at how observant he actually is. All this time, you thought you did a good job at keeping those feelings internal. Jaemin and you never shared an extensive conversation before that night, but you didn’t completely ignore him whenever he was in the room.

Whenever you two would be physically near each other, you’d strike up small talk about classes and ask how he’s been – even if you had to build up the courage to say something.

You would always greet him back when he would arrive home or if he appeared from upstairs. There would’ve been no way he could’ve seen how your hands fidgeted or hear your voice shake or when you’d avert your gaze. Right?

But he did. He saw through it all. And it hit you that Jaemin had really been observing you this entire time, beyond a simple notice. “Sure, they didn’t before. This time, things feel different between us.”  “I like when you talk about there being an us.” Jaemin beams, “it’s cute. We never got to have that all this time.” He resembles a happy kid on Christmas day, opening a present that he had been good for all year. It’s hopeful and quite touching that he thought about growing closer to you. 

“Do you feel like it’s different between us?” You ask timidly. The feeling of possible rejection lingers in the back of your heart. This could all be a misunderstanding and you read it all wrong. 

He ponders for a bit, eyes darting to the ceiling and then back at you. “Yes, but not entirely. I think you’ve gotten more comfortable opening up to me, but my feelings toward you haven’t changed.”

Hadn’t Jaemin brought it up, you really didn’t know that your heart opened up as much as it did for him. It was all natural, seamless. He didn’t have to speedrun questions like an investigator to get you to talk, everything just flowed. The second part of his answer did prompt more curiosity rather than something definitive.

How does he feel about you?

As you debated a follow up question, the two of you get interrupted by a small group of people pulling at Jaemin’s shoulder. He is brought back to the swarm of a party and you’re retreating into the background. “Na Jaemin! We’ve been looking everywhere for you.” 

Before he could excuse himself, they whisk him away deep into the dark sea of dancing individuals. Sighing, you’re left with the same emptiness you felt two weeks ago. Mark comes stumbling back, the beer in his hand now nearly finished.

“Are you drunk off of a Bud Light?” You snicker at your friend’s wobbly entrance. Your heart is heavy in your chest, but you let these emotions subside. 

He takes a final drink, “I’m just feeling a little loose. I think it’s finally time you get some.” 

You give in, especially now that Jaemin has reeled you in and left you without any clarity. You need a drink to calm all the nerves that he lit up, ease all the pent up tension he created. 

“Only if it’s not what you’re having.” Mark’s head swishes heavily on his shoulders, peering around to find the man with the alcohol supply. He gestures to Jeno from the opposite side of the room for two shots and you laugh at their silly roleplay.

Jeno walks over and greets you with a smile, realizing he didn’t see you come in this whole time. He pours a dangerous amount of Vodka that overflows out of the small glass. 

“Dude! You suck as a bartender, you’re fired!” Mark giggles drunkenly at Jeno’s heavy hand and clinks the shot glasses. “Best friend shots!” He squeals happily at you.

You oblige, holding your breath for the intake of alcohol. Wincing at the taste, you down the shot as best as you can. It’s dreadful, but somehow your muscles relax and your mind clears from the running thoughts of Jaemin. 

“Another one!” Jeno cheers. This time, he prepares three shots and joins in on the random celebratory atmosphere that Mark established. 

The responsible side is signaling alarm bells to slow down, but the side intoxicated with disruptive feelings of Jaemin is silencing them all. So you think, one more shot won’t hurt.

You’re unsure of how much time has passed. Twenty minutes? An hour? Maybe even two hours. It feels late and early all at the same time. At this point, you’re experiencing a good buzz after the last few rounds of shots with Jeno and Mark.

The liquid courage has you asking for Jaemin’s whereabouts. 

“I think he’s upstairs in the bathroom with someone.” Mark slurs his words, clearly not knowing the magnitude of this information. Your heart sinks to the pit of your stomach, a ton of bricks hitting you. You’ve tuned out the booming music and Mark’s words play on a loop.

“When did you see him go up with someone?” You ask again, not wanting to believe Mark’s words. Could it have been one of the people from the group that stole him away? An old fling. A friend with benefits. An ex-lover. An admirer. The list unravels itself like a never ending scroll. 

He shrugs, it’s obvious this man has no actual idea what is going on or how much it's affecting you. “Check for yourself.” The edge of sass in his tone has you feeling challenged. Mark always gets a bit snarky and direct whenever he’s intoxicated.

You’re going back and forth with yourself – stay or find him. If you see him making out with someone else, then what? It would actually hurt you and you only have your own blossoming feelings to blame. If he is alone, then what? Will he finally tell you how he feels about you? Will he finally kiss you? The desire for that is enough drive for you.

And so you go. 

Heading up the stairs, the mess of the party downstairs fades into the background. Your palms grow sweaty as you walk down the long hallway toward the looming bathroom. Light flows through the bottom crack of the door. Not knowing what to expect, you’re just hoping what Mark said isn’t true. 

Your hand holds onto the shiny knob, hesitant to get your ego bruised at the sight of Jaemin with another person. Taking a deep breath, you open the door.

Jaemin is in the midst of zipping up his jeans, the belt around his waist unbuckled. However, he is alone and oddly enough, the sound of the running toilet brings an ounce of reassurance for you. He looks up and your grip relaxes on the knob. 

Upon seeing your figure, Jaemin shakes his head with a sneaky smirk. He goes about washing his hands as normal and says, “we really need to stop meeting like this.”

“Maybe you should try locking the door for once.” 

“I do. Somehow, it’s always unlocked when you’re around.” He sounds so innocent lying through his teeth. Jaemin wipes his hands on the hand towel and leans against the door frame, “now are you actually going to use the bathroom or did you know I’d be here waiting for you?”

Your mouth opens to speak, but no words form. Jaemin’s gaze eats you up again, taking in your attire and dolled up look once more. His playful smile disappears and is replaced with a thin line, his jaw tightening. “So pretty.” His low voice whispers, eyes never leaving your lips. 

Right then and there, the want to kiss him surges throughout your body. There is nothing stopping you from diving into Jaemin, letting him have you utterly and completely. No consequences filter through your head, no other thoughts besides what his lips taste like. It could be the alcohol, but you’re fully drunk off his sultry stare and his feathering touches on your wrist. 

He leans in toward you, head tilting as he inches closer to your face. Closing your eyes, you await the kiss you’ve longed for. Blood pumping in your veins and heart doing somersaults in your chest. 

“Did you drink?” You quickly open your eyes at his question and see Jaemin pulling back. The familiar feeling of disappointment floods your body too well. 

“I took a few shots.” You’re biting the inside of your cheek, trying to not look embarrassed at how badly you wanted him to kiss you. The smell of alcohol is still hot on your breath and you’re even surprised at how composed you’ve managed to be. 

“Sweetheart, I don’t want to kiss you like this.” Jaemin’s tone is sweet, but firm. Although you were nowhere near black out drunk, you understood his sentiments. He wanted to kiss you without any chance of regret. He wants to do it right. 

“I blame Mark for this.” A heavy sigh falls at the end of your sentence. You roll your eyes at the sound of Mark’s voice from downstairs. Regardless of your disappointment, your heart is still burning at how he called you sweetheart. You didn’t know how good it would sound until it left his mouth. 

In a blink of an eye, he quickly kisses your cheek. “That will have to do for now.” Jaemin smiles, wide and toothy.

You don’t have enough time to process, still stuck at the small pet name, as he whisks you back down to join everyone at the party. Your eyes widen, cheeks grow hot, butterflies grow in your lower abdomen, and wild thoughts swirl in your head. All of which didn’t need Jaemin’s nude for these effects to arise. 

“You know, Jaemin has started asking about you a lot.” Mark looks up from his laptop, taking a break from his strenuous essay. It had been a week after the party and everything fell right back into routine. You’d show up to their house as if you never stopped coming around. 

The only difference is that you’re not here to see Mark anymore. You’re here for Jaemin. As clingy and corny as that seemed, you left every day happy that you got to talk to him. The two of you had been texting since the night of the party, mostly brief conversations about your day, but he never forgets to wish you a good morning. 

Whenever you’re at the house, Jaemin would join you and Mark when he’d come home. Initially, Mark didn’t seem to notice that his housemate would linger for as long as you’d be here or that Jaemin would purposefully sit close to you, or those longing stares you two would share across the table. 

It wasn’t until you were drinking water and Jaemin had casually asked for a sip. Then, it clicked. Mark jumped, he pointed fingers, he accused. All of which, you two blinked innocently at him in confusion, Jaemin’s bottom lip touching the rim of your bottle. 

Jaemin and you denied everything Mark tried to throw at you two, given that in all actuality, you two are only getting to know each other. He still hasn’t kissed you on the lips. He still hasn’t really spent time with you alone again, though you are incredibly nervous at that potential idea coming to fruition. 

After the night of the party, you’ve been wondering and waiting for his move. It did bother you the first few days, but his sweet texts always had a grin growing on your face. Jaemin played a very long game. 

“Really? Like what?” You try to hide your undying curiosity. Not looking up from your screen, you pretend to browse through empty tabs to seem like you are too busy to care. But deep down, it has been eating away at you wondering how Jaemin feels.

Mark smirks, “tell me what has been going on between you two and then I’ll tell you.” 

Scoffing, you roll your eyes at his deal. “That just sounds like you’re making shit up.” 

“So there is something going on between you two!” His voice grows louder, a bit more accusatorial. His eyes narrow, “you know I expected secrets from him, but not from you! You’re my best friend.” Mark’s sad pout tugs at your heartstrings.

A sigh escapes your lips and you give him your full attention. It didn’t feel good having to keep things from him, but you thought to wait until something actually happened before saying anything. Nonetheless, since you can’t stand seeing your best friend sad, you decide to just come clean from the beginning. 

“He sent you that nude!?” Mark gasps as you reveal the night Jaemin drove you home. The more you talk about your encounters with Jaemin and your thought process, the more you realize how much you like him. Beyond attraction, beyond his chivalry. A flower has grown from the seed he watered.  

“No wonder why there is this weird tension whenever we’re all together. It’s because you two are literally eye fucking each other across the room.” Mark grumbles, but he lets you finish telling your piece. From the nude to the conversation in the kitchen to the kiss on the cheek. He now knows everything you’ve experienced and how you’re wrapped around Jaemin’s finger.

A part of you prepares for the teasing and the gross kissing noises, but your best friend just nods silently. His stare is blank, like he is trying to process the everything and nothing you’ve been through. Growing nervous, you shift uncomfortably on the couch. 

“Jaemin asked me about your favorite things. He told me that it’s something that would come in handy one day.” Mark clears his throat and can barely look you in the eye, almost embarrassed to share such an intimate question his friend asked about you. “He also asked if I had feelings for you.”

Your jaw drops, heart falling to the pit of your stomach. This is unexplored terrain – the two of you never touched on the topic of potentially becoming romantic. It had always just felt mutually platonic. Sitting up quickly, you lean closer toward him.

He sends a weird stare at your sudden attentive figure. “I don’t, first of all, don’t get too excited here.” 

The anticipation leaves your system, falling back against the cushion and going back to your homework. “I thought you were going to reveal some crazy backstory with the way you’re acting.”

Mark laughs, mockingly. “We’re nearly siblings. I’ve seen every bad part of you, your charm doesn’t work on me.” 

“Well, the feeling is mutual!” You ruffle his hair, messing it up between your fingers as he tries to push you off. A fit of giggles fill the room that the two of you don’t hear the front door open.

When the door shuts, you glance over to see Jaemin stripping his shirt. Cursing under your breath, your eyes remain stuck on all his bare skin. His whole chest and abs glisten with droplets of sweat, veins popping from whatever pump he got from the gym. His track pants hang low, the waistband of his briefs peeking through. 

Mark laughs at how you’re practically frozen over Jaemin. Jaemin looks your way and his familiar, sweet smile greets you. “Hey cutie, did you finish your project?” 

He walks over, his shirt thrown over his broad shoulders. Heat travels across your cheeks, you swear the temperature in the room went up several degrees. You’re batting your eyelashes, but averting any attention from his defined figure as he closes the space between you two. 

Jaemin’s heart swells at the sight of your shy antics. He can’t imagine anyone as cute as you, so reactive to every little thing he does. He doesn’t even see Mark in the room, all he wants to pay attention to is you. 

“Almost. Mark has been distracting.” Maybe your voice naturally gets airy around him, Jaemin just makes you want to twirl your hair and smile all the time. He takes a seat on the armrest next to you. As he crosses his arms, his biceps make their appearance once again – all voluptuous and strong. 

“Oh? How so?” He cocks a curious brow, finally taking a glance over at his housemate. Mark snickers at how differently you react to Jaemin’s casual demeanor. For all he has known, this is how Jaemin is. He’ll walk around shirtless, even pants less, as if it is any normal day. But since Mark kindly warns him that you’re going to be coming around, he complies. 

Now, Jaemin just wants to drive you into delirium.

Your mind is absolutely wiped, there is nothing more distracting than a half naked Jaemin – this you knew too well. As you tremble over your words, Mark saves the day by falsely admitting how he’s been trying to chat with you so he didn’t have to do his essay. 

“Ah, chatterbox. I’m jealous.” Jaemin gets up and spins on his heel, heading toward the stairs. Your body unknowingly leans toward his fleeting figure, a pout tugging at the corner of your lips.

Jaemin’s finger taps along the railing, drawing a trail as he walks up each step. “I wish I got to distract you from your project, talk to you for hours.” 

You’re freaking out internally, trying to decipher if he had just spit out an innuendo or if he genuinely meant it. You fight the urge to completely yell at the top of your lungs how much you’d love him to. Mark also bites back the scream that threatens to escape, not believing what he is a witness to. 

“You can!” Your chirpy, forced tone nearly cracks from your nervousness. “Join us after your shower.” Even if you wanted him alone, you’re willing to settle for moments with Mark in them.

“I’ll come, don’t worry.” No flirtation, no smug smirks, Jaemin gently reassures you that he’ll come back for you. And while the heavy tension in the air dissipates, you’re finding your heart to throb at his thoughtfulness. 

“Dude, you’re so whipped for him.” Mark giggles and you’re throwing a decorative pillow at his chest, very much embarrassed. “I should let you guys be alone, would you want that?”

The second Mark proposes his question, your heart shakes at the possibility of Jaemin and you finally alone again for an extended period of time. It is a nerve wrecking thought, you can feel your pulse racing. Not that you had avoided such a potential situation, but you didn’t really think you would get the chance to. Now that your good friend knows everything, he has the power to help you out. 

“I do.” You’re admitting so much of your vulnerability that Mark actually softens at your tiny request. He nods and packs up his things without any hesitation. “But where are you going to go?” You didn’t want to seem like you were kicking out your friend from his own house.

He brushes off your guilty tone, “don’t worry. There’s a study session happening in 15 minutes for one of my classes.” With that, he slings his backpack over his shoulder and takes a moment to look at you. His facial expression is hard to decipher. 

You stand and he holds your shoulders, “no more secrets.” Mark says with glossy eyes and a small smile. “And use protection.” He laughs, breaking the almost sweet and serious moment you two rarely share. You push him off and roll your eyes, though secretly grateful that you have Mark in your life.

It’s agonizing as you wait for Jaemin to come out of the shower, being completely alone with your hypotheticals and expectations eating away at you. There’s no way you have the capacity right now to focus on your project and homework. Jaemin just consumed every bit of you.

When he finally walks down the stairs, fully clothed and hair freshly blow dried, you pretend again that you’re too busy to notice. He heads toward the kitchen to open a can of Diet Pepsi and makes his way back. Jaemin snuggles up next to you, arm draped around the back of your side of the couch and you’re drowning in the scent of his body wash.

“Mark left?” He sips, his Adam’s apple bobbing and his jaw tightening with each gulp. You’re lost in his seeping aura, wondering how the fuck he looks so good doing something so simple. 

Clearing your throat, you place your laptop on the coffee table and face up at him. He meets your starry eyes and it takes so much in you to not break away. “Study session.” 

Jaemin nods knowingly, leaning forward to also neatly set down his can. Almost immediately, the atmosphere in the room shifts from light hearted to heavy sensual tension. Not that either one of you expected anything to happen, but just being in each other’s presence is suffocating and intoxicating all at once.

Now that you’re finally alone with him, you can’t help all the nerves and flips in your stomach from happening. “I kept you waiting then.” His voice is raspy, causing it to sound deeper than normal. 

Shaking your head, you say the first thing your heart thinks of. “I’m always willing to wait for you.” Jaemin lifts an eyebrow at your statement, noting the shock in your face as soon as it filled the air. His arm snakes around your waist, pulling you onto his lap and you’re maneuvering your legs to straddle him. 

This intimate position has your heart springing out of your chest, thumping so aggressively that you swear he can feel it against his own. His hands are politely placed on your back and he peers up at you with a sultry stare. You’re holding your breath and unsure where to place your hands, losing your wits already at how things have escalated. 

“Is this alright with you? Am I doing too much?” He cautiously asks, ready to set you back down to where he had selfishly pulled you from. 

“This,” Scrambling, tripping, cat’s got your tongue! Jaemin doesn’t realize how your mind has been lit with flames all from this one swift movement. “This is fine. I like this.”

He smirks, “you like being on top of me?” When he asks such a nasty question, you’re too bashful to play along. Jaemin chuckles, “you’re driving me crazy right now.” 

You are? It’s quite unbelievable that any of this has an effect on him. Perhaps he is better at holding back his reactive facial expressions, but Jaemin seems so laid back and unphased. “Me? I’ve barely said more than a few sentences.” 

“It’s not about the quantity, you can say anything to me and I’d be smitten for you.” Jaemin taps your nose, in a loving and endearing way. You’re getting a side of him you’ve never really seen before – this head over heels, heart eyed fool. A part of you craves more of this, feeling special at how he only has eyes for you.

The other part is shocked that you’re even experiencing any of this, how did you get so lucky?

“Jaem, are you going to finally tell me how you feel about me?” When you say his name, his nonchalant attitude almost falters. His ears perk up, eyes alert and a tighter grip on the hem of your shirt. “How did we get here?” 

He purses his lips, contemplating long and hard about how he should go about explaining himself. Your voice is more stern, he can tell you’ve been wanting to get an answer to this for a while.

“I like you.” Jaemin says it so easily, those words roll off of his tongue effortlessly that it surprises himself.

“Since when?” You don’t mean to sound so interrogative, but all this time, this didn’t make any sense to you. Maybe your own lovey eyes blinded you from seeing his feelings or that your own self esteem halted you from believing someone like him could like you back. Nevertheless, this all came about so suddenly for you.

A small smile grows on his face as he thinks back to the first time he saw you. Your timid introduction and you glued to Mark’s side, but none of that could take away from how pretty you looked.

And when he first heard you laugh, like really laugh, he swore he needed to hear it again, and again, and again. Sooner or later, he found your shyness irresistibly adorable and he only wanted to interact with you more, but was unsure about your relationship with Mark.

Ultimately, Jaemin decided to keep his distance because you and Mark seemed more than close. However, the more he pulled away, the more you filled his empty thoughts and daydreams.

Whenever you came around, he found himself happier just upon seeing you for a brief second and hearing your silly anecdotes to Mark all the way from his room. If all you two had exchanged was a small greeting, Jaemin would be satisfied. 

Until the night you stayed for one of their drunk kickbacks, and something inside of him unlocked. A new sense of desire? The introduction of lust and curiosity.

Jaemin noted the way you’d squirm, dig yourself deeper into the cushions, hide your face in your shirt. Your reactions to his friends’ sexual adventures were typical, full of gasps and slight embarrassment, but your eyes were more than telling of your piqued interest. The one thing that he hated was that you never openly shared a single thing, even when asked. 

So, that meant he didn’t either. In a more respectful sense, he normally doesn’t dive into the nitty details as much as his housemates do, but you were such a mysterious person. He wanted to keep himself that way as well, making him as alluring as you were. The art of not knowing, just makes you want to know more. 

And when you would stand up for him against the other boys, that boldness only made you more attractive. Maybe you didn’t want to know about his personal endeavors, regardless, you respected his privacy and were willing to break out of your shell for him.

What other layers of you has he not seen? That caused him to wonder how much he could push you, what other reactions he could draw out of you, and gauge if you had any interest in him. 

In between your nervous stammers and long stares, Jaemin had some inkling that you might be into him. However, he couldn’t tell if that was just his ego deluding his judgment or if it was the actual truth. 

He had something less drastic in mind than you walking in on him in the bathroom. But, he thought if he waited and hesitated as much as he did before, there would never really be another chance. If you were disinterested, it would’ve been a lighthearted mistake and brief awkwardness. If you were interested, then it opens the door metaphorically as well. 

So in the spur of the moment, as he heard your voice and footsteps down the hallway, he quickly unlocked the door. His heart pounded rapidly in his chest as he tried to keep his phone steady.

Act natural. Be cool. Be confident.

He just hoped you couldn’t see right through his desperate act. And when you opened the door and everything that followed after, it was enough to wash away any doubt he had before. 

After dropping you off, he decided right then and there that he was going to pursue you. 

“Would you believe me if I told you it was since the day I met you?” His voice is soft and quiet. Jaemin brushes a few strands of hair out of your face, gently tucking it behind your ear. “I was looking forward to your presence without realizing it. I’d tell Haechan and Jeno how I was excited to hear your voice, even if it wasn’t speaking to me.” 

He could be such a romantic, though this didn’t come too much of a shock to you. You couldn’t believe that you’d be the recipient of it one day.  “Since the day we met. That feels like ages ago.” Your eyes wander off, trying to regain the distant memory. 

You could barely remember the day Mark introduced you to his housemates. It was such a blurry scene, mostly because you were so painstakingly nervous so you tried to bury it in the depths of your mind. The only thing you remember was the tight grip you had on Mark’s sleeve and Jaemin’s gorgeous smile. 

“Why didn’t you try approaching me? Be my friend, get to know me back then?” You ask, a small edge in your tone. Instead of months of googly, heart eyed stares, you two could’ve been acquainted much earlier. Your relationship would’ve been so far along, milestones would’ve already been hit. A thousand kisses would’ve already been exchanged.

Jaemin is well aware of his lack of action, “I wasn’t sure about you and Mark. I didn’t want to overstep and initially, I couldn’t tell if you even wanted to be around anyone besides him.” Now his questions to both you and Mark made sense.

He wanted to be absolutely certain that there would be no conflict. No room for anyone else. No blurred lines. Jaemin wanted to do it right.

“So, me walking in on you in the bathroom… was that an honest mistake?” As all the dots connected and all the lines matched up, you’re replaying all the moments that led up to this point.

He can see the gears turning in your beautiful head and laughs, “like I said, somehow, it’s always unlocked when you’re around.” 

Rolling your eyes, you settle with your own conclusion that perhaps it was in his plans all along to fluster the fuck out of you. As much as you hate to admit it, it worked. Hook, line and sinker. 

“How do you feel?” Jaemin asks, as his knuckles rub lovingly against your cheek. His big hand slides toward your jawline and he firmly cups your face, a quick flicker from your eyes to your lips. 

Intense. That is how you feel. At any second, you are a volcano ready to erupt. All these pent up emotions – lust, fondness, frustration – burst at your seams. All of which is unbeknownst to Jaemin, despite being the very spark of it.

“I feel like you should kiss me now.” Spoken confidently, Jaemin is shocked at your response. You didn’t have to ask him twice though, as he pulled you into him without missing a beat. 

The kiss is slow and cautious, like he is holding back from doing too much, taking too much. He guides your hands onto his collarbones and across his toned chest. Underneath his thin shirt, you feel how strong and defined he is. You’re hesitant at first, unaware of how much you could feel.

Jaemin could sense it, pausing in between your small kisses to take off his shirt. You’re wide eyed, fully shocked at his chiseled body right in front of you. It’s just like how you remembered from his photo, except now it’s not through a tiny phone screen. All on display, Jaemin takes your shaky hands and places them delicately on his broad shoulders.

“Touch me.” It’s all he has to say until your lips are connected again. His hot skin against your fingertips as you’re dragging them down his biceps, moving along all of his exposed terrain. 

Adrenaline fills your system and you can’t even begin to stop all the lustful and romantic feelings that bubble across your chest. So, you fervently kiss him back to signal just how much you want it, how much you wish to be kissed by him.

Jaemin loses it between your sweet touches and your eagerness, both hands now holding your face steady for him to deepen the kiss. The feverish glide of his lips on yours is something unforgettable. It’s inimitable, a passion that solely exists for the two of you. Kissing Jaemin is blissful, like nothing matters more than being here lips locked and hands on his bare chest.

Kissing Jaemin also ruined you. Moving forward, you’ll crave this feeling forever. How are you supposed to kiss anyone else in this world now? How will you ever want to kiss anyone else knowing you’ve experienced this?

You two make out until condensation forms on the outside of his Diet Pepsi can. There is a lingering taste of the soda on his tongue; a taste you once hated so much is now something you can’t get enough of. 

When you’re both finally pulling away, your lips are puffy and Jaemin is catching his breath. He could feel his heart bursting at the sight of your disheveled hair and pouty lips. You’re the prettiest baby he’s ever seen.

He’s staring at you with tiny stars in his eyes, ones that reflect your own. And he breaks the silence, “now we can finally tell Mark we kissed.” A sweet, kind smile appears at the end of his sentence. 

You’re laughing, and Jaemin’s heart flutters knowing he is the reason behind that melodic sound he loves hearing so much. 

“Mark is going to love hearing about this.”

[e1dritchjackal0pe]

𝔗𝔬 𝔗𝔬𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔉𝔦𝔯𝔢

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: Isolated and weary of your solitary marriage with the prince, you gather enough courage to approach him one night with the declaration that the both of you try to become better acquainted. When you had proposed the idea, you never could have imagined how it would forever alter the dynamic of your union.

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: 18+ content. Minor's scram. AFAB descriptions, some female implying terms used such as "wife." Fingering, Oral (F!Receiving), naked female and clothed male, some hints of sub Aemond, unprotected sex, creampie, breeding kink. Not proofread. Probably very poorly translated High Valyrian, blame the internet, not me. Aemond being a little shit, but also a little soft, just to balance it out. Aemond speaking in High Valyrian because it does unspeakable things to me.

𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢𝔰: 24.8k words. Another unnecessarily long fic because I have no self-control. Reader is a Baratheon. This was honestly just an excuse to write about dragon riding with Aemond. A little bit of Vhagar appreciation because she receives far too much hate.

Life has not been easy as of late. With the threat of war ever-present, looming over the entirety of Westeros like a great storm cloud, thick and heavy with the promise of shrieking winds and a downpour violent enough to rip the foundations of the Seven Kingdoms from the earth and sweep them away in tides of blood. This war could be the end of it all. With dragonflame so readily at the disposal of both opposing sides, there is the possibility of no victors in this battle. All could very well wind up as a victim. Charred corpses to litter the burned lands, scorched black and red from fire and blood like forgotten toys carelessly left discarded and damaged by the children (or the gods) that played with them. 

It is becoming increasingly difficult to nudge it all - the paranoia and worry - back to the distant recesses of your mind. But it clings to you like a stubborn sickness. Making a home in the pit of your stomach like some vile, nauseating thing. It has you hopelessly adrift with no source of salvation to cling to. Especially now that you are in a place that brings you no comfort. Confined within the cold, labyrinthian walls of a castle that you do not truly know beyond the whispers of its name and the faint, watery memory of once dining in the Great Hall as a child while people jovially chattered and feasted on banquet. 

It's all so lost. Being forced to show a polite expression and nod and entertain lords and ladys that hold no true familiarity or warmth to you. Strangers with faces that would smile and stare as though they have known you for years. It is all so restricting. Binding and tight and clinging to your person like the new garments that you have been gifted with upon your arrival to the Red Keep; forced and expected to sport the customary garb and accessories of the Targaryen culture and trends. All wrapped up and pinned up in fine jewelry and embroidered fabrics like a prized broodmare. 

But perhaps then, even "prize mare" is giving yourself far too much praise. Prized pawn is far more fitting of a term. Just some plain, ordinary piece meant to be moved about the board at the whims of the player. Plucked to jump from square to checkered square with little care. You are a simple instrument on a much bigger board; the scope of which, you know is entirely beyond you and your imaginations. 

It makes it all so difficult to not be cross. To push down the anger that prickles at your flesh like hot coals and burns within the chasm of your ribcage. You feel cheated somewhat. Used and played with despite having prepared for this possibility since the moment you had been delivered from the safety of your mother's womb and into the chill of the world. It should be no shock that you have found no comfort. Not in your daily duties and the nugatory responsibilities and diversions you must fill your time with; all of the needlework, entertaining and book reading. It is tedious. Dull. Weak distractions against your harsh reality. That here, so far from home, you are well and truly at your lonesome. Wed to a man who wants little to do with you beyond your expected obligations.  Though you might truly have only yourself to blame for that. Your husband had worn his intentions on his sleeve when he had arrived Storm's End that one tempestuous evening, bearing his true colors to your father and your sisters when he had traded for the Baratheon House's allegiance and loyalty in the exchange for accepting your hand in marriage. He propositioned such terms swiftly. Shockingly so. Sheading little thought to the requirement - it was as easy as breathing for him. All while you stood alongside your sisters, being mindful to keep your spine rigid and head held high while your future was bartered away so easily; swallowing down the unease that stirred in your gut. 

And even with your reservations on the matter, and the buried urge to rush forward and object, you could not help but to study him from your place beside your siblings. You had heard stories of the Targaryen family your entire life. And although you had seen them once before as a young girl, the memories had done little properly illustrate the nearly ethereal grace with which he carried himself with. The first word that had crossed your mind when you first watched him prowl into your family's ancestorial home was simply just:

Stunning. 

For most men you would have used handsome, or dashing. And perhaps those words could be used for the likes of Prince Aemond Targaryen, but there's something about them that does not quite do him the proper justice. He was imposing as soon as he entered the space. Footsteps softly echoing along the stone floors as he approached your father's throne with nothing but pure confidence in his stride. As though you were the guests and not he. And like a moth drawn to a steady open flame your vision had immediately been caught and fastened onto him as though you were placed under spell. 

A simple, harmless fascination, you like to tell yourself. After all, it is not so strange to be captivated by a man who is said to be closer to a god than man; one who rides on the back of a great dragon. And when you first saw him, even with all your uncertainty of his arrival, it was impossible to look away. To try and not to study the countenance of a man you have heard so much about. Tracing the pronounced ridge of his aquiline nose, the keen cut of his jaw, the curved shape of his lips that were set with a slight purse. His features were decidedly sharp, but it suited him well with the assured way he held himself. The scar that marred the left side of his face could do nothing to damage his beauty. A beauty that is so inherently Valyrian. Attributes that mark someone who has blood of the dragon rushing through their veins, smoldering their hair into shades of smoke. And his hair was no different. Spilling down his back like rivulets of pale, silver silk. 

But it was his eye that had caught your attention the most. Even with only one to look, it peered at the world with a focus that was nearly unnerving. Locking onto your father in striking shades of either blue or violet - you could not tell at the time from the distance that had spaced between you. 

And in the moment that you had stood and evaluated him with a sense of wonder and dread, his eye had never flickered over to you. He had hardly spared you a glance. Holding his focus entirely on the Lord before him with the hints of a satisfied smirk nudging at the curled edges of his mouth, even while he held himself so composedly. Like he was truly pleased with the trajectory of the evening. The lack of his attentions on you should have been more than enough to clue you in on the trajectory of your life with the prince. Moreso than the ominous tempest that raged outside the stone walls. Downpours and thunder are no strangers to Storm's End, often ravaging the world beneath with flurries of rain and winds strong enough to lift waves to thrash the against the surface. But that day you had decided that the storm that had blotted out the golden hue of the sun was not simply just a common occurrence, but instead a bad omen. One brought on with the arrival of the prince, set as a warning - a blight on the future of your matrimony that heeded nothing but misery. And you had been right in some regards. 

You knew for certain that as soon as Aemond Targaryen had stepped away from you to stalk after his young nephew with the insistent ravings, flashing a blade with nothing but a crazed scorn in his voice, that you would find no solace within the cradle of your marriage to the prince. And the death of the Velaryon child and his dragon that swiftly followed that night only solidified that assumption. You are married to a mad man. 

One ruled by duty and strategy, but a mad man, nonetheless. 

Even with that in mind you could not help but to long for a connection with the prince. No matter how minuscule or spurious it might be. Your associations with the second born son have been spars at best. Done purely out of obligation at best. Each time you had ever been within each other's presence it had been out of a means to project the image of husband and wife that was expected by the masses and the court. The wedding, the feast you had partaken in, the consummation of your marriage. It was all done with an air of detachment from the prince. He was never rude, or untoward with you, but there was silent boundary that he had sliced between you with his absence and apparent lack of interest in your union. The nights that he would bed you were few and far in between. Done out of the necessity of producing an heir rather than a means to show affection. You could feel it in the clinical way that he touched you. Gentle, firm and somewhat rigid when he would guide you to bend over the foot of the bed with the palm of his hands, lifting up your skirts swiftly as though he is always eager to be done with it and somewhere else. 

You are not a foolish young girl anymore who would listen to your late mother's romantic stories and tales of besotted, star-crossed lovers with a rapt, captivated attention. You now know the nature of marriages. Especially those of highborn society. The expectations of them. They are often done out of the means to strengthen political alliances, not done out of a declaration of love. 

Still, it would be nice to at least know the man that you are set to spend the remainder of your life until the Stranger finally takes you from this mortal realm. The desire for it burned at you, ate at you with teeth that ripped and gnawed at your heart piece by vicious piece until you felt hollow. Not even Queen Alicent, despite her best, though often rare efforts to bring you ease has managed to pull you from the depths of your melancholy.

You wanted more. You were weary of belonging to a stranger. A man who made no attempts for as much simple conversation with you but spent every waking moment strategizing for bloodshed and the success of his house. You knew that if you meant to alter the course of your union with the prince that it is you who must go to him. And the thought of that terrified you greatly. 

You had heard the tales of those who dared to claim dragons that had no desire to be asserted. Those fools' endings were all same. Snapped up between the sharp maws of the great beasts to be swallowed in a gruesome lump of bloodied meat and crushed bone or engulfed in raging flames of bright, molten gold. You had absolutely no desire to become one of those fools. And despite knowing your husband so little, you were able to gather enough, that despite his cunning, he was also undeniably impulsive. Lead by the ferocity and the heat of the dragon blood that coursed throughout his body and burned within his soul like the fire they spit from their throats. If you went to him in the endeavor of drawing him into a connection that he truly did not seek, the only thing you might gain in turn is his ire. 

And so, you had resisted the urge for as long as you could. Settling for the brief interactions you shared during the supper's spent with the family, or the moments when he would meet you within your chambers to do his duty has husband and prince in the hopes of planting his seed and creating his successor. But it all quickly caught up with you. It was not enough, living on the meager crumbs that these encounters provided. Quickly you had decided that you would rather hypothetically get scorched alive by the scorn of your husband than continue to spend your days as a living dead woman, drifting about the cold corridors like a ghost wondering about the life that could have been, had you simply just confronted him. 

It was nearing the night, just little before the hour of the bat, that you found yourself standing outside the doors of his chambers, with soft lilac hues of the twilight slipping through the windows that lined the corridor and painted the floors in dusty shades of lavender. It was purely unbecoming of a young woman to be out so late without an escort, even if she was intending to meet with her husband. It had made the anxiety quivering in your chest even stronger. Fluttering like some wild, frightened creature while your mind swarmed with paranoia and hesitation. Your thoughts had seemed determined to persuade you from your intentions, begging that you turned heel and returned to your quarters before you were noticed. 

Perhaps he was already abed. Deep in slumber and at peace in his rest. Or perhaps he was not even in his chambers at all. Busy with matters beyond yourself. 

It was all almost enough to tear your feet from their place on the floor, but your body seemed eager to betray you, and before you could even notice the movement of your own hand, it was lifted and the sound of your knuckles rapping against the cool wood of the door had rung out within the confines of the hallway. Sharp, loud, and almost violent in your ears. Echoing out like nails being struck into the face of a coffin. 

You nearly flinched, mouth running dry at the realization of what you had just done, and with it the urge to flee had never been so great. Trembling up your spine like a cold breath. You had hoped that he would not answer. That he truly was asleep or vacant from his apartments, but like a twisted jest, the universe had answered your desires, and the sound of his voice slipped from beyond the door. Muffled by the obstruction, but no less commanding. Unable to ignore the call, you had drawn in a deep breath. Steeling yourself and the relentless patter of your heart before you drew the door open and slipped past the threshold with the drag of your skirts whispering ominously as you went. 

The air had seemed to shift when you had entered, and the shadows that clung to the corners and ceiling of the room felt as though it was prepared to swallow you whole, had it not been bayed away by the low flickering the candles that burned about the space like plumes of delicate amber. Your eyes had flitted about the quarters like a startled doe's, desperate to learn the structure of the area as though you might have to flee. Your vision had skipped over the various tomes and documents scattered about the tables; the random objects placed about in meager means of decoration. But you could appreciate them at least, for giving you a small glimpse into the mind of the man you have been bound to. Much like the chessboard left perched atop a tabletop, like a clue to his intelligence and keenness for scheming, and the quills and ink vials and parchment spread along his writing desk. 

But you were only able to distract yourself for so long before your attention had been tugged along as though by an invisible string to focus on the man sitting across the space from where you stood, one of the aforementioned documents held within one of his hands while he watched you steadily. His expression was mostly neutral. But even with how easily he was usually able to school his features, you could see the hint of surprise bleeding into his gaze. The subtle raise of his brow and the confused purse of his lips. You could practically see the question ready at the tip of his tongue, and you loathed the awkwardness that permeated the air. Stifling and prickling like a rash along your skin. 

"Wife," he finally greeted. Though you could still hear the dull bewilderment in the softness of his tone. 

It took you a moment to collect yourself, feebly trying to shake the uncertainty that still clung to you and when you had finally willed yourself to speak, you could only think the gods that your voice did not quiver, even though it was but a few words. "Lord husband," you returned the acknowledgement, nodding your chin slightly in substitute of a curtsy.  You watched closely as he gently placed the document in his hand down flat on the desk, tracing his face and the shadows the spilt across his features from the dim candlelight and the remaining, dull remnants of sunlight that managed to slip in through the windows; the reflection of the fire and sun glinting within the captivating shade of his eye. 

"To what do I owe the honor?" He inquired. 

It had been enough to snap you out of the daze that had clouded over you, jerking you from it so suddenly that you had nearly gasped with the realization that you had been staring. Embarrassment burned at your cheeks, hot and uncomfortable. You cleared your throat, straightening your shoulders in an effort to at least appear confident, but you swore that you had caught the edge of Prince Aemond's mouth twitching up in the semblance of a smile, letting you know that you had not succeeded in your aim. 

"I wished to speak to you." You had answered, clasping your fingers together in front of yourself, and you were now unable to ignore how clammy they had become. 

"So late in the evening?" Came his quick reply, the brow above his good eye perking ever so slightly. And if you did not know any better you would let yourself entertain the idea that it nearly sounded playful, had his face not been so woefully lacking joy. 

"Yes," you said just as fast. You had to ignore the weight of your tongue in your mouth. It suddenly felt too thick. Too clumsy. 

He only hummed in response to your answer. The sound was low and inquisitive, thrumming through the air like warm velvet. And though he had not spoken a word back to you, the singular eye that had he pinned you with bore into you with enough focus to drive you to speak. Forcing the words from your still lungs like a grip that did not exist. Wringing your breath from your body with only the weight of his gaze. "I would like . . . " Your voice died out as quickly as it had risen, snagging within your chest like it had been caught on something. It did not help that your nerves were alight. That your heart was beating wildly, like a skittish animal. But it was mostly just irritating. It had made you feel stupid, the way that your body refused to yield to your own commands. Far too caught within the spell of a primal sort of caution and reluctance to relent to something as easy as talking. 

"You would like to. . ?" Prince Aemond articulated the question slowly, letting it hang between the both of you, as though you were a child. Annoyance had spread throughout your flesh like a wildfire, and for one idiotic moment you contemplated snapping at him. But fortunately, your self-preservation still clung strong and forced you to be mindful of your tongue. 

"This may sound odd," you began, swallowing around the spit that had welled up within your mouth. "But I would like to get to know you better, my prince."  

It sounded completely stupid as soon as you heard it from your own ears, and a part of you had longed to wince but you remained surprisingly unflinching. But Aemond it seemed, had been taken by complete surprise. Even though the slip in his composure was quick and subtle, you caught it. The mild slump of his shoulders, the straightening of his posture, the soft pinch between his brows. All of these minute tells that told you so much, though they were gone just as quickly as they had shown. Melted away and replaced by a composure that must have taken him years to perfect. 

But no matter how small his shock had been, the sight of such a naked, human emotion flickering across his face was enough to break the barrage that sealed your voice. The words seemed to flow from you more freely then in a rush of thoughts and feelings; desperate to finally speak your mind and make peace with yourself, and most importantly him. 

"I hold no delusions over this marriage. I know that our union was a strategic one, brought on by the possibility of a looming war, and the foundations of it are clear." Your sight had flickered back up to his own once more, and the hold of his stare once again threatened to leave you breathless. "I realize that we are not truly lovers, however, I do not think that must mean we are to be strangers also. I wish to know you, husband. I do not expect your affections, or love, but I desire at least the possibility of your attentions. An understanding of each other. And perhaps, if it is willed, a sense of companionship. A comradery." 

He remained horrendously silent from his place across from you. Watching you with a keen eye while the hand that still rested along the desks surface fidgeted, the point of his mid-finger ceaselessly gliding along the back of his thumb. It had made you nervous, the way he watched you. Akin to a predator lurking in the shadows, awaiting its moment to strike for its prey's vulnerable throat. You must have stumbled. Foolishly, like the greedy men in all of those ancient folktales. You slipped within the dark and it was then you knew that the dragon was stirring; throat welling up with fire to burn you down for being so presumptuous. 

"So you are here, in the beginnings of the night, interrupting me in the midst of my duties, because you are lonely?" 

That all that you needed to know that you had truly wandered too close. Assumed and hoped too greatly. Blindly walking into the dragonpit to be burned alight like kindling for a fire. And even with irritation gnawing at you and begging that you speak out in your own defense, you had known that you must tread lightly, even while the prince scorned you like you were a naive girl child chasing after some witless fantasy. He wished to humiliate you it seemed, and even while he was entirely successful in his aim, you would not give him the satisfaction of showing it. But you knew that you had to be tactful. An unchecked rise of your emotions would only serve to go against you. 

"Yes, my prince," you had agreed without wavering. And much like your own, his gaze had shifted. The sardonic edge that it had held changed into something darker. More directed than even before. Studious almost. But no matter how much gravity it had held, it was no longer enough to withhold you from speaking. You kept your voice as light as possible, but the firmness, the fervor behind it was more than apparent, drifting out to fill the silence of his quarters. And with each sentence, you let the courage that you had not allowed before to guide you a step closer to the prince. "Yes, I long to know the man that I am to be tied to until death. Yes, I long to know the father of my future children. Yes, I long to know my husband." And with that you allowed yourself to halt after your final step. Then you were so close to his writing desk that if you had leaned over you could have easily reached out and touched him. But you remained fixed in your place, hands still clasped and shoulders high. "Regardless, if my husband will become a lover or simply an ally." 

He remained silent in his observations. Regarding you closely as though he expected you to suddenly give way underneath his stare and dash out of the room. But you did not. Not even when the chill of apprehension trembled along the expanse of your back, sneaking underneath the fabric of your garments like a cold draft. He shifted back in his seat, muscles coiling underneath the dark leathers of his doublet and for a moment you had considered the idea that he might lunge. That he would strike forward like the instincts of his blood no doubt urged him to do. At the very least, you had suspected cold words. A detached response that would order you to return back to your apartments and to leave him undisturbed of your person until he saw fit. 

"Very well then . . . Wife." His head tilted just the slightest when he addressed you, and the glint of his eye reflecting the light of the many candles seemed to bore into you; notching the words he spoke that much deeper and nourishing the surprise of his agreement. "I will make more of an effort to appease your loneliness, should it bring you ease." 

It was because of that decision - because of that night, that your relationship with the prince had been altered. No longer did he suit to sit along your side at social gatherings, tightlipped and rigid, but now he made somewhat of a strive. Much more than before. Though still quiet, he took more attempts to include you in the conversations that he would bother to indulge in. Typically, unremarkable topics that he would try to join you in on, like snide comment on the lords and ladies or an observation of your gowns. Prince Aemond, you easily concluded, had no idea how to speak to the fairer sex. A characteristic that you might have let yourself see as charming if he were not always so subtly contemptuous and withdrawn. Even with all of the improvements with his communications, his presence itself was still scarce. Constantly torn away by the impending threat of calamity and battle. 

And no matter how much you knew that his absence was entirely necessary for the good of the kingdom, especially after the Battle of Rook's Rest and the unexpected injuries that have left the King bedridden and near death, the prince was sparser than ever, with him assuming the role of Prince Regent in his brother's stead. But like a poison, that bitter, selfish part of you could not help but to be displeased by the near constant lack of his company.  

Today however . . . Today you might actually be regretting his attempts at companionship. 

"You still have not told me the nature of our outing, my prince!" You call to him, trudging after him like a shadow with your skirts bundled and clutched within your palms as you desperately attempt to keep up with his much longer stride uphill. The muscles of your calves have already begun to burn and ache with your body already growing weary of the incline, and the weight of your dress does little to aid you in your climb along the earth, still damp from last night's rain. Realistically, there are only a few paces between you and he, but in your mind, it feels as though there are stretches of land separating you. 

He only offers you the barest look, hardly even glancing over his shoulder at you as his long legs continue to carry him upward. "For someone who is so desperate for my time, I did not expect to hear any complaints," he answers, full of snark even though his tone remains just as steady and soft as always. 

Heat prickles at your cheeks. Though now, with your exertion, it is difficult to ascertain if it is simply from your efforts to trek after him or purely from annoyance. A retort rests heavy on your tongue, but you are unsure if you should bother spending your breath on it. It is tempting. But perhaps later. "It is no complaint; I am simply wondering just where it is that you are taking me. If you wished to go for a walk, perhaps the castle grounds would have sufficed . . . or at the very least, a mention of it would have given me time to at least prepare for more a suitable attire." 

He spares you another glance, managing to look down his nose at you from over his shoulder as he continues his ascent until he reaches the leveled crest of the knoll. Leaving you to chase after him while the damp soil, and soaked grass and wildflowers threaten to slip your traction out from underneath your feet with every step. You have never had the urge to strike the prince before, but here and now, you think that you could if he were only close enough. This time he opts to remain silent. Returning his attentions on what lies ahead of him, and it has a flicker of concern breathing to life inside of you. The paranoid, unfounded thought that he means to kill you tries to sprout. It would explain why he had lured you so far away from the safety of the castle walls, and why he had chosen to leave both of your mounts downhill and unattended to graze. How pathetic it would be, to be slain in the middle of the wood, like a dumb girl lured away by a fae in an old folktale. 

And if the treasonous whispers that dart about the castle are true, that he had been the one to strike down the king above the battlefield of Rook's Rest, then surely, he would have no qualms about killing the likes of you. 

Still, while irritation and caution thrums underneath your flesh, you cannot but help to stare at the expanse of his back as you near the top of the hill, taking in the sight of the confidence in his posture as he all but struts along the earth. The sunlight dances along the pale shade of his hair, bringing to life the faint hint of cream and soft gold that hides within the silver. He is gorgeous out here like this. Relaxed within the peace and confines of nature, while the little birds nestled inside the protection of neighboring trees chatter and trill. For a rare moment like this, touched by sunlight and the air, perfumed with the musk of a storm passed and the fragrance of flowers, it is easy to pretend that he is still not a complete stranger. That the impossible gap that seems to divide you both has grown closer, and he does not look to you as an obligation but as a comfort. 

Another fool's reverie perhaps. But a sweet one that you cannot help but entertain while you raise your muddied skirts to strengthen your stride and widen your steps in the hopes to gain on him. But then blessedly his pace finally begins to slow, giving you the means to finally draw in your straining breaths and lessen the expanse between you, making sure to near him from his right, so's not to walk in his blind spot. He tilts his body just the slightest, angling it so that he is able to give you his focus as you draw near, and you have to try your hardest not to gasp and gulp for air in front of him. You need to give him no more reasons to tease and prod at you. 

The glint of his eye, a color that you have now discovered to be a delicate, yet vibrant shade trapped between a soft blue and a muted purple draws you into his stare as you approach. It seems to hold you captive, grabbing your attention as you come to walk alongside him, no longer huffing and panting, and the ache in your legs begins to subside. 

"You have asked to become familiar with me," he speaks suddenly. Not a question at all, but a statement, and the mention of it has your brows raising just the slightest as you manage a nod. "All I ask of you is that you do not scream or allow yourself to panic." 

The sound of those words alone has ice prickling along your skin and settling within the pit of your chest. And the sensation of your apprehension melding with your bewilderment does little to aid you in properly asking him what he could have possibly meant by such a cryptic statement. The inquiry hangs heavy in your mouth like metal, and your jaw seems to open on its own in the means to ask him to clarify. But then, as though it had been timed, a guttural bellow rings out across the placid atmosphere. Humming so heavily that you feel the weight of it vibrate underneath your feet as though the earth were speaking, shaking a small flock of tiny birds from their perches within forest, forcing them to scatter and flee into the clear sky above. 

The abrupt noise of it has you all but tearing your vision from Prince Aemond's unbothered, observational expression to whatever lies ahead of you. And your eyes nearly bulge from their sockets at the sight of the behemoth that lies only several yards away. How you had managed to miss the sight of such a monumental creature is entirely beyond you. The only excuse you could possibly make is that the beast has flattened itself along the floor of the clearing, leathery wings lazily stretched open, head resting in the miniscule cover of the knee-high wildflowers and grasses that scatter along the hilltop in what might be some sort of attempt of basking itself underneath the suns glow. 

It is a beast that you easily recognize despite never truly having been within its presence. The sheer mass of the creature, and the rich green shade of its skin easily gives it away as the great Vhagar. You have heard of her name from countless stories. Those passed on down from generation to generation to speak of the ferocity and brutality of the battle hardened she-dragon, of how the size of her alone could blot out the sun from her flight. You have even caught glimpses of her in the air before. Often from within the confines of the castle while she soars high above and far from reach. None of those rare moments or stories had done any justice in depicting the true scale of her. 

And while you stand, gawking like a slack jawed idiot at the sight of her, you can only manage but to wonder the dumb, fleeting thought of how the Crown could ever possibly manage to supply enough sheep for her appetite. And then any semblance of awe or shock is twisted into a pure sense of dread and a primal fear. Your mind blanks as you try to form some sort of reason for you being here. Why Prince Aemond could possibly desire for you to meet his dragon, but you are left with naught. Something primordial and blazing sears throughout your veins with urge to run, but you find yourself frozen stock still instead while your lungs struggle to move and catch breath. You feel as though you have passed away on the spot and left your body behind to, trapped within this singular moment. 

It is not until the dragon begins to lift its head up inquisitively that you manage to regain any control of yourself at all. The sight of her lids peeling open to reveal blazing amber eyes are enough to force your lost voice back into the base of your throat. 

"Wha - why have you brought me here, Aemond?"  

The look he gives you is entirely unsympathetic. If anything, it seems to be amused. The corners of his lips threaten to perk in the shadow of an arrogant smile. If your heart did not feel as though it were seconds away from overexerting itself and giving out entirely, you are sure that this time, you would have struck him. You would love to hear the impact of your hand meeting the shape of his cheek and snuffing out the pompous way that he is holding himself, but he steps away from you before you can even think to act, fearlessly striding in the direction of the colossal dragon. 

"You long to know a dragonrider, lady wife," he answers with the cool timbre of his voice trailing after him and to you. "Flight with one with be the best way to make that connection." 

You are certain that your heart has well and truly stopped with that statement. That it turned still and unrooted itself from the cavern in your chest to plummet down below into your gut. And for a moment you wish that you have misheard him. Despite your internal panic, your brain manages to scramble and put the meaning of his words together quite quickly. The urge to refuse or ask him to clarify illudes you. You are far too bewildered. Too trapped within the seize of your own chaotic emotions to properly articulate yourself and your reservations. There's an anger stirring in you as well. Brewing and twisting with everything else, spurred on from the haughty glance he had given you before making his approach towards the beast he is bonded with. 

You try and fail to connect his reasoning. The logic entirely beyond you, but when you look upon his face it becomes quite clear. No matter how brief your eye contact had been, you saw the dare that had been dancing in his eye quite clearly. He was challenging you. He is expecting you to turn on your heel and run from the trial that he has set before you. And that has lit a sense of competition in yourself unlike any that you have ever felt before. 

He is no longer paying you any attention to see you coming to a sudden grip in resolve. Instead, he has drawn his observations to his dragon, who has lifted her head just enough in a proper greeting to accept the way that he runs a hand along the slop of her enormous muzzle, just above those massive, gnarled fangs that poke like her lips like daggers. The span of his fingers seems so small posted along the swell of her snout, like little more than a speck. And yet he stands before her so confidently. Free from the faintest edge of discomfort or fear. Instead, you hear him murmuring soft words to her. Speaking quietly as though she were a babe in need of praise or encouragement and not a battle worn goliath that has lain waste to armies and dragons alike.

The sound of his ancestor's tongue is beautiful as always. In your short time together, you have heard little of the language from the prince, but when you do manage to catch the glimmers of it from him you make sure to listen keenly. It flows past his lips like a rich silk; all but rumbling and sweeping around words that you do not know but find captivating regardless. It makes you wish that you did understand them. 

It is astonishing that no matter how small the prince appears now in comparison to her vast scale, he still holds himself so proudly. His shoulders are set straight, and head tilted high: the posture of royalty. All while he composes himself alongside a monster that could easily open her drooping maw and swallow him whole. 

But of course, she does not. A low grumble trembles forth from the wide set of her chest, reverberating throughout the air in a sound that could nearly be likened to the purr of a contented feline. It is shocking to see the famed - the feared Vhagar in such a light. And to similarly see the prince in such a manner as well. Both of them are calm. Peaceful on this tranquil, balmy evening. Untouched by their shared excitement for battle and bloodshed. 

It's akin to watching a pair of ruthless gods' slumber. 

And it seems to be that, more so than the sense of rivalry that has been kindled, that inspires you to move forward. No matter how uncertain you truly feel. Despite your reservations the odd sweetness of the situation still has you drawing close. All while a frigid kind of fear pools in your stomach. So, you try to focus on the little bits of life around you. The cheerful singing being carried by the birds of the forest, the soothing whisper of the air shifting the leaves, the saccharine scent of the colorful flowers that sway in the grass. It is all so soothing, so delicate. But still, it does little to appease the anxiety coursing throughout you as you grow closer to the beast. 

With each step forward, she seems to rise bigger; the growing proximity between you both only making her true mass even more apparent, as you are confronted with the mind-boggling truth of her scale. There is no safety of the castle walls to save you, the collection of the trees that surround you in a half circle would not serve to shield you should Vhagar decide that your presence is an irritant. Her potent fire would consume the forest and you with it with a single breath. Here and now, you know that you rely entirely on the word of Prince Aemond to keep her violent urges at bay. 

And that both comforts and terrifies you. 

You make your lungs draw in a shaky breath that does little to calm you as you step closer to the she-dragon. But you are certain that there is not a single thing on this earth that could truly bring you serenity as you bear witness to her. Never in your life have you ever stood before a being that has ever made you feel so miniscule. Not even the sight of the stars in the cradle of the night sky, in all of their multitudes and vastness as come close to the trepidation or awe that she has roused in you. You are small. Insignificant in terms of her looming stature. Pitiful in the decades that she has lived and the feats that she has achieved. You know now why the dragons are said to be old gods. You can hardly process that you are now right in front of one. Watching the rise and fall of her ribs as she pulls in massive breaths. The subtle shake of her wilting neck that shifts as she angles her head in your direction to study you with eyes that almost seem to burn with the fire contained within her. 

Her nostrils twitch as you come to stop alongside Prince Aemond; near enough that your shoulders nearly brush, but a part of you craves the dim amount of comfort that he provides. She is trying to smell you no doubt. Trying to take in your scent as means to familiarize herself with the stranger who travels with her rider. 

"You may touch her," Aemond offers. Or orders perhaps. 

It catches you completely off guard, like most things this evening. Regardless of the gentleness of his tone, it is difficult to tell if it is a suggestion or a command. Having what little knowledge you have of the prince in mind it was most likely the latter. Or it is another challenge of his. 

The sharp blue of his eye pierces through you once again like he is waiting for you to cower. But now, the prince's concerns and expectations are second at best when it comes to the interest of Vhagar. The brief flicker of your gaze on her confirms that she is still quite placid in mood. Her eyelids low with the remnants of the slumber that she had been goaded from. But that still does little to calm you. Dragons are unpredictable creatures. Gaining a trust of her this easily would be ignorance. 

"Does she wish me to?" You ask, and you see that twinge of what might be amusement grace Prince Aemond's features once again. 

"She will hardly pay you any mind." That is his assurance. A useless one. Your unease is strong. But your desire to please your husband, to beat this little challenge that he has set for you, and to form some sort of relationship with the prince - no matter how fragile - is stronger. With all the courage you can muster you begin to lift your hand. Slowly and steady in your movements as not to cause the beast any annoyance. You would not want to suggest to her that you feel entitled to touch her. Dragons can be opinionated things after all. 

A low noise rolls from her throat at the sight of your hand raised just above her muzzle, just where Aemond had lain his own earlier. It gives you pause. Old, primeval instincts rising inside of you bid you motionless. To wait and see what her move will be next. If she will calm or open her armored jaws to snap you between them. 

"Lykirī." 

It is Aemond's voice that speaks out. Low yet firm in its inflection as his tongue purrs out the elegant High Valyrian word in a silky drawl. You know not what he said, but it was enough to appease whatever offence you might have committed. She blinks slowly in response and the growl dies down into a soft silence. Still, you now find it difficult to lower your hand. Sensing your hesitance, or perhaps weary of it, Prince Aemond's own is suddenly engulfing the back of it, nearly threading his fingers with yours as he guides your palm downward. The weight of his flesh along yours comes as surprise. You have felt your husband's hands on you before. In much more intimate places, but it is the care with which he directs you with that almost seems foreign. New and delicate.

Currently he wears his gloves, usually seen on his hands whenever he intends to take flight, and you hate how a piece of you longs to feel them bare. To touch the callouses along his palm, made from wielding the grip of swords in combat and clasping the horns of Vhagar's saddle. It is a juxtaposition to the much softer skin of your own. But you do not find the texture of them offensive in the slightest. You could almost relish the sensation of it had they not been covered by soft hide instead. 

He leans his body much closer to yours. So much closer that the light brush of his breath glides over the side of your face and the length of your throat. The scent of him wafts from his body in the musk of leather, the spice of dragon smoke and the crisp fragrance of wind. It makes you wonder if he had flown long before he had come to the castle to retrieve you. It is all so distracting. The press of him along your arm, the mesmeric sound of his voice whispering soothing words in his ancestor's language. 

But reality comes back to you quickly in the weight of the dragon's flesh settling flat underneath your palm; rough and thick. You have heard before that dragons run hot. Heated up by the fire roaring within their chests. Those words have not prepared you for the warmth that radiates from her and the strength of it. Of the coarseness of her flesh. How sturdy it is. Much like the leathers used in creating amour. Though you suppose that the purpose of her skin is the same. 

Her massive nostrils flicker again and her eyes squint as she watches you. Studies you really. As though she is weighing and measuring you of your worth. Which is not a farfetched idea. It is the dragon, after all, who chooses its rider. She must be deciding if you are worthy of standing in her presence. 

The elation that floods you at the feeling of her beneath your hand comes like the scattering of butterflies. A smile threatens to break across your face at the small success. A rush of joy from still being alive after touching one of the most violent war dragons the earth has ever seen. 

"Are you prepared to ride?" 

Aemond's question rips you from your elation like a sudden storm smudging out the bright warmth of the sunlight. The smile that could have been dies out with the happiness that had filled you. It is water doused over embers. And with it the urge to snap at him is back in full force. No, you wished to answer, you are not prepared to ride, because you were not told that you would be expected to until only moments before. But you keep that complaint to yourself. Locked within tightly as not to offend the prince and the dragon whose massive mouth rests directly underneath your open palm. Still, many questions gush up and stir a torrent up within your mind. 

"How am I expected to do such a thing, my prince?" 

The look that crosses his face appears tired. It makes you wonder if you have somehow asked something foolish, but you come up empty on what that could have possibly been. It is a perfectly expected question. A dragon will only choose a single rider at a time. And only those who are blessed with Valyrian blood could have the potential honor of sharing such a bond. An ancient line that you have no direct lineage to. But the stare that the prince is holding you with now is one of exasperation, yet also sardonic. 

"You will sit on the saddle; I thought that much was apparent." His lips have pursed slightly, making his expression a blend of smug and annoyed. He is toying with you once again. It also makes his boundaries quite apparent. There is to be no possibility of a bond between the two of you unless you push when he shoves. If you let your offence get the better of you now while he clearly raises his challenge, then your relationship with him will be reduced to nothing more than his child bearer. A vessel for his future heirs. You shall not yield. Not even while your heart races like that of a rabbit who has been tricked into a corner by the snarling fangs of a hunter. 

You are soft but firm when you remove your hand from its place tucked between Vhagar's flesh and Aemond's palm. Your determination rests easily on your face as you turn to observe the netting of ropes that are draped down the side of her great neck as a means to climb astride her. Never has something seemed so daunting before. Not the day that you were bid to leave the familiarity of your life in Storm's End, nor the moment that you had given yourself over to Prince Aemond in matrimony. They all seem so little now as you allow your hand to grip one of the lines of worn rope. 

"Lykirī, Vhagar." 

A nervous sweat dampens your fingers as you squeeze your grip along the course lines, the frayed edges digging into your soft flesh. The sound of your husband placating the beast rings in your ears like a warning though she has not stirred from her position against the forest floor, even while another rumbling hum echos from her chest. It trembles throughout your arm from being so close to her, rattling up your bones. For a moment you contemplate removing yourself from the makeshift ladder, but the firm, urging glare that Aemond shoots you from his place beside you and the embers of your determination spur you to continue forward. 

"I will be behind you," you hear him promise as you haphazardly lift your skirts to enable yourself to place a foot upon one of the rungs. It is now you who hardly offers him a returned glance as you focus on raising yourself along the ropes. You expect for Vhagar to disturb upon the weight of you heaving yourself along her neck, but she does not. She remains blessedly stationary as you urge your body to move upward to scale the high length of her neck, for your mind to remain quiet and centered through your internal panic. The way that the ladder wobbles unsteadily as you work to lift yourself does little to quell the way that your stomach flips with the growing effects of nausea. 

You could swear that many moons have passed by the time that you have made it to the top of the ladder, where the ropes meet the smooth leather that creates the structure of the massive saddle. The seat of it is far greater than any other you have ever seen; those having been suited for horses and not the great backs of dragons. But even considering the long forward slop of what must be the equivalent of the rise and pommel and how the cantle stretches slightly backward to support the rider's spine during an upward flight, it is more than apparent that the seat is designed for only a single person. Every bit of grace room is only available for the positioning that must be required in flight. The design of it allowing for the rider to lean forward comfortably in the seat or relax backward, if necessary, but offering little more than that. 

If you were both truly meant to ride together it would be an awkward fit. Surely not one safe for something as perilous as flying. 

The urge to question this little goal of his rises up high. But instead of voicing your concerns you opt to follow through with his desires. If the two of you do truly not prove to fit on the seat and it turns into an ill sighted blunder on his part, then at least you will be able to silently bask in the pleasure of seeing his arrogance dim at the realization of it. 

You reach for some of the leather straps that lie between the junction of the rope ladder and the saddle, using your grip to hoist yourself upward again, slipping a foot into one of the rungs to push yourself within the range of saddle's lowest set of horns. Your fingers can only reach the base of the grip from your current height, but it is enough to enable you to hoist yourself towards the cradle of the saddle, though your muscles burn with the labor. Some torturous thought wonders what would happen should you slip and fall from such a height, and you struggle to block it out entirely as you continue your clumsy ascent. Using the hold that the flat of your feet have within the straps to keep yourself secure as you work on exchanging your hold from the lowest grip and onto one the horns belonging to the higher set to haul your body upward, swinging your right leg out to lurch across the seat. 

It strains your arms as you angle yourself, and the length of your skirts threaten to snag on the curve of your knee when your all but throw your body onto the saddle. But by the grace of the gods, you make it. Your chest slightly heaves from your lost breath, and your muddied skirts have pulled and rucked up above your knees in the most unbecoming manner from the stretch of your thighs around the width of the seat. But you hardly have the ability to pay it any mind while your nerves still cause your limbs to quiver, and your body burns with an excess of energy. 

While you collect your breath, clasping onto the horns of the saddle with both hands tightly enough for the edges of the leather bound around them to bite your palms, the sound of the wind's current whispering in your ear tugs you from your anxieties. 

It is then that you finally realize just where you sit. Comfortably astride the largest dragon, looking down on the world from the ridge of her back. You could see above the trees from this point, the stretches of the wood that gave and showed the lush rolling hills that expanded far beyond your sight. It was all so small and yet so vast this high up, once again making you realize the scope of your existence. You can spy glimpses of King's Landing up in the distance. The glimmer of the rooftops and the spires of the Red Keep, almost lightened in a shade of bronze from the cast of the evenings golden light. The sea beyond it glittering in a reflection of the sun, like a flat mound of shifting coins. 

The sudden weight of a hand clasping the grip along the free space just above your own snaps you from your awe. You hardly have time register it as the prince effortlessly swings himself into the saddle, notching a place for himself between your hips and the support of the cantle. His presence forces you to scoot further up along the swell of seat, much higher up than you are meant to be, but the press of his body flat against your own gives you little choice. The angle of it practically has your rump perched against his hips. And when his other arm reaches around your other side to grip the opposite horn of the saddle, you find that you have been completely enclosed in his body. His chest is pinned snug along your back, and you can feel the point of his chin nudge along your shoulder as he looks past you. 

There is something horribly intimate about it all. Something that you did not even think to consider when you agreed to this. But now that you can fully feel the warmth of him seeping through the layers of your garments to slip through your skin, you could not find any other word to call it. If your mind was not already so preoccupied with your anxieties, it would have easily latched onto the fact that your skirts are still indecently rucked around your thighs, improperly showing off the fabric of your stockings. It could have made you fidget or heat up with embarrassment had you the mind to, but you are far too preoccupied with what is to come. With the weight of your husband so near you. So high up here, with the wind stronger than it had been down along the ground, his scent seems to pool around you. It fills your lungs with musk and spice, and your body longs to draw it in like a glutton, but you do not allow yourself to. You manage yourself to maintain the steady inhales that you have been taking thus far. 

"Remain calm," he reminds you. 

As if on cue Vhagar begins to shift. Her giant head lifts from the meadows floor with a low grunt, as though the action alone costs her a great deal of energy, causing the weathered, battle worn flesh along her neck to wobble loosely along her throat. A bout of nervousness prickles in your gut as the motion jostles you forward. On reflex, your grip rightens around the horns, latching onto the pitiful bit of comfort they prove. Anxiety spreads along your fingertips and toes as she digs the wrists of her great wings into the earth to push herself onto her feet. A simple action, but for you it invokes nothing but unease. Her movements continue to nudge you about, all but prodding you backward to the press of Aemond's chest, and now you are actually thankful for how he is seated behind you. Offering a sense of support that you might have fainted without. 

You can feel the subtle shift of her muscles even through the saddle, and it wobbles just the slightest from the quiver caused by her old flesh. It has your unease spiking. And you think that you yourself could fly, fueled by nothing but your own apprehensions. 

There is a noticeable shift in how she holds herself once she balances on her legs. And incline in her spine lifts as she raises her head high, removing her weight from her wings to unfurl them. You can hear the leathery sound of the thin skin unraveling, spreading out wide enough like sails of a colossal ship preparing to leave port. 

You know what is coming, but you naught of how to weather it. All you can do is stare ahead, looking past the expanse of her neck and to the sky above that you will soon be soaring through. He must be able to sense your anxiety. Or perhaps he felt the tension of it in your back, in the rigid set of your shoulders, because he manages to press himself even closer against you. Like he means to cradle you to him. He releases a single hand from its grip long enough to place it along your waist to steady you. Your mind instantly latches onto the sudden pressure and warmth of it. Your body longing to lean into the weight of his palm but you keep yourself motionless as he leans himself close until you feel the brush of his words along your neck when he speaks. 

"Be still, wife." His voice rumbles out all placid and velvet. The sound of it so close to your ear that it has a tremble skipping down your spine. You can only hope that the thick of your combined attire hid it from him, but his hand flexes against your waist; fingertips pressing inward, and you know that he noticed it. But he fortunately makes no open marks of it. "With me as your guide you will be safe. When she begins her ascent, lean forward into it. It will help to keep you balanced." 

And as quickly as it had appeared, his hand is gone from its position on your waist to return its grip on the horn. You crave to have it back on you again. To have the support of it on you once more, even with the phantom sensations of it still live on your skin, though you do not bother to dwell on your foolish desires. You can only focus on the instructions that he had set. The direction of it serving to ground you, even as the saddle underneath shifts just the slightest as her wings expand. Now entirely unfurled. 

The anticipation of it weighed heavy. Murmuring across the air like something electrical as though you were in the midst of a storm and lightning looms ahead. But apart from a few scattered clouds, it was all but clear skies. Vhagar was prepared to soar. Her muscles were coiled, stretched and tense, and were it not for your being astride, you are certain that Aemond would have commanded her to take off much sooner. If that truly is the case, you are thankful. 

His ribs swell slightly along your back, and the command slices through the air, simultaneously exacting and clement: 

"Sōvēs!" 

Wind claps underneath the great stretch of her wings as she lifts them only to bring them down in a powerful downstroke. It snaps her from the ground in a quick lunge, and the sudden rush of being airborne causes your stomach to turn. You scramble to come to terms with the abrupt weightlessness of your body. It is like all of the breath has been snatched from the depths of your chest as Vhagar brandishes her wings in great, long stokes that sound akin to tremendous waves crashing against the surf; sharp and frightening like a whip slicing towards its target. 

A horrid thought enters your mind, whispering vile things, such as what would happen should you fall off. How you surely would not survive a plummet from such a height. It has your hands tightening around the grips of the saddle. Squeezing so harshly that your tender palms sting. But you almost welcome the burn of it. It is a good distraction from the nausea, from the disorientation that comes from rushing far from the earth so quickly. Now she truly begins her climb upward, and you just barely remind yourself of Aemond's previous command; tipping yourself forward to press yourself along the swell of the saddle as she rises. 

Much as he promised, the change in your posture does help to keep your seat firm as she works to bat her wings to scale her flight. Aemond dips down low after you, resting himself over your body to follow his own instructions. Even while Vhagar approaches her ascent at a slant, the incline is still enough to put strain on your arms as your own weight attempts to pull your backward. You can already feel the strain of it in your limbs, searing along your muscles and setting an ache deep near your bones. 

Never had you ever truly put in mind the physical prowess and endurance a dragonrider must have to properly seat their mount until now. It almost makes you feel idiotic that you would not have truly expected the demands that such a thing would imply. Already the wind claws at your face, slicing at your cheeks like it means to maim you, stinging at your eyes enough to prompt tears to pour. It is difficult to draw in a proper breath as the air passes too quickly for your lungs to properly catch, making you fear that you might suffocate. It feels as though your chest could combust. From the debilitated ability to properly breathe or from the confused sense of excitement, you are not entirely sure. 

Your being has been split down the middle. Caught in a strange limbo of an icy terror and a bubbling kind of joy as she continues her ascension, carrying you both high until the forests below become less defined and meld into blotches of rich greens. You cannot tell if the laugh the begs to erupt from you is one of elation or hysterics, but it froths inside of you with a warmth that rivals the heat that radiates from the brilliant sun above. Your lips part in the semblance of a breathless laugh as your eyes dart to take in your surroundings. The earth is so distant now. Reduced to a flat stretch of emerald and hunter, and the gentle rolling slops of hills and valleys that, in some points giveaway to farmlands. You can spot organized rows of green that must be rich vineyards, and there are many quaint little houses and homely settlements that sparsely dot about the scape. 

Being so high up within the heavens makes the rest of the world seem so small. Reduced down to dots and shadows and shades of color. It reminds you vaguely, of the ancient war table that sits within the council chambers of Storm's End; the stubborn, enduring anatomy of Westeros etched into the face of it, mapping out all of its splendor in its factions and landmarks. 

Out of your peripherals you notice Vhagar's wings tilt, moving to level her body out of its angled position, settling so that she is able to coast on the winds. It near instantly releases the strain on your arms, allowing the sting to ebb from your clenched muscles as you will yourself to try and relax, and the harsh cusp at which the biting wind had struck you with finally loses its violent edge. Still quite strong but no longer clawing along the shape of your cheeks and your unprotected eyes like it means to rip at them. 

It is Aemond who straightens himself first, removing his weight from your back to properly sit astride, completely comfortable in his place along his dragon and untouched by a semblance of worry. Even though you cannot see him from his place behind you, you are still able to sense the composure that he holds himself with. He is entirely within his element. At home here on dragonback. The arm that had grasped the grip on the left of you releases, moving past the line of your vision to where he probably allows it to casually hang at his side, now supporting his clasp on the saddle with only a single, sturdy hold. 

It takes you much longer to will yourself back into an upright position; finding solace in the weight of the saddle pressed to your stomach. But is a crutch that you do not wish to exhaust, and so you right yourself until you can once again feel the expanse of Aemond's chest, snug against your own in an unintentional semblance of an embrace. That stubborn little part of you loathes how the other half preens at the sensation of it. Yearning to bask in affections that are not truly there like some lovestruck girl child that elects to ignore the obvious indifferences displayed by the object of her infatuation. It irritates you to no end. Filling you with a conflict that you do not wish to bear but are unable to ignore. Aemond does not love you, that much is clear. The nature of your union, the quiet apathy that he has shown you thus far have been unobtrusive but very telling in this. Even now, as he makes an effort to test the nature of your will and your desire to truly get to know him, hauling you upon the back of his dragon, it seems to hold closer bearings to that of a trial than a well-meaning rendezvous. 

The look that he had given you when he asked if you were primed to take flight was playful, almost in a malicious manner. Like he was expecting and counting on you to decline and flee. It makes you ponder if you have actually managed to surprise the prince by accepting his proposal and clambering astride the beast's saddle. If your decision to stay and meet his little challenge head on has pleased him at all. 

"Geptot, Vhagar!" Aemond commands, shouting to be heard over the roaring winds. Obediently, the great dragon adjusts the massive span of her wings, muscles rippling to rearrange herself on the support of the currents to redirect her glide in the direction of King's Landing and the vast glittering waters of Blackwater Bay that extends beyond. It is still such a shock to see such a tremendous creature acquiesce its will to the instruction of a man. A man that may sustain the blood of the gods, but still a man, nonetheless. 

She could consume the both of you a single snap of her jagged mouth. Your bodies would be a pitiful bite for her jaws. And yet she allows you to take up space along her back. To become a vessel to suspend you along the heavens to soar between the sparse clouds that hang within the azure cradle of the heavens like tufts of a lamb's fleece. Vhagar is a violent beast you know. You have heard the stories of her wars and blood-soaked accolades, the battlefields that she has left soot covered and smoking, littered with the remains of soldiers. She is a violent creature to be sure. Honed and defined by violence, and yet it is here, carted among the tepid winds, that you decide that she is a glorious behemoth. One whose years have been stained with the life's blood of millions, but it does little to tarnish the position she has taken in your eyes. Not necessarily one held by affections, but mostly a sense of respect and awe. 

You are not diluted enough to think that Vhagar holds any sort of esteem for you. Had you not been accompanied by her rider; you would have been lit aflame from so much as approaching her, but that simple truth does little to dissuade you from attempting to show her your appreciations though uncertainty and apprehension still takes root in your gut. Your hand has a slight tremor when you manage to peel your fingers from their tight grip around the horn. A symptom of the energy and searing heat that pumps through your veins at your body's instinctual fears rather than a conscious bewilderment, but you do not let it stop you from leaning forward as much as your reservations will allow to place a soft, unsure pat along her back. Though the size of the saddle is so great that you still only manage to stroke its leathers rather than the rough expanse of her flesh.

You know that there is no possibility that she managed to feel your touch through the thick of the preserved hide of the saddle. And even if the buffer had not been there, your hand probably would have felt like little more than the landing of a fly; bothersome and barely perceivable. But it still does work for you somewhat, to help in seeing her more as more than simply a vengeful, aggressive beast. 

It shocks you, when you allow yourself to gaze downward towards the horizon to see how quickly you are approaching the edge of the city. It has you daring to tilt your head downward to see past her wings to gaze upon the sprawling cluster of the buildings and structures that create the capital; the clay tiles of the many roofs burning in shades like honey and ginger. The rich hues only amplified by the golden tint of the evening sun. Smoke pours from the some of the stacks, puffing from the hearths, the people down below working to prepare tonight's dinners. The streets thread throughout the ancient settlement like tan lines of thread, intertwining and connecting to unify the entirety of the city, bustling with people who, from your high vantage point, look hardly more than little moving dots; completely unbothered by Vhagar's flight above. 

It's breathtaking. Literally, of course, with the winds that continuously rush against you, but also in the sense of how stunning the view of it is. Had you, in some other life, been blessed with the honor of a dragon, you fear that you would never come back down to earth. As the fear in your stomach begins to thaw and ebb, giving way to nothing but a bright awe, you realize that you could spend an eternity within the sky at peace. This may be freedom incarnate. Untied from the earthly responsibilities and troubles that ail you down below. Here, it is simply the wind beneath Vhagar's vast wings. The same winds that tug at your hair as though it means to unravel it from its dressings. A laugh, a true laugh bubbles up from your chest, rising with the brilliant, beaming warmth of joy, and the smile that tugs at your lips this time is irresistible. 

You doubt that the purpose of Prince Aemond spiriting you away on this outing had any intentions of truly extending an olive branch. Not one in the expectations of actually solidifying a bond between the both of you at least. This was meant to be a game of sorts; you are still entirely convinced. But even with that in mind, you are unable to feel anything other than gratitude. For so long you have been confined to the unfamiliar walls of the Red Keep. Forcing smiles upon your face to maintain the proper ladylike appearances for your social standing. Exchanging forged laughs with the men and women of the court, batting your eyes like a dazed fool as you suffocate within the entrapments of your own longings for home. Strangely, it is here, where the harsh breezes threaten to stifle to the flow of air into your lungs that you feel at your lightest since you have been at the Red Keep. He knows naught of what he has given you, and even if he did, you surmise that he probably would not care regardless. 

Despite the possibility of Prince Aemond's reasonings, it does not stop you from turning your head, rotating your shoulders as best as you can to enable the motion as you make to look at him. It knocks you somewhat off-guard to see that he is already watching you. You had also not anticipated the proximity between your faces, with hardly more than a hair's breadth left between your noses which are so close they could touch. If you only twitch forward the press of your mouth could easily brush along the plush of his lips. The urge of it comes with the realization that the prince has never kissed you. Not even whilst you both fulfil the duties of your marriage in the midst of the night. It has all been disconnected. Done with the same automated detachment that one does with their chores. It should serve as a cold dousing of reality. It should make the rise of your emotions die down into a tame hush, but it does not. 

Your chest heaves involuntarily at the weight of his stare - of how near he is. Your thoughts are tempted to unravel. To get the better of you and indulge in the smoky, lewd corners of your mind that you have not allowed yourself to entertain, like a sinner giving into their temptations. 

The intensity that always seems to lurk within his attention is ignited ten-fold by the way that the sunlight glimmers within his eye, twinging the flecks of soft violets and rich blues with glints of golden light; it bathes his face in the same hue, making it seem as though the pale complexion of his skin has been kissed and painted by the sun itself; set alight by the dragon's blood that surges through his veins like liquid fire. The tresses of his hair billowing in streaks of a pallid silver that rivals the moons glow. 

He is beautiful. You are forced to mark it once again. How captivating the prince is. Disarmingly so, much like the stare that he continues to pin you in place with. The weight of it seems to reach into you, brushing along the boundaries of your spirit and binding it with its grasp. You are unable to discern the reasonings of his intensity, of what his thoughts might be. If they lean in your favor, or if you somehow may have unwittingly foundered into his bad graces. Just how you may have possibly stumbled is beyond you, but his tempers and his motives continue to be elusive. Still, the desire to speak honestly still hangs heavy. If anything, his attention only amplifies the need. 

"Thank you." It leaves your lips delicately. Or as softly as one can project while soaring through the skies without their voice being lost to the wind, and you can only hope that he was still able to detect the depths of your sincerity and appreciation. But you are certain that he hears you. You see the recognition of it flicker in his eye. Something else passes through it as well. It is an emotion that is beyond your scope of understanding. One that you have yet to witness upon the typically neutral or sardonic expressions he tends to display.  

His eye flickers downward. As though it is tracing the shape of your lips, attracted by the sound of your voice when you had spoken your gratitude. For a moment, you think that you must have imagined it. But the steady focus of his gaze is unignorable. He is truly trailing the contours of your mouth with his stare like he means to study them. Transfixed with a similar brand of concentration that he displays when he pours himself over his duties. But there is a fervor behind it that you have yet to personally witness; smoldering in his stare so strongly that it nearly pulls you into a trance. A molten heat flows down your spine, settling inside the pit of your gut with a warmth that startles you. The magnitude of the sensation is a shock, pulling a ragged gasp from your chest and like a puppet follows after the tug of its strings, your head snaps back to face the horizon to break whatever strange influence fallen over you both.

Your vision blindly locks on what lies ahead, desperately searching for something to distract yourself from the hazed chaos that clouds your mind. Though it is hard to focus with the near fevered way your skin has begun to warm, your chest rising and falling rapidly underneath the hold of your garments. The eye contact that you had shared was broken, but the effects of it still linger on you. It envelops you tightly, tingling over your skin, whispering along your flesh like fingertips. It has bout of nervousness fluttering inside of you like a cluster of frenzied butterflies, and it melts when it meets the foreign rush of heat that muddles you, twisting into something excited and burning. 

It has you adrift in a torrent. Completely at the mercy of your own emotions and desires - the severity of which, you had been utterly ignorant to. You scan the rippling face of the waters below, and the sight of it has your mind sluggishly realizing that Vhagar has flown you all past the boundaries of the city and the edges of the land to coast above the glittering, shifting face of Blackwater Bay. It is a sight that would have encapsulated the entirety of your observation before. You would have delighted in the way that the cerulean waters underneath the dragon's wings reflect the suns light like diamonds laid out along a rich silk, but it has become increasingly difficult to do so as you have become increasingly hyperaware of the prince. The press of him at your back, the enticing warmth of him latching onto your skin and spreading so potently that you think it may have sunk bone deep. 

Still, you hardly have the ability to prepare yourself for the sensation of Prince Aemond melding himself closely against you until the faintest stretch of space between you has been completely eliminated. His hips nudge tightly along yours, all but nestling your rear even deeper into the cradle of them in a manner that is entirely crude.

A confused question rests heavily in your mouth, but it is all but snuffed out when he tucks his head against your own, hooking his chin over your left shoulder as the hand that he had previously dropped from the horn of his saddle once again raises to take its position back above your own, as though it had never left. It makes your heart beat wildly like the wings of a startled bird, and the enlivened rhythm only quickens when his scent envelopes you with his proximity. It swaddles you in that mouthwatering combination of leather and smoke. The earthy musk and robust spice seem to find a home in your lungs. 

"Gaomas bisa drējī kostilus ao, ābrazȳrys?" 

The sudden velveteen sound of his voice over the whistle of the wind inspires your body to still. As though drawn under a trance every facet of your being seems to become inert. Quiet in its endeavor to listen to the words that spilled from him. You assume that he must be speaking to Vhagar. Entrusting another command onto her in his ancestors' tongue, but the beast makes no movements to suggest that she has heard him. The tone in which he spoke with was low, but purposeful. As though he were sharing a secret, conversational in its cadence. 

You are almost reluctant to draw the conclusion that he may be talking to you instead. For some reason, the idea of such a thing seems so ludicrous, despite having spoken to him before. In brief moments when your paths cross within the castle or when society demands it for appearances. He had exchanged words with you on the ground previously, just before Vhagar had taken flight, yet it all feels so impossible. Strange from the odd rapport that seeps into the atmosphere around you. The gusts that rush past you in dashing currents are unable to destroy the inviting aura that has dropped around you both. Yet is all still so jarring. Abrupt in a way that is strange and new. And the aspect that he is using High Valyrian has left you especially lost. Hanging onto words that you could not comprehend as though they were the answer to a salvation that you did not know you needed.  

"Naejot sagon kesīr lēda nyke?" His head tips much lower now. So dangerously close that his lips sweep along the edge of your ear when he murmurs to you. 

"I do not understand." You confess, daring to slant your face towards his. Such a minute movement but it has the point of his nose nudging at your temple, drawing him all that much closer. He hums in the back of his throat. A quiet sound as though he is considering your utterance. It is humiliating how it makes your entire being thrum with something that is suspiciously close to delight. 

"Pāsan ziry gaomas." 

Your brows pinch close in a confused furrow as he continues to use his second tongue. It is almost as though he is teasing you. Like he is prodding at a weakness that you did not realize you had; an animal nipping and digging at a wound to watch its prey jerk in its grasp. He is teasing you. The small clues there all connect and tie together a little too finely when the understanding creeps in on you. 

He knows, your consciousness decides quickly. He must have figured out the infatuation you have with his voice. The allure that it has on you when he especially uses it to articulate the rhythm of that old language. Perhaps he had seen it on your face. In your eyes, the way that your breath snags in your throat or how your muscles seen to tense with anticipation at the sound of it. It could make you embarrassed that you have been so obvious in your attraction to it. So much so that he means to taunt you for it so openly. But here and now, with his form so hot along your own and the desire that burns so steadily in your gut, you are unable to find it within yourself to be irritated or sheepish over the fact. 

"Ēza nyke pendagon " - the curve of his lip glides along your ear, and you swear that you can feel the damp warmth of his tongue trace the sensitive skin - "hen mirre se tolie ways nyke could kostilus ao." 

The shiver that skips itself down your spine is completely involuntary. You can only hope that he will assume it to be caused by the chill of the winds, but you know truly that he would be a complete simpleton to think so, and Prince Aemond is anything but. You are sure, without seeing, that his mouth has lifted into the faintest hints of smirk; the impression of it against your ear. Time stutters when his thumb sweeps down along the knuckles of your right hand. It is such a small motion. A gentle, subtle caress. One that would hardly receive one's attention but is so different from any other gesture he has displayed for you that it has something inside of you melting and turning tender. It is damning for you. 

Some kind of plea smolders on the tip of your tongue like molten honey. A plea for what is entirely beyond you. For him to relent and move away to give you air? But even simply the idea of such a thing has you mourning the loss that has not come. This entire situation is nudging at the boundaries of the dynamic you have built with the prince thus far. It is unexpected. Bizarre even. But also, entirely exhilarating in a way that fills your lungs with excitement and looms over your being with a charged type of anticipation. 

And then, just as quickly as he had invigorated the raw suspension between your bodies, he removes himself away from you to hold his posture straight and his thumb slips from your knuckles to return its grip on the saddle horn. You are suspended in air, but the loss of his warmth feels as though the support of the earth has been abruptly tugged from underneath your feet. Humiliation wells up, and anger. It seems like a jest on his part. A cruel trick for what purpose you are not certain. To stroke his own ego. To make you feel like a fool. 

It is bitter in your mouth. The tart of it induced by your bewilderment. It leaves you woefully unmoored as your body craves his even as he still remains behind you, his thighs and hips embracing your own. The whispering of the ocean-salted wind suddenly sounds like a lonely, warbling cry. But even while in the midst of your internal conflicts, the longing has yet to subside; instead pooling in your belly. A gasp pushes from your chest, and you urge yourself to look upon the waters beneath and the horizon ahead. Marking a mark of the clouds that drift about the golden support of the heavens, counting a flock of waterfowl that fly in cluster above the ocean as a means to collect yourself, though it proves to be futile. 

"Let us return home now, wife - the hour grows late." 

You make no means to return a comment or to refute. You remain silent as you both dread and crave the return back to the Red Keep. You have no desire to bear the facade that you have been masquerading in for so long, but being grounded may also help you in gathering the torrent of your emotions. Still, the flight back to Vhagar's chosen plot of earth outside the edge of the forest arrived quicker than you had anticipated, and the dismount from her saddle had nearly been just as awkward as the ascension. Neither of you had exchanged any words as you found your horses still hitched to the branches that they had been left posted at earlier, cropping at the rich grass near the base of the tree with their teeth. 

The bustling of the streets does little to assist the chaotic nature of your thoughts as you guided your mount through the crowds alongside the prince. A part of you was still briefly able to marvel how you had just seen the same avenues from above only moments before; the people who had once appeared as little specs now parted around you to make way for you and the prince. Some daring to pass the two of you fleeting glances as you went about. 

You receive similar looks once within the interior of the 'Keep. The servants and people of the court pass you curious and disapproving peeks at the muddied edges of your skirts as you carried yourself down the winding, grand hallways. Though you pay them little mind. Instead, you direct yourself to try not to focus on the dull, rhythmic tap of Prince Aemond's footsteps from their place beside you as he trails you like a stubborn shadow. He had proposed that he escort you to your quarters, as is expected of a husband. 

There is a new sort of uncertainty that has been wedged between the two of you. Though it is so very different from the quandary that had been there before. This type has no longer tinged with apprehensions or resistance, but instead it is almost alive. The want that festers inside of you is so strong that it is nearly tangible; a creature with claws that means to creep and snatch and a hunger that demands to be feed. You are not entirely lost. You are informed of the body's desires and the symptoms that often accompany it. But it is rarely something that you have ever experienced yourself apart from the few rare nights that you had built up the courage to explore yourself within the privacy of your own apartments. And never have you ever felt it so fiercely, searing and thrumming throughout your flesh. 

The buzz of your previous flight does little to damp the fervor of it. If anything, it douses a potent fuel upon the embers, daring to set the smoldering cinders aflame. The scent of him is strong at your side. Sharp from the winds and mouthwatering with the crisp, spicy aroma of his natural musk, and it is a temptation that you can only hope that you will be able to resist. Your only solace is that the entrance to your quarters draws near, only a few paces left near the end of the corridor, and you look to the massive looming doors as thirsting man would an oasis. 

"I take it that you enjoyed todays outing, my lady," Aemond says from your side. 

It draws your attention to him like an insect becoming hypnotized by the gentle flickering an unguarded fire. You dare to allow yourself to admire the almost lazy saunter he carries himself with, the composed way that he holds his hands behind the controlled posture of his back. 

"I did. Truly." You answer honestly. Not even the muddled state of your feelings and yearning could keep you from repelling the truth from him. You find yourself twisting softly on the heels of your feet as you both come to stand before the entrance of your apartments, moving to enable yourself to meet his gaze. It suddenly feels too vulnerable. You no longer have the buffer of being shielded from his stare as you stand in a pair at the end of the dimming hall. He watches you keenly. His expression is mild, and it is only his eye that displays a faint hint of curiosity, but it is enough to prompt you in continuing. "I do not wish to burden you with my toils, but finding my place here within the court has been an adjustment. The people here have been kind, yet it is still a somewhat of a challenge to find my footing. " You pause, the air snagging in your throat and you find your fingers winding together in an awkward clasp as you work to navigate yourself and bear the weight of his unflinching observation. "The flight with you and Vhagar, it was a reprieve that I did not expect to be afforded. I know that you have been occupied by the priorities of the kingdom and the burdens of the war; you have little moments available for yourself, I imagine. So I am grateful that you made an effort to extend that time to me." 

It all seems so delicate now. Something vulnerable has wormed through the cracks of your already weakened restraints. And you swear that you see something just as uncertain and raw peek through the detached facade of the prince. Such a pale passing of emotions that had you not been paying so much attention to him; it might have slipped past your observation. It looks odd, but not unbecoming on him. He is typically so relaxed and serene. Unstirred by the influences of his surroundings. It manages to endear and embolden you all at once, and as though they have a mind of their own you find your feet closing the small amount of distance that divides you. The prince's vision is latched onto you as you move near, unwavering and heavy in his watch. 

For once in your uncertain relationship with the prince, it is you who seems to hold the sense of power. As shaky and foreign as it is. But he observes you with the same speculative surprise as a predator that has been taken off guard and is deciding on if its energy should be spent on fighting or evading. You make sure to be gentle in your approach, lest you break the brittle, intimate blanket that has fallen the vacant corridor. You can nearly hear the thump of your own heartbeat inside of your chest, pulsing along the palms of your hands. 

You surprise yourself as you dare to lean forward into his space. The scent of him engulfs you, and the perfume of it is almost dizzying. Clouding over you in a rush of subtle spice, leather and wind. It guides you press your lips upon the high ridge of his cheek. The soft divot of the scar catches underneath your mouth; the gnarled slivers of its subtly raised edges. You make sure to be gentle so's not to possibly aggravate the old, damaged tissue. His skin is warm. Sultry and smooth against your lips. You raise a single hand upward to place your fingertips along the sharp sweep of his jaw as a means to ground yourself. Or perhaps it is just an excuse to touch more of him. You are not entirely certain anymore. 

You can feel his chest swell with a surprised breath, muscles pulling taut underneath the leather of his doublet. You fear that you may have overstepped, and it draws you to break the kiss from his skin, though you find it difficult to pull away. He has made no attempt to tear his face from the light hold of your fingertips. He remains fixed in place. Quiet and motionless. For one horrid moment, you fear that you might have actually been able to disgust him. That you had terribly transgressed and shattered the delicate little relationship that you have only just began to fabricate. 

But when you look to meet his gaze the stare that he is studying you with holds a sort of hunger that you have yet to ever experience, and it is so disorienting to be on the receiving end. It completely eclipses the way that he had watched you with during the flight. You are sure that this is how it feels to be stalked by something dangerous and starved. It mutates with the vulnerability that seeps into his posture, and the combination of it melts into an ardor that is stifling. 

You are not sure how to navigate it. Of what this all could mean for you. For him. It has your blood roaring through your veins. Everything falls into a hush. You are sure that the rest of the castle is still lively with the preparations for supper. Servants are no doubt preoccupied by the nature of their longwinded duties, causing the innerworkings of the Keep to astir as they all go about their own matters. But here, in this quiet corridor, it feels as though you have been tucked away into your own private bubble. Sealed away and safe within its dulcet embrace. 

You can see the want in his eye so clearly. Bright and burning in its quality, but he makes no moves to act upon it. It is so strange to see what appears to be a sort of hesitance in the prince. Someone who is usually so certain of their wants and desires and acts on them unflinchingly. Arrogantly, even. It makes him appear so much more human. For once, in the little amount of time that you have known him, he finally stands close at a base that you could compare yourself. Not a god. But simply a man. A man who experiences reservations and uncertainty just as you do. One made of bone and blood - even if that blood may run hot with dragonfire. He still just a man. One who appears as though he wishes to seek you out. To bask in the comfort of your flesh and consume you where you stand but will not allow himself to. 

You are unsure where this sense of hesitancy could stim from. You have already lain together before in the hopes of producing a child and he had not shied away in any of those occurrences; having taken you with that cold, calculating indifference each time. You have no ability to say what has inspired the felling of that austere approach, but the sudden lack of it rouses a bravery that has long evaded you. Your lips, still hovering closely above his cheek venture to press against his skin once again. Much lower than their previous position along the sharp contours of his face, but now only a few scant breaths from his own lips. 

You pause briefly to surmise his reaction. Gauging the shift in his breathing and the way that he holds himself to see if you may have misread and breached an unsaid boundary, but he makes no move to tear himself from your proximity. But that is not enough. You must hear it from him. 

"Do you wish for me to stop-" 

A surprised yelp is snuffed from your throat when the plush of his mouth claims yours in a kiss that is so passionate that it is nearly ferocious. Your teeth clack together from the rough nature of it. It makes your mind draw a complete blank. All semblance of thought mutes down into a quiet hum as every bit of your being draws down to focus on the entirety of him. So heavy in its attentions that you hardly bear notice when he crowds you against the heavy doors of your chambers. So eager that the back of your skull knocks on the thick, ornate wood. The pain that flares is stinging and sharp, but you can hardly bother to pay it any attention as he presses himself along your body like he may starve without it. 

Once it all finally catches up with you, you find your hands reaching to sweep along him explorative, greedy strokes. Your fingers claw at his doublet, slipping along the buttery leathers in a weak grip before moving to clutch at the nape of his neck to draw him closer to you. It is crazed. Animalistic. A perversion of the sort of chaste affections that a lady should share with her husband, but you can hardly be bothered to care while your body is overcome with relief. It is suddenly as though he has become the air you require to breathe, and you are under the threat of suffocating. 

His hands are just as rapacious as your own. Clutching at your hips, your waist; reaching fingers gripping onto your hair. He is like some feral animal that does not know where to bite first. Desperate for the taste of flesh and blood but unsure of where to start. 

His teeth nip at your lips; tongue swiping, and obediently your jaw softly parts to allow him to lick into your mouth. The moan that leaves you sounds shocking to your own ears but it is impossible to be ashamed when the taste of him seems to set you on fire. You are quickly to reciprocate with equal ardor, but it is clumsy and underskilled on your part. And it dawns on you that this is your first true kiss with your husband, so very far off from the demure, obligated peck that he had given to you on your wedding day. It makes you burn all the hotter. Your eagerness intensifying tenfold as you grip onto him as though he may vanish if you do not. 

An almost wounded sound leaves you when he removes his mouth from your own. Though it is promptly stamped out when he nudges your head to the side with his own to latch the wet heat of his mouth onto the tender flesh of your neck. A contented sigh leaves you and your body seems to lose all of its strength, going lax against the support of the door as your head lulls back to bear your throat to the bite of his teeth and the suction of his tongue. You feel as though you are turning to mush. Going pliant underneath his ministrations; the heat of him has melted you like wax. 

It is the low bubble of chatter that breaks you from the haze that dips over your mind like the beginning effects of alcohol. Your eyes flutter open to gaze over the prince's shoulder, though he has not even so much as slowed the searing kisses along your flesh. Whether that be because he simply does not care or because he has not noticed the sound of carried voices you are not sure, but you cannot keep yourself from trying to peer down the long stretch of the corridor to spy for the origins of the conversation. You see no one but you are certain whoever is speaking is nearby. Their voices carried and projected by the stone no doubt, but they could round the corner at any moment and catch you and the prince in a most unbecoming manner. 

You mourn the very idea of stopping him, but the requirement to keep appearances and your position of the court untainted from untoward gossip prevails. It has you slipping your fingers along the roots that grow from the nape of his neck to tug as gently as you possibly can, urging him to pry his mouth from your flesh but he remains unmoving. Almost stubborn in his exploration of tasting the salt on your skin. 

"Aemond," you call softly. "We must stop; we will be caught." 

That seems to pull him from the fervent spell that had been casted over him. He finally allows himself to be removed from the crook of your neck, righting his posture meet your line of vision with a slight pant in his breath. The passion in his stare has not wavered or diminished at all. If anything, it seems all the fiercer. 

 

"Will you invite me into your chambers?" He inquires against your lips. "Will you have me?" 

The way he stated the question was straight forward. Blunt in what it implied. Unshy in its desire. But there is an unmistakable edge to it that is almost frail. Fragile in its essence. You know now that here the both of you are at a fork in the path. One single decision that may decide the fate of what lies ahead, and the balance of your matrimony. Prince Aemond wears that facade of his. Like no matter what response leaves from you he will be unbothered, but you can see the vulnerability bleeding into his gaze. You hear it in his questions. The hope that you do not turn him away. 

You know then that you will not send him off down the corridor while you tuck yourself away in your chambers alone. Not as elation and peace wraps itself around you and urges you to tug him closer; guiding him towards you as you make to reach behind to grab for the door latch. 

"Yes, I will have you Aemond." You whisper it softly, as though it is something sacred and delicate. 

That is all it takes to earn his mouth back upon you. Just as starved as it had been before. You are not certain which one of manages to pry one of the doors ajar, but as soon as it is open, you find yourself slipping through the entry as you pull him through by his shoulders as you blindly guide each other across the floor of your apartments. You just vaguely register the sound of the door slamming shut behind you both, but you hardly pay it any mind as his hands sweep along your hips with a grip that threatens to smart skin. The heel of your foot nearly trips along the edge of the tapestry rug, and it is Aemond's firm grip that keeps you secure as you attempt to navigate your clumsy journey to the bed. 

Already his fingers slip behind you, eagerly tugging at your skirts like he means to ruck them over your hips, but then he stops himself short and backs away from you so abruptly that for a second you fear that he is having regrets. That he plans to storm out of your quarters and pretend that this has never happened. His eyes trails over you as he steps away, halting himself he is several paces from you to observe your disheveled state. 

"Undress yourself."  

He says it that poised, calm cadence of his, but the order in it is still apparent. For some reason it makes you pause. You have never been completely bare before him. All of the previous times you had been afforded the crutch of your shift, skin always concealed from view. During your bedding ceremony, while the corridor just outside of Prince Aemond's chambers were crowded with the wedding quests, the attendees of the court and the Crowns Sept, all present to make sure the tradition was followed accordingly, you had still clung to the safety that your chemise had provided you. The two of you were hurdling over so many new steps and parameters in your relationship. For some reason, it does not feel obtrusive or jarring. Simply unexpected. Unfamiliar. But exciting still. 

You reach for the silk placket on the front your bodice, carefully unplucking the golden straight pins that your maidens had secured it with just this morning, being mindful to tack them back into the fabric so they do not drop upon the floor and run the risk of jabbing someone underfoot. Your fingers quiver slightly as you begin to unwind the ribbon lacings underneath, tugging them free from their eyes to loosen the grip of your bodice until the rest of the gown slides free of its grip on your body, enabling you are able to slip the sleeves from your arms for the rest of the garment to pool around your feet. 

You still have several layers to go; held within the confines of your kirtle but he is already watching you with an impassion stare akin to starvation. All of the vigor that he had unleashed on you before in the drag on his lips and the nipping of his teeth has been detained and seized onto with a shaky resolve; his weak restraint projected through the near feral look in his eye. It is clear that he wishes to watch you unburden yourself of your clothes. It gives him some kind of pleasure, to observe you exposing more of yourself to him at his whims. And you would like to indulge that lewd desire of his, but you know that the lacings along the back of your kirtle will be difficult to undo on your own. It is rigid in its structure, and combined with how tightly the many levels silk cord that cross up your spine are cinched, it will be a challenge. Often times it is a pain for even the deft fingers of your maids. 

"Would you so kind, lord husband, to assist me?" You do not bother in awaiting his response as you rotate around to present your back to him. The room is silent, save for the quiet rise and fall of the air steadily leaving and returning to your lungs. You do not hear him diminish the space the separates you both. The sound of his boots along the stone floors does not make a single tap or echo for you to gauge his nearness. But then his hands are just on you, settling at the point between your shoulder blades to pluck at the knot of your silk ribbons.   

The warmth of him wafts against you, causing the hairs along the nape of your neck to rise and your skin to pepper with gooseflesh. You crave to lean back into him. To bask in his natural, soothing heat, but you command yourself to remain stationary as he begins to tug at your lacings. Much steadier and slower than you have suspected. It has anticipation building and churning within your gut. Smoldering and settling like hot coals and molten wax beneath your flesh. 

His lips come to sweep along the junction of your neck, feeling as though they are branding you in their exploration. It should be of a concern with how much that thought thrills you. The idea of walking around with the prince's marks clearly presented for the court to see is an indecorous idea - downright craven. And yet it does nothing but make the flames inside roar brighter. 

You feel the moment that he finished in unlacing the kirtle. It slackens considerable on your torso, before he hastily slips the embroidered edge of the neckline from your shoulders; the truth of his avidity managing to peek through such a simple action. And just like that the materials fall from your body, leaving you in nothing but your shift. It shocks you how quickly his hands find a place on your hips. Fingers clasping tightly like he is resisting the urge to tenderize your skin underneath the pressure of his palms. But that twisted little part of you is still present and greedy. It has you pressing the shape of your rear against his pelvis, and you are unable to contain the delighted gasp that leaves you at the hard press of his cock straining underneath his breeches. 

He has not even seen you naked yet and already the evidence of his arousal nudges at you through the thin fabric of your chemise. He groans as you continue to roll your hips against you his. It's a pleased, low noise, that nearly sounds like a purr rumbling from his chest, and it vibrates along your neck as he threatens to sink his teeth just underneath the edge of your jaw. His fingers begin to tug and lift at the skirt of your shift to pile it around your waist. 

You twitch as he exposes you to the tepid draft of the room; nipples hardening beneath the delicate fabric at the chill. Suddenly, one of his hands is placed before you, fingers hovering close to your mouth as though he expects something of you. Your thoughts scramble along. Already pathetically sluggish and scattered from the lust searing at your being.  

"Take them into your mouth and bite, ābrazȳrys," he guides in a firm murmur. 

Obediently, your lip's part, allowing him to guide the tips of his fingers past them. The leathers concealing the nimble length of his digits is smooth along your tongue. Warm and slightly tangy in its flavor on your palate. The weight of them makes your eyes lashes flutter, threatening to slip closed before a distant voice in the recesses of your mind chides you to follow his desire, and eager to please you gently clamp the edges of your teeth down onto the tips of his gloves. He coos in a satisfied manner when he notices the compliant press of your teeth. He tugs his hand free from the casing of its glove, allowing the now empty garments to lie limp in your mouth before he removes it from between your teeth to discard it somewhere along the floor. 

You vaguely watch his hand from your peripherals as it lifts past the scope of your vison, but the low, wet sound in your ears cues you on what he may be doing. He is licking his fingers. Getting them wet. It makes your body thrum with want. The flavor of his gloves is still strong. A temptation that you never would have imagined. He had used your mouth for something that seems so frivolous, and yet it makes you ache. It reminds you of a bit of course chatter that you had heard from one of the ladies of the court.  A horrible gossip who often whispers of the most perverse of topics between lovers. Though you could not help but to have been intrigued when she spoke of pleasing one of her paramours with nothing but her tongue. 

You know what Aemond plans to do with his hands. The anticipation of it bubbles along the atmosphere like water simmers inside a heated pot, threatening to boil over as his fingers slip between your thighs and part your damp heat with little fanfare. Your body seems to sizzle. A delicious buzz licks up your spine as he sweeps a single finger over your cunt to gather the slick that already threatens to smear down the inside of your legs. Collecting it on the pad of his digit to aid him in delivering a slow, torturous circle along your clit. A drawn-out whine rips itself from your chest, and even with his hand buried underneath the fabric of your skirt, working pleasure between your thighs, you cannot help but to think of the possibility of taking him into your own mouth. 

To delight in the weight of his cock filling it up, weighing on your tongue. How it might taste. The expressions he would make. If his eye would express the same vulnerability that he had displayed to you in the hallway, when he asked if you would have him. Would that hint of desperation no longer be masked, but instead boldly shown? Would his face pinch with pleasure, eye clouded with lust as he watched you on your knees before him?

How gorgeous he would look. 

You have to tuck your face into his shoulder as you helplessly rock your hips against the ceaseless strum of his finger, muffling your cry as he suddenly slips one within the entrance of your cunt, forcing it to stretch and give around its width. He brushes it experimentally along your walls, almost like he is prodding or searching for something within you. Distracting you with the press of the heel of his hand on the bud of your nerves, feeding the fires the pit of your belly. He does find what he is in search of with an adept quickness. You feel it as soon as he does. The blind yet tactful pursuit is rewarded when he caresses something devastating buried inside of you. You gasp, breath snagging as you burrow your nose into his neck, choking on his scent while you search for your voice.  

"Aemond, please." It comes out as hardly more than a wanton moan puffed against his skin, and your hips continue to chase after the exquisite heat that he is effortlessly stoking within the cradle of your thighs. "Please, Aemond. I want to taste you. I want you in my mouth." 

You feel the way he hums in consideration more than you hear it. A nonchalant noise, as though you have questioned him about the quality of his day. As though he was not knuckle deep inside of your cunt. "Hmm, such a temptation. Though, if I recall correctly, was it not my wife who ventured into my chambers with revelations of her loneliness? It seems that I have long ignored my husbandly duties. I think it is due time that I rectify that." 

Those words sound so promising. So sweet in its oath. So, it is entirely cruel when he all but rips his finger from the walls of your cunt, leaving you feeling empty and the scorching embers in your gut smoking but unfanned. A question, an insult, or a cry hang on your tongue, but you never get the opportunity to figure out which it is. Aemond grips you by the shoulders and nudges you in the direction of your bedding, giving you little time to orient yourself through the lustful haze that has clouded your mind over. 

"I want you lying down on your back; cunt spread." His instruction rings out sharply. Like a strategized order that would be given in council. "And remove that fucking garment from your body." 

He spat out the sentence as though the cloth is an offence to him. The sight of it alone enough to rouse his ire. So eager to see you bare before him. You have half the mind to try and tease him, but tonight you can hardly be bothered. The weight of the shift is stifling on your dampened skin, and his covetous stare urges you to do his bid. You do not turn to face him as you disrobe. It nudges from your shoulders easily. Dropping free from your body to leave you in nothing more than your silk stockings and garters, and the diamond accessories that dangle from the lobes of your ears. 

You swear that you can feel the line of his vision upon your flesh. Trailing down your spine, tracing the shape of your ribs as they meet the contour of your waist, skirting along the swell of your arse. You do not turn to face him until you place your knees on the cushion of your mattress, plush and filled with down and feathers, offering you enough support to crawl along the stretch of it before turning on your back as he had bidden. The impassioned look in his eye seems to suspend you adrift. It does not make you feel disgustingly ogled or leered at to be so blatantly admired. He studies you as though he is in the presence of something sanctified. Divine. 

You are not sure of how to compose yourself underneath such unabashed devotion. The only thing that seems to give you any sort of stability is the continued ring of his earlier command reverberating in your mind. You cling to it, like someone who is threatened to be swept away in a rough tide. It is almost absentmindedly that your leg's part, offering yourself up to the insatiable stare of your husband in a manner so vulgar. But you cannot deny that there is something titillating about it. How his posture seems to simultaneously go rigid and slack all at once. A restraint in his composure visibly snapping before he stalks across the room towards you like he means to devour you. 

He is upon you before you can hardly blink. Gripping onto the thick of your upper thigh with his gloved, left hand to further pry your legs apart. Stretching them until you can nearly feel the strain of it in the joint of your hip. "Sīr gevie se dōna raqagon bisa, issa ābrazȳrys." He lifts your opposite up just enough to nose at your knee, ghosting his lips about the breadth of it as his eye locks with your own sight. Something nearly playful dancing in the vivid shade of colors. "Gaomagon ao sylutegon sepār hae dōna?"

He continues to sweep his nose along your flesh. Dragging it downward towards your intimacy, where you burn and ache for him the most. You cannot stop yourself from rolling your hips upward, tempted by the warmth of his breath gliding along your skin and the heat of your cunt. It makes you clench around nothing, as though your body is mourning how empty you are without the stretch of his fingers. 

"Aemond, pleas-" 

He hushes you softly. A placating, quiet sound but it cuts through the air with the swift impact of a steady blade. Like an eager soldier you find yourself falling silent. Focused entirely on him as he lay between your thighs with the relaxed composure of a dragon with its prey already secure between it fangs. "Patience," he murmurs. Though he hardly gives you any time exercise such a restraint because his mouth is on you as soon as the word leaves him. The shock and feel of it sears through you, lashing itself across your body akin to charges of lightning crackling across a storm. Nothing could have prepared yourself for such a thing. The wet heat, the suction of his lips, the skilled slip of his tongue. 

Your legs twitch on reflex, threatening to close but the hand that he had clasped around your thigh keeps it secure in place. Still, it does not stop him from glancing up at you from the apex of your legs with an unvoiced reprimand glinting in his eye. A broken cry shudders from your lungs. Sharp breaths nearly hiccupping from you as he licks at your cunt, burrowing the pronounced, attractive swoop of his nose against your clit while his tongue laps at your entrance. You cannot stop yourself as you begin to sway your hips along the press of it. Practically riding his face with the mindless drive of a woman possessed. Your fingers claw along the blankets; nails tearing at the fabric like it might help you weather through the bolts of ecstasy that ravage your body.  

Your head lifts to properly gaze upon him as he continues to drag his tongue over you, groaning softly into your heat as though he were the one experiencing pleasure. You have heard of women satisfying their husbands with the comforts of their mouths but never the opposite. You know now that it is easily something that you could become addicted to. And based on the pleased pinch between his brows and the way that his eye has nearly slipped closed it seems that he has just as much of an appetite for it. 

"Oh, my gods! Aemond- fuck!" 

You can feel the amused chuckle he releases vibrate along your cunt, making the burning coil in your gut wind that much tighter. He parts his lips from you just long enough to speak, slipping a finger within the tight entrance of your heat just as he does so, crooking it against that delicious spot that he had found nestled within you earlier. "Such a filthy mouth you have on you. How unbecoming for someone who holds the title of a princess." He mocks, crudely stroking and curling his finger within the tight warmth of your cunt. You think distantly to scold him. To remind him of who has drawn such untoward responses from you in the first place but then he is guiding a second digit in along the other, making you stretch to accommodate them; causing your mind to blank. "What would they think if they could see you now? Mewling like well-paid whore."  

You are not sure why that awful little comment has warmth drizzling down your spine like drops of warmed honey. You feel yourself flutter around the ceaseless pulse of his fingers, back arching in a means to draw him deeper. He notices as well. Of course he does, ever so observant. It has him humming in that considering way of his. Like he is pleased with his discovery. You expect another witty remark from him but get none. What he chooses to say next is even more damning. 

"I'm going to fuck you with my fingers, and you are going to be a good little wife and peak on my tongue." 

His tone leaves no room for argument - not that you have given him any in this state. Especially not when the sultry drag of his mouth returns to your cunt to join the clever curl of his fingers. The combination of it threatens to make you sob. Your body writhes when he takes your clit into his mouth, sucking at it gently with steady pulses of his tongue. One of your hands blindly reaches to grip his head, threading your finger through the silken tresses of his hair as though it might ground you; keep you from floating away. It is all so overwhelming. Too much and yet too little. And like a starved glutton you find your opposite palm coming to slip along your own torso, sweeping along your feverish skin to explore your breasts. You mindlessly reach to take your nipples between your thumb and fingers, rolling and plucking at it to further stoke the fire in your belly. 

You hear the sound of Aemond's pleased groan, no doubt watching you from his place between your legs as you touch yourself. Already the rapture flooding your veins begins to rise up. Cresting upon you like a wave being tossed within a great tempest. You can practically taste it. Dancing along your tongue like something sweet and hot; burrowing into the cradle of your hips by the euphoric drag of his hand and tongue. 

"Aemond!" You sob. With the intent to warn him or to merely cry you are not sure. Your face pinches as the grip of your pleasure begins to close around you, holding you tight within its vice like it means to wring every ounce of euphoria from you. "Aemond, I'm going to- gods-" 

The glide of his mouth and fingers is almost brutal. Precise and nimble in his intent to hurdle you headfirst into the throes of bliss, and he is certainly achieving that goal. You can feel the muscles within you drawing up tight; fire lashing and curling over you and wearing at your soul. You can hardly speak. Now struggling to get out broken panting breaths and pieces of the prince's name as your release bears down on you. He shows you no mercy in your state, continuing to suckle and lap at your cunt like he means to drink you down. 

It is with a wrecked scream that you reach your peak. The cry that rips from your throat is short and hoarse, and there is no doubt that some unfortunate soul wandering the hall has heard you. Though you are too beyond yourself to care. Sparks bursts inside your flesh, dousing you in a bliss that you have naught ever brought yourself. Like a mindless animal your body continues to ride itself against the press of Aemond's tongue, his nose, his fingers, all of which still work against you to draw out the euphoria that engulfs you. 

It is not until you hiss from the sudden tenderness in your cunt that he wills himself to pull away, giving you a reprieve to lay boneless and spent along the plush of the bed. His breath is raged when he rises from your hips, face smeared with the evidence of your pleasure, his stare is wild. He looks disheveled, hair disordered from when you had gripped it and chest pulling in frantic gulps of breath. He nearly looks just as winded as you. Though you are surely partly to blame with how you had desperately pushed his face into your cunt like some sort of sex-crazed whore. And the patch of leather that conceals his eyes has become slipped from its place. Not enough to display whatever grievous, old wound may rest beneath, but another unintended brush against it may knock it askew completely. 

You do not think when you guide yourself to sit up and lift a hand, thoughtlessly using your thumb to nudge the leather back down to rest securely above his socket. But the realization seems to come to you both unanimously. His own hand coming to grip your offending wrist, keeping it suspended in its place in the air; your fingertips still resting on the structure of the patch. 

 The stare that passes between the both of you is joined by so many varying emotions. Many of them extending from his side: a brief flash of anger, bewilderment, unease. And then, there it is again. That trace of vulnerability that he tries so hard to contain. But it seems to always be there. Lurking underneath the surface like pain disturbing an old wound. And like a shadow, you see that hint of hope again too. It is the only things that keeps you from shifting from him. Of giving him space that you would have otherwise assumed he needs. But now you draw near. Resting on your knees to sit before him. Instead of attempting to withdraw your hand from his clutches, you instead reposition it to cradle the side of his face, maintaining to keep your touch light in case he chooses to remove himself from underneath your hand. 

Few breaths pass, and he makes no moves to do so. He leans closer. It is such a tiny gesture. A barely perceptible movement, but you feel it. The difference in weight against your hand. The glint in his eye pierces into you with a desperation. Like he is expecting you to suddenly come to a realization and flinch away out of fear. Like he is hoping that you do so. 

But you will do no such thing. You shift closer to him, making sure to be careful as not to accidentally prod his eye patch from its place while you clutch his cheek. He observes you closely. As though he is studying you. Searching for a shred of hesitation or disgust so that he may turn you away. The opportunity for him to do that does not come as you lift to seat yourself upon his lap. His chest expands almost shakily as he gazes at you. Eye slightly widened as though he is in a state of awe or disbelief. The sheer unabashed emotion reflecting inside that gorgeous mix of blue and violet could make your heart ache and skip. You long to tell him of how you feel. The breadth of your emotions. Not quite love yet, of course, but it must be the beginnings of it with how tender and passionate it burns, like the birth of a blaze. 

But that may be too much to confess. Perhaps, your actions will have to suffice for now. 

You are certain he gasps when your lips press against his, tongue sweeping along the plush of his mouth like he had done to your earlier, gathering the tart and sweet taste of yourself on your palate. The flavor of your own arousal does not deter you in the slightest. Not the damp of it against your skin as you draw him into a soft exchange of kisses. Much softer than the one that he had inspired in both of your earlier. This somehow seems so much more explorative. Delicate, even with the heat that begins to simmer beneath the surface once more. 

Your fingers once again slip and find purchase in his hair, nails lightly scraping at his scalp as your hips begin to undulate against the bulge that still presses against his breeches. He groans, panting into your mouth while he runs his hands along your nude flesh, reaching down to grip the swell of your arse to aid you in grinding your hips with his. The hard impression of his cock nudging at your cunt through the fabric of his trousers is delicious, even while you are still slightly tender from your previous pleasure, licking a sensitive fire along your skin. Still, it does not stop you as you continue to grind yourself on him, wanton and aching once again. Delight peeks through the drunken haze of your desires as he removes on of his hand from you to slip between your bodies, fingers reaching for the laces of his breeches where he eagerly pulls at tugs at them to draw them loose. 

He groans sharply in relief when he guides himself from the restraint of his trousers. The alleviation must be great, with how long the straining weight of his cock has been tucked behind the material. You hear it in the low hiss that rises from his chest, and it has you humming softly at him, a light reposeful sound as you continue you to exchange a languid, unbroken kiss with him. The both of you unable to tear yourselves from each other, even has the hot length of his cock comes to rest against his stomach, now pinned between the pressure of both of your bodies, burning against your ferverish skin. 

"I need to feel you," he breathes against your lips. "Let me have you." 

You peek your eyes open long enough to consider him, and the longing that burns within the depth of his stare knocks something inside of your soul off guard, shaking the very foundations. Such raw, unprotected emotion. He stares at you as if you are the creator of the heavens, having fashioned the moon and the burning of the stars with only your hands. It makes you unsure of how to stand unwavering, unaffected underneath such a devoted gaze. If only he knew that it is you who wishes to worship him. To pour your affections and adoration onto him like an acolyte offering their deity tokens and praise. 

An understanding seems to pass through the both of you, a wordless communication. He reaches down to grip himself as you post your hands upon his shoulders, your nails burrowing into the leather of the doublet that he has not bothered to shed as a means to braces yourself as you line the head of his cock with the entrance of your heat. There is little fanfare before you begin to lower yourself onto him, splitting yourself on the head of cock as you use your thighs to settle downward. You walls stretch to accommodate his girth, fluttering as he guides you open to find solace in your body. A strained set of words seems to squeeze from his chest, all of them in that beautiful language that you yet to understand. It has a sense of pride flaring. A deep, hedonistic satisfaction welling up to know that you have such a strong, composed man crumbling around the edges from nothing more than the grip of your cunt. 

You place another brief kiss upon his lips, a smile tugging at them when he nearly tries to chase after you, but you distract him by further sinking yourself down around his length until your rump meets his thighs. His mouth drops open in response, eye fluttering at sensation of your walls clenching and flexing around him as though it means to somehow draw him deeper. 

The pressure of him inside of you, carving a space for himself within you almost makes you breathless. It licks itself up your spine like a bolt of lightning, forcing your body to shudder and draw closer to his, subconsciously seeking out the warmth of his skin and mourning when you feel nothing but the dim chill of his leather doublet. 

"Aemond," you beg softly. Your hips seem to have a mind of their own as they begin to lift themself upward to roll back down, working to repeatedly spear yourself on his cock with only desperation and hedonism guiding you. His hands come to grip your waist, spreading his thighs out wider to find a better stance to drive himself up inside of you easier, aided by the slick of your arousal, causing his thrusts to become even more pronounced. The sensation of his girth stretching you out to its shape, veins dragging along your walls has your back curving taut like a bowstring. 

The warmth of his mouth suddenly closes around one of your breasts, tongue lapping at the peak of your nipple as he continues to drive himself inside of you in a devastating rhythm. It has your mind drawing a blank. Going white like a wall of fog as embers and fire sear at the pit of your gut. Your lip's part. Soft gasps panting from your throat as he continues to ravage your body for his pleasure while further tearing you through the depths of yours. It seems to choke through you, forcing you to hiccup and whimper around the insistent pounding of his hips, the weight of his cock dipping inside of you. 

It is disoriented and abrupt when he shoves you onto the flat of your back, knocking what little bit of air was still contained inside of your lungs out and leaving you stunned. You can only lay and take it as your mind scrambles to gain a sense of clarity, while pleasure scalds itself throughout your veins, snuffing your body in a cloud of smoke. His body extends over yours, only supported by his arms posted on either side of your head. His mouth leaves your breast with a subtle nip of his teeth, sparking pleasure with their blunt edges, making you arch your chest to seek out more of it. 

But he ignores the blatant offering, opting to nudge himself up to kneel to better support his weight as he grabs one of your thighs to swing your leg along the perch of his shoulder. It somehow manages to drive him deeper. Effectively punching the air from your chest, the crown of his cock brushing along something inside of you that has your body twisting along the support of the bed. A sob wracks through you and your eyes nearly roll in the back of your skull. You distantly hear yourself whispering his name. Repeating it over and over again with all of the devotion and desperation of a mantra, of a prayer meant for the ears of a god. And here above you now, he certainly looked like one. Pale eye blazing and wild with his lust, hair unkept and freeing from its tie, a sheen of sweat glittering along his pale flesh like flecks of gold and stardust. 

"There she is," he marvels in a coo; pleased and smug in the debauched thing that he has reduced you to. A complete juxtaposition to the longing, vulnerable man that he had been just moments before. "My sweet wife gone dumb and pliant beneath me. Do I satisfy you? Having you like this? Taking my cock so obediently. " You moan in agreement, hips twitching and jerking to further aid him inside of you. Even while it feels like he is deep in your gut, shoving your breath from you with his rhythm, you crave more. "I should keep you like this. Fucked and filled. Would you like that, ābrazȳrys? Stuffed full until it swells your belly with my heir?"

 

It douses you with fire. The comment engulfing you as though you have been guided into the starved clutches of an inferno. The satisfied stare that he pins you with only makes you feel bare and exposed despite the intimate positions that he has had you in already. Like he is piecing you apart and gazing at your soul. Even with the filth that he casually rambles, it does nothing to dampen the tenderness and hunger that seeps into your bones and gnaws at your being. Your body thrums with the delight at being claimed so primally by the prince - by your husband. To walk about the great halls with his babe safely tucked away inside your stomach. The idea of it has you clawing at his back, no doubt leaving marks along the leather, and it is a great regret that it is not his skin that you tear the traces of your nails along. 

"You will truly be so beautiful in such a state. There will be no mistake that you're mine. Mother to my child. My wife." 

The possessiveness that streaked through his words made you arch into him, driving the metal clasps of his doublet into your flesh, causing the skin to sting. You can hardly pay it any mind though. Not while you are hurtling towards your peak. The promise of your release rushing towards you with the intensity a liquid fire. He too is close. You can see it in the furrow between his brows, the pale stutter in his breath which begins to meld into low groans; feel it in the slight falter in his pace. 

"Please, Aemond." You moan, just barely managing to get your tongue to cooperate in forming the plea. His eye locks onto you with the concentration of a hunter, but that softness, his need is beginning to melt it around the edges once again. "I want you to let go. I want to feel you filling me up." 

His hips flounder for a good moment, and it takes him a bit of correcting to regain the fluidity of the brutal stride that he had set, though once he does it is like he had never faltered at all. The almost violent bliss smoldering along your being still engulfs you and nips at you like it means to rip you apart. He swears sharply again. The sound of your wish, both a beg and a command having the most delicious effect on him as he continues to build that euphoria within the base of your stomach, causing the muscles there to clench tight.

"I'm yours. All yours." You assure breathlessly, aiming to appease the proprietorial nature that he has shown you. That is all you can manage before the euphoria finally crests and completely blindsides you within the deluge. You feel outside of yourself as your body writhes, cunt clenching around the deep stretch of his cock as he continues to pound into you, tipping you into something akin to a drunken stupor. It is rapturous. The sheer weight of the pleasure that possesses you and leaves you little more than a vessel that can only lie and try to survive the onslaught. 

Aemond's body shudders over your own, spine curling inward to tuck his face within the crook of your neck as his own peak seizes him. His groan rattles along your throat, followed by a strained fuck as a burst of liquid heat floods inside your stomach, filling you with warmth. His hips jerk shakily, meeting the languid pace of your own as you both work to assist each other in riding out your shared highs. Though it does not take long for either of you to lose your vigor, muscles and bones going lax as you both relent to the weight of your spent bodies. He does not bother in removing himself from the grip of your cunt as he all but collapses on top of you, effectively pinning you to the mattress with his weight. 

You make no effort to move him from you - you find no desire to. The air around you is thick with the scent of sex, still thrumming and alive with the fervor of your shared lust even as it ebbs from your body, replaced with the temptation of sleep. Contentment and exultation pools in your chest, syrupy and thick from the pleasant warmth of his form along yours, and it guides you to glide your fingers through the silken strands of Aemond's hair. He has made no efforts to extract his face from your neck. Perfectly at peace to keep himself tucked against you with his flaccid cock still buried deep, as his breathing levels out into steady puffs against your skin. 

"We cannot sleep, my Prince. The servant girls will be here soon to prepare me for supper." You warn, though he does not stir in the slightest. A hum leaves him. The only confirmation you receive that tells you he has heard you. He almost seems to clutch onto you tighter, as though he longs to burrow into you and meld into one. So desperate for your touch even while he hides so many facets of himself from you. There is no way to truly foresee what the future has in store for you and him. For the welfare of the kingdom. The home of your children. There are many uncertainties. Many stimming from your Aemond himself, the many lethal edges that create his being. But that is fine. You are patient. Tonight has marked a new turning point for you and he, you are certain. You will wait no matter how long you must for him to come to you, and to reveal himself and his truths to you unabashedly. No matter how damaged and bloody and wild those parts of him may be. 

You are certain that you will marvel in the twisted beauty of it regardless. 

"I will get up shortly." He finally replies, tone gentle and rich in your ear. "Let us just lie here for a moment; just you and I." 

Does this truly please you, wife? - Gaomas bisa drējī kostilus ao, ābrazȳrys? To be here with me? - Naejot sagon kesīr lēda nyke I believe it does - Pāsan ziry gaomas It has me wonder of all the other ways I could please you - Ēza nyke pendagon hen mirre se tolie ways nyke could kostilus ao

So beautiful and sweet like this, my wife - Sīr gevie se dōna raqagon bisa, issa ābrazȳrys Do you taste just as sweet? - Gaomagon ao sylutegon sepār hae dōna?    

[eyeheartboobiez]

𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫 𝐝𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲!𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞 𝐡𝐜𝐬

-> warnings: smut mention

-> a/n: are you able to pick up other people’s tabs at a bar? what even is a tab? idk. here are some unnecessarily long bruce hcs that i wrote at 1am

(edit): fun fact, this was the first set of sugar daddy!bruce hcs i wrote but ended up “scrapping” bcs i didn’t like the direction it was going in👨🏿‍🦯

• honestly, you don't know how either of you ended up in this situation

The drink in your hands was starting to sweat.

One of your professors had given you the chance to attend a charity event of one of his more high society friends. Of course, while you were beyond grateful, you can easily say you'd much rather be at home binging your favorite series.

So here you were, sipping on your fourth glass of the evening without a single clue how you were gonna pay for them all. Your social battery was beyond drained as you were sitting by yourself at the bar, just about ready to call it a night.

All the other socialites in the room, however, seemed to be having a blast talking about politics or stocks or whatever it was that rich people talk about. Well, all except for one.

• on one hand hand there was you, a broke college student just looking for someone to pay for her drinks

• on the other, there was the rich billionaire who was searching for someone worthy enough of his time

• bruce had noticed you sitting alone at the bar, lightly sipping on an amethyst martini:

He takes the night off from his batman duties, and this is how he decides to spend it?

Bruce couldn't wrap his head around it either. Alfred was actually the one who talked him into going to this party. With him being one of the top donors, he was basically obligated to attend at this point.

While all the other party goers were standing around talking amongst each other, the billionaire found himself off in the corner, eyes sweeping the room to find all its nearest exits. In the midst off his mental scan though, he saw you.

The dress you wore was simple, yet it somehow made you glow against the warm lighting. Despite all the commotion in the room, your presence alone practically drew him in like a moth to a flame.

If Bruce was gonna be here all night, he might as well make things interesting, right?

• you hadn't noticed him approaching until the chair next to you was being pulled out

• you were hesitant to open up to him at first

• because why in the hell was one of the richest men in gotham talking to you of all people

• but after a while, the two of you practically sprung into conversation, talking about almost anything and everything.

• after talking for what felt like hours he asks you:

"Would you perhaps like to continue this conversation back at my place?"

• with the way his index finger was gently caressing your hand, you just knew that if you left with this man, you both would be doing anything but talking

• while you usually weren't one to sleep with strangers, one night of some fun couldn’t hurt, right?

• plus you still needed to get these drinks paid for

"Only if you offer to pick up my tab."

• one thing led to another and you found yourself lying in one of the biggest beds of your life, getting fucked by one of the richest men in the world

• you and bruce ended up spending a very long night together. by the end of it, you both were practically comatose from it all

• the next morning, you woke up fully prepared to sign some sort of NDA and head on home

• or at least you were. until you felt the hot trail of kisses leading down from your neck

"Last night was incredible," The billionaire grumbled, the low murmur of his morning voice making butterflies appear in your stomach. Open-mouthed kisses continued to trail down the valley of your breasts, "I don't suppose you wanna do that again sometime, hm?"

• you almost had to pinch yourself to make sure you weren't still dreaming

• it was over breakfast that you both went over some of the necessary details neither of you seemed to bring up the night before

• you told him things about yourself like your age and how you typically didn't go home with strangers. you also ended up confessing how you were only at the same event as him because one of your professors gave you an invitation

• which then led to him asking what your major was

• …which led him to ask what university you attended

• ….which then led to him offering to pay off your college expenses

• like hold on. pause for a second.

• did he fr just offer to pay your whole tuition?

• was the pussy that good???

• before you could think too much about it, bruce made sure to let you know that this would be a small dip into a very big bucket for him

• all he asked for in return was to spend another night with you

• of course he didn't expect you to come to a decision right away, so after exchanging numbers, he drove you home to think it over

• to be honest though, it didn't take you very long to consider things

• i mean you were practically swimming in student loans over here

• immediately after you called to give him a confirmation, your phone pinged with a notification

bruce w. sent over $860.

‘buy something nice for yourself and meet me tomorrow at seven. don’t worry about transportation, i’ll arrange a car for you.’

• and after that the rest was history

• being bruce’s sugar baby was honestly one of the best decisions you’ve ever made

• after your second night with him was when he wanted to make things official between you two

• “official” pretty much meant that he would volunteer to be your personal bank as long as you continued to keep him company

• even though it all sounded great, you weren’t stupid.

• if you were to really go through with this you would need it written on paper. you wanted this shit documented

• so that’s exactly what he did

• by the end of the day, bruce had his lawyers make a drafted copy of the terms and conditions your so called “relationship” would entail (a draft that you were free to make changes to, of course)

• now that everything had been officially set in stone, most days you found yourself either attending charity events or maxing out his company credit card

• now if only bruce could tell you about a certain night job of his…

-> a/n: when i tell you these have been in my drafts for a MINUTE😭 i think imma make a fic about how their relationship develops but first i wanna write the next part to my jason smau series

[awrkive]

[DRABBLE] COLD NIGHTS & BLURRED LINES (m) — JJK.

you were used to jungkook making the first move every single time but this particular night, you couldn't help but change things up a little bit.

PAIRING jungkook x (fem) reader

GENRE r18+ (minors dni pls)

WORD COUNT 4.1k (this is def not a drabble anymore but its like 70% smut anyway saur 🤷🏼‍♀️)

WARNINGS/MISC jk in grey tracksuit 😢 oc is not a procrastinator everybody booed. kinda domestic vibes everyone wants to have what they have including ms delusional me !! this is my literally me fic kinda (this is literally just oc thirsting over jungkook OEBDIDHSJEB) also imagine 3D jungkook guys.... 🙏🏼 smut warnings: oral s*x (m&f receiving, 69 position), penetrative s*x, multiple positions, overst*mulation, creampies, unprotected s*x (dont fls 🙏🏼)

NOTES heyyy so i reread cnbl last night and scrolled thru unanswered messages on my inbox and found these 2 (amongst many IEBDIDHSHD) drabble reqs for cnbl and decided to write it bcs i love and miss them!! unfortunately i lost my ao3 password and i have nowhere to post this so whatever im gonna start posting here again LMFAOOOO. anyway, i hope u guys enjoy this 💗 this is most esp dedicated to the second anon i hate college as well i hope this drabble brings you joy ☺��

‼️CN&BL FULL FIC CAN BE READ HERE

You missed who you were thirty minutes ago.

Before Jungkook arrived, you were extremely focused on the essay you've been stalling to get done since last week.

You were set on finishing the paper tonight, determined to submit it a day prior to the deadline – which is two days from now. You've never been a procrastinator and you wouldn't dare start now. But ever since Jungkook called, arriving a little over five minutes after your conversation on the phone and entering your dorm room, you have never been the same. Gone was your will to finish your essay; it yeeted out the window the moment he came in.

It wasn't that he was doing anything wrong, per se. He wasn't pestering you or doing anything to distract you from doing whatever it was you were doing. During the phone call, Jungkook told you he just wanted to hang around and you were in on it. "As long as I finish this essay without you doing anything funny" – that, was what you said. Joking, a little pointed, when he came barging in your door, socks on and hair still slightly wet from the shower he most probably had at his own apartment.

When you said those words, the goof just wiggled his brows, smirking with a look of mischief written all over his face, and then kissed you in such an unnecessarily passionate way that had you internally keening when he broke away. That gave you an initial idea that he would, indeed, do some funny business. If you were honest to yourself, you wouldn't have really minded that at all.

That was thirty minutes ago. Jungkook surprisingly hasn't tried to touch you at all for the past thirty minutes. In the present, he is just sprawled on your bed watching something on your stupid iPad, airpods plugged in both ears, letting you work in peace on your laptop.

Thirty minutes ago, that would've been fine. Because ultimately, you could focus on your essay and finish it then pass it way before the deadline but no, your problem right this moment does not lie on phonology, it lies on why does Jungkook have to lean his back on the headboard, thick eyebrows meeting each other every now and then as he watched his movies, and put that white t-shirt and grey sweatpants on himself?

You've been having an internal battle with yourself trying to fight the urge to look over your shoulders for him every three damn minutes, groaning quietly as you thought about how Jungkook looked so ridiculously hot doing the bare minimum. Literally nothing. He was doing absolutely nothing. And he was making you feel weird in your belly!

Wait. Is it your period? It ended two weeks ago, though, so that is definitely not that. Maybe you are ovulating? You'd have to check your flow app.

Absent-mindedly, you let out the begrudging moan you've been trying to hide.

"God."

As if alarmed, Jungkook suddenly shoots up and speaks after what felt like centuries.

"You okay? Am I bothering you here?" He said, voice dripping with honey and face full of concern. You got even hornier.

Oh my god. You wanted to cry.

You send him a tight-lipped smile. "I'm fine. And uh, no. You're good."

Jungkook doesn't pry further and goes back to his binge. Meanwhile, you force yourself to think of something.

Another long five minutes later, and you are still halfway done with your essay. The unfinished document only seems to taunt you. So, you let out another sigh, quite quiet this time so you don't make Jungkook think he was being an inconvenience. You made up your mind and just decided to give in to your urges.

You shut your laptop down instead of pressing sleep as you are sure there is no way you can do any more work tonight.

Standing up from your seat, you approach Jungkook on your bed.

He looks up at you the moment you hovered over him, taking his eyes off the iPad. When the mattress dips from your weight, Jungkook's lips stretch into a cute smile.

Your horniness dissipates a little over his adorable face.

"Done?" He asks, lifting a hand over your face to tuck a strand of hair away that you didn't even notice. You shake your head. Jungkook leans down to kiss your cheek. "So, tired?"

You scrunch your nose. "Kinda."

He kisses your mouth when a pout forms there.

"Eaten anything yet?" Jungkook scoots over to the side to make room on the bed for you. You fit yourself in the space, albeit tight (this was a dorm room, alright), and Jungkook is quick to slide his arm under your neck while he still holds the iPad on the other.

"Just reheated some leftover pasta from last night." You cringe over your last meal. It didn't taste good at all but you were way too hungry and delivery took forever to your dorm.

Jungkook seems to know that that pasta was shit, but he doesn't comment on that. Just hums and kisses the side of your head.

Ugh.

"Wanna order something in? Thai?" He suggests, looking at you.

But right now, eating Thai or whatever is the last thing on your mind. Though you would like to eat something else.

You tell him so. Except the last part, of course. Please. You have decorum.

"Uhm, no. I think I'll pass on that. Unless you haven't eaten." you say, playfully pointing a finger to his chest.

"Nah, Taehyung cooked dinner. I'm pretty full." Jungkook says, chuckling.

You had a smart remark on your tongue, something along the lines of, "Then why'd you offer to eat if you already have, weirdo" but to be honest with yourself, you already knew why. Jungkook liked seeing you eat. Dude practically buys most of your meals, now that you think about it.

But your still horny-adled brain went to go and tell your hand to search for his bare stomach under his shirt. And so it did. Forget about having decorum, shame is out the door when you press your palm to the flat surface of his stomach.

"Doesn't feel full at all." You commented, feeling the hard ridges of his abs. You hate them right now. But you would also really, really, like to see them.

Jungkook only chuckles at that. Before he can say anything, you ask him, "Hey, quick question."

"Hm?"

"Can I suck your dick?"

"Huh?" Jungkook, ever the man he is, put the iPad away for the first time since he's been here. Confused, but still, you could not have mistaken the look of pure interest in his face the moment you asked him that.

"I want to suck your dick, if you let me." You say, clearing yourself up. You are putting on a brave face, but internally, you are screaming.

So what if this thing between you has been happening for like… ten months now, almost a year? Jungkook was usually the one to always initiate sex and blowjobs were almost a rare occurrence in your sex life because you told him it hurt your knees but the real reason was because you didn't think you were very good at it. Jungkook never asks for it either, and sometimes you feel bad for only reciprocating handjobs during oral sex quickies but! He never says anything about it so maybe that was fine? Anyway, it's not like this is gonna be your first time sucking him. It's just the first time you initiated with your own words.

"Oh, you're serious?" Jungkook scoots over to his side and lays sideways to prop himself up. "Really?" He has an excited smile on, and you know that because of the way his eyes crinkle.

"Don't make me repeat it." You say pointedly, pushing him a little bit. Jungkook doesn't even budge at the slight attack, only holds your hands in his.

"No, I just… I thought you said no fooling around tonight." He says.

You shrug. "Yeah, well."

You don't expect him to tug you closer to him using his hold on you, and you were thankful you managed to suppress a loud squeal when he laid on his back and caught your whole body on top of his.

"I guess you can't resist my charm, after all." Jungkook says, grabbing a handful of your ass.

"Jungkook, please, you're scaring my lady boner off." You roll your eyes as you adjust yourself on top of him to get more comfortable.

"Take care of my gentleman boner then, baby." He counters and just because of that you avoid the kiss he was about to give you.

"Don't ever say gentleman boner ever again." You pinch his nipple and he let out a laugh at your petty retort. You knew he was sensitive there. But even then, you were starting to feel the growing need concealed under his sweats, and you were set on giving him the blowjob of his life tonight for some reason.

"I have a suggestion to make," Jungkook says suddenly, stopping you from crawling down to his body. You arch your brow at him, he continues, "I don't think we've ever tried sixty-nine, yet, haven't we? Because I also really want to eat you out right now."

"Oh, well, yeah…" you nod. You find yourself heating up at the way he casually tells you the last part.

"So…?"

You haven't really tried that either, and not just with him, but also with your other sex partners that only really summed up to less than four people, and that's including Jungkook. Anyway, the sixty-nine position sounded interesting.

"Okay, sure." You shrug.

"Fuck, you're the best."

This time, you give in to the kiss he gives you and pretty much after that it turns into a heavy make-out session with Jungkook fondling your boobs underneath your overused highschool PE shirt while you ground down against his erection that only kept growing harder as seconds passed.

You are panting when you break away, a string of saliva in between your lips, breathing for some air. Jungkook kisses his way down your neck, suckling on your skin and soothing it with his tongue.

"Take your shirt off," you say, already impatiently tugging at the hem of his clothing.

Without a word, Jungkook frees himself from the fabric. "You too, and your panties. Please."

You chuckle at the "please" but nonetheless straddle him to take your shirt off. Jungkook looks up at you with hooded eyes, massaging the bare skin of your waist as you wriggle your hair out of the neckline. He grips your waist as you lift your bum off his stomach, pulling your panties and shorts down in one go one leg to another.

"Shit," Jungkook hissed at the sight of your glistening pussy that has gotten wet overtime, hands roaming all over your body like he doesn't really know where to touch. Always fascinated and in awe with what you show him, always so eager, so touchy. And you always love his undivided attention. Makes you feel like a princess for some reason. Doesn't help that he calls you that sometimes, too.

"Oh, fuuck," he groaned when you sat on his stomach. You couldn't help but let out a quiet moan, too, feeling his hot skin and your cold pussy touching together. "Angel, fuck, come here, let me kiss you."

You lean down to kiss him and he quickly reciprocates, his tongue entering your parted mouth, swirling and licking inside, taking your breath away. You could feel yourself smearing your wet mess on his abs but you couldn't really care less, not when Jungkook looked like he couldn't, too, squeezing every inch of you he could get his hands on. And they were everywhere, alright. Your breasts, your waist, hips, ass, his thumb on the inside of your thighs, all the while kissing you like he was hungry for it.

Jungkook jostles you a little when he lifts himself up a little to slide down the grey sweatpants you have a love and hate relationship with, his dick shooting up his abdomen and touching your ass as a result.

He stops kissing you.

"Alright, one more minute of you grinding against me will make me nut. Sit on my face now, baby."

Blood shoots up your cheeks, making you feel hot. A little funny, given what you are doing right now. But he can't just be so casual about it! He was asking you to sit on his face like he was telling you the grass is green. Regardless, you kiss him one last time.

"Don't suffocate." You warned him, already reversing your position as easily as you can so that your back is facing him.

You hear Jungkook chuckling from behind. "Please, I'll die happily suffocating in this pussy."

"Please don't talk about dying." You deflect, already feeling so shy about the whole thing. Indeed it was your first time to try this position, and you quite didn't know how to act. You wonder if he's done this already in the past, but found yourself irritated at the thought of him doing this with anybody else. You'd have to assess what that feeling of irritation means later.

"Hmm," Jungkook hums, grabbing the globes of your ass and fondling them before you could even properly place your knees on both sides of his head. With his hold on the flesh, he pulls you closer to him until you feel his breath on your core. "Ah, shit, will never get tired of this pussy, baby. Fuck, you're so wet."

You try to focus your attention on his hard dick against his stomach, veiny and rigid, red at the tip and shining with pre-cum. Wrapping your fingers around the base, you lean down a little more so that you can begin teasing him.

But Jungkook beats you down to it as he licks a long stripe across your pussy. It has you keening and stumbling a little over, feeling so good at the contact of his tongue against your sex. You hear him hiss before he says, "Come on, pretty, sit on my face, don't hover."

You hesitate before giving in, and Jungkook is quick to continue the ministrations of his tongue on your pussy. The position was so new to you but you couldn't help but think it was so good, feeling him this way, albeit still a little conscious about cutting off his air supply. But as Jungkook starts licking and sucking, you remember his cock in your hand and it prompts you to stroke him up and down; slow, because your mind is cloudy from the way you could hear the slick of your pussy from Jungkook's licking.

Leaning down, you kiss the head of his cock, licking his pre-cum off the top. There was Jungkook's groan again, and you thought that was a good sign, then continued to suck his tip a little just to see it getting even redder.

Jungkook suddenly gets more aggressive in the ministrations of his tongue, from his slow yet precise strokes, he starts increasing speed, fingers getting tighter on your asscheeks, the tip of his tongue prodding at your entrance giving you a taste of being full.

It prompted you to whimper, Jungkook only humming, seemingly pleased with himself. Letting out a shaky breath, you resume stroking his cock, twisting your fingers around the base. Soon, you lean even closer so that you can wrap your lips around the head.

Jungkook's groan was a pure sinful sound of pleasure as you did so. Nevermind that he was having his own feast on your pussy, you were determined to make him cum. And to do that was to suck on the tip gently at first, swirling your tongue on the cum that's building up on it. You joined the motion of it with your hand stroking the shaft up and down, cheeks hollowed and sucking the air in your mouth to create a suction that has Jungkook slightly jolting in his position.

"Oh, fuck yeah, baby, that's it, you're so good at this… shit," He says behind you, moving his mouth off your pussy and replacing it with two fingers. Jungkook slides them in easily, the squelching sound so apparent it cannot be mistaken for anything else if there was anybody but you two in the room. "You like this, baby? Hm? You're taking my fingers and my cock so well."

You moaned around his cock, heat starting to spread all over your body as Jungkook began to join his digits with his own mouth, devouring your pussy like he always does when he goes down. You start losing your rhythm on his cock, choking on it a third time now as you haven't really managed to fit it all in your mouth. You've always tried to, but he's always been a little too big for you. If it was a skill issue, you didn't care, Jungkook enjoys it just as much as you do.

When Jungkook rubs your clit, that's when you start shaking on your knees, threatening to crumble down.

As if he knew what was coming, Jungkook suddenly says, "Don't come yet, baby, not now." and you swear you would have actually cried.

What you didn't expect is Jungkook suddenly sitting up, his hands gripping your hips so that you don't jostle on top of him. You let go of his dick as he slides you off his body, and you let him manhandle you into sitting on his cock that slides in too easily like your pussy was fine silk. You now sit on top of him in what seems to be like a reverse cowgirl position, except that you aren't the one in control of your own movements.

"Oh, K-kook – Jungkook!" you yelped as he bounced you on his rigid dick, your body melting against his.

"Shh, take my cock, angel. You can do that for me, right? You're so pretty right now, I wish you could see yourself." Jungkook whispers against your hair, and you pathetically nod, craning your neck up at him to seek for his mouth. He smiles at you, the gentle nature of it so contrasting to the way he was controlling your hips, bouncing you in and out of his cock. "My pretty little angel."

He kisses you passionately, and as seconds passed his hands began to travel upwards to cup your breast, fondling it in his hand and pinching your nipple. You also started to initiate your pwn movements, meeting Jungkook's thrusts from below you, all the whole moaning in his mouth at the pleasure of his cock touching every crevice of your pussy.

The feeling of this never gets old even if you've done it exclusively and quite constantly with each other for the past ten months. Sex with Jungkook is always just so intense it always keeps you on your toes.

"K-kook, I'm cumming," you gasped in his mouth, feeling that build up in your belly

"Hm," Jungkook leaves your boob in favor of your pussy. Kissing you one last time on the mouth, he leans against your shoulder to watch as he spreads your nether lips. You look down to his hand there, fingers spreading the lips apart witnessing your own hole getting split open by his engorged cock. The sight was so lewd and obscene you couldn't help your moan. Then, Jungkook begins rubbing your clit again, fast and with a purpose, this time to make you finish. And he finally gives you the green light to do so. "You can cum now, baby."

And as if prompted by his simple words, you came, feeling a gush of wetness coming out of your pussy. You watch the way Jungkook kept his fingers in there, massaging your hole and kissing your neck.

"Jungkook…" you bury your face into the crook of his neck as you come down from your high, pussy throbbing and spasming from the intense feeling of cumming. He did edge you from when he ate you out.

"Good girl."

And again, Jungkook changes your position. From sitting up, you are now laid against the bed again, with him switching your positions so now he's the one hovering and you underneath him. He grabs your hips up and enters your pussy once again, sliding his cock in and out to chase his own orgasm. Your moans only encourage him to go faster, his grunts filling the room.

"Oh, that's it, Kook, you come for me too." You say, reaching for his stomach with one hand and fondling your own boob with other for his own consumption. Jungkook always liked seeing you play with them.

"Yeah, you're so sexy like that," he says, even picking up his speed higher.

Soon, he was cumming with a pained groan, and you didn't expect to cum a second time the same time he did.

Another gush of slickness slides down your pussy while Jungkook pulled out completely. But he was putting it in again a second later, rubbing his dick against your core. You sigh, partly at the sensitivity but also how pleasurable it all still felt even though you've come twice now in the span of almost what? – thirty minutes? Maybe an hour?

"Pretty fucking pussy you've got here, baby," Jungkook says before pushing his cum back into you, making you cry out. "Never gonna get enough of this. Of you."

You whimpered, clinging to his forearms as he continued his actions.

"Cum for me one more time?" He asks, staring deeply into your eyes.

And you couldn't possibly do that. Coming twice was not at all what you envisioned your night to be, thrice was a heart attack. But at the same time, you couldn't really resist his pleading eyes and his deep voice and his still hard cock pushing his creampie deeper into you.

So you nod your head, and Jungkook leans down to swipe the strand of hairs that sprouted all over your face overtime, wet on the hairline from your sweat, just before he slides his cock all the way in again, repeating that in and out routine, the slamming and the bottoming out, the quickening oh his pace and your toes curling once again that impeded your orgasm for the third time that night.

When you finished, exhausted and spent the fuck out, Jungkook laid on your boobs and kissed all over, playing with one of your nipples in his other hand. You were flat on the bed, dead weight, looking up at the ceiling and closing your eyes to cool yourself from what had just happened.

"Okay, that's enough, Kook, we gotta clean up." You say, massaging the soft curls on the top of his head.

He only let out a non-committal hum.

"Jungkook."

"Yes, baby?"

"Enough sex. I'm fried." You say, pulling his hair slightly to make him look up at you. But that was a bad decision of course 'cause he only seemed to enjoy the teasing.

"Just saying hello to these amazing boobs of yours." You rolled your eyes at his retort, nonetheless accepting it.

"Thanks, I guess."

Eventually, Jungkook stopped being clingy and finally found the will to fetch a wet rag from the bathroom. He cleaned you up and and you didn't bother dressing up except the panties you asked him to get for you. Soon after that, you cuddle together in bed.

"Hey," Jungkook suddenly whispers behind you, fingers massaging your hip, mouth press to your head. You hum. "I think we should do that more."

You try to look over your shoulder. "What? The sex?" you say, chuckling.

Jungkook pinches your hip. "Yeah, I told you we should have sex everyday. But that's not the point, I meant the sixty-nine."

"Well, first of all, having sex everyday is physically not possible," you roll your eyes though he couldn't see. "Second, I enjoyed that position, too. A little bit distracting, but definitely really enjoyable."

Jungkook agrees. "I think you just gave me the best blowjob of my life, if you wanna know."

"Really?" you confirmed, smiling up at him.

"Almost nutted when you sucked my head."

You chuckle, slapping his chest and roll your eyes again for how many times now?

"No but seriously…" Jungkook suddenly turns, indeed, serious. But he's still smiling, though, just a little less playful with his tone. "What was with you tonight? Did you finish that essay?"

Oh god, your essay. Right.

You feel your cheeks heat up a little remembering how you were basically thirsting over him him a while ago. And for no reason too.

Despite cringing internally, you shrug. "No, not really, but submission's two days from now and I just wanted to kiss you, I guess."

That made Jungkook's smile even bigger. He doesn't say anything more but only scoots even closer to your neck, kissing your hair.

"Hm, I always wanna kiss you too, and I do. But I love it when you ask for it."

You think you'll start doing it more, too.

all rights reserved © AWRKIVE , 2023

[killerlookz]

50/ 46/ 62 <3

thank you for the ask <33 | if you'd like to participate in the heartbeat! au OTP ask game, the full prompt is here

46. what is their favorite intimately sexual thing to do to their partner? 50. what is their favorite position with their partner? 62. who likes to walk around the house naked and who tells the other to put some clothes on?

pairing: heartbeat! reader x heartbeat! joost content: 18+ MDNI, smut, oral (f! receiving), penetrative sex, angst mentions, not proofread

explicit RPF below! please do not interact if that makes you uncomfortable !!! 18+ MDNI

46. what is their favorite intimately sexual thing to do to their partner?

Joost's favorite thing to do is eat you out, hands down. You're stressed? He'll eat you out so you can relax. You're mad at him? Let him eat you out to show how sorry he is. You can't sleep? He'll eat you out to put you in that perfect blissful state so you can just fall right to sleep. He's just got back from tour? He's eating you out because he missed how you taste.

Truthfully, you hadn't expected him to be so into giving you head, and you much more expected for him to prefer it the other way around. When you first met- with his fluffy hair, ill fitted skinny jeans, and Supreme shirt you thought you had figured out his type, hype beast, fuck boy, who idolized american soundcloud rappers, thinking he was hot shit in his fake designer belts and unnecessarily expensive sneakers. The type of guy who fucked for his pleasure, and his pleasure alone.

How completely and utterly wrong you were. Joost had charmed you enough to let him take you out on a first date, so charming in fact, you'd end up "giving it up" on that first date. You hadn't expected to, but you couldn't resist him. You'd gone back to his place for some after dinner drinks, one thing led to another and you found yourself in his lap, lips pressed together, hungry. Until that point you had never had a make out session so intense, hands roaming each other wildly, unable to get enough of one another. Without a doubt, Joost had noticed the way you pressed your hips into his, with your skirt bunched up around your thighs, all that separated you from Joost were your panties, which had been, embarrassingly soaked for having only been making out. You were barely cognizant of the way you begged for friction against the seam of Joost's jeans, the fabric growing stiff under Joost's own rising arousal. Both of you were desperate for more, and Joost was ready to make the first move.

Joost pulled back from the kiss, lips shiny and swollen, lightly ghosting over yours as he speaks,

"Will you let me eat your pussy, schatje?" So forward. His voice is just barely above a whisper, but it's enough to hear the pure yearning he speaks with.

"Huh?" You hadn't dated around too much before Joost, but never had a man asked to eat you out on the first date, needless to say you were a little taken back.

"You can say no but-"

"Please." You cut him off ready to fully give into him.

Very soon after that Joost had been on his knees on the hardwood in front of you, head between your thighs, with your legs wrapped around his shoulders as you sit half off the couch. One hand is at your waist and with the other he uses his fingers to spread apart your folds as he laps at your cunt.

Joost was beside himself, musing with gentle mumbles about how good you tasted, about how he'd never be able to get enough of this-enough of you, his low voice sending vibrations right through your sensitive nerves.

And Joost was right, he would never get enough of you.

Post breakup, Joost doesn't eat you out as much as he'd like to, he worries its to intimate and it is.

But there are always those nights between you where it hits you just how profound your emotions towards each other are, how deeply and utterly in love you still are- and those nights Joost will find himself with his head between your thighs again.

50. what is their favorite position with their partner?

Without a DOUBT it's missionary. Call it boring, call it vanilla whatever. You two love fucking in missionary.

At first it's loving, neither of you wanting to take your eyes off each other. Joost will carry you to the bedroom, carefully placing you on the bed, hovering over you as the two of you make every soft and love felt move towards getting it on. The position allows for you to be so close to each other, Joost usually opting to fold over as much as he can, so his chest is nearly pressed against yours, his breath hot on your face and neck. Occasionally he'll pull back, watching you under him, the way your face writhes with pleasure, and you desperately grip the sheets below you. And - well, he loves watching the way your tits bounce while he fucks into you.

As your relationship progresses and tensions rise, and eventually you two break up- missionary becomes a way for you to get in one another's face while you inevitably end up "hate fucking" during an argument. Angry sex includes a lot of mocking and taunting, looking each other in the eyes, face to face as jaws clench between harsh words spat at one another. Neither of you relenting or willing to admit you're wrong. You try to remember whatever it is you're arguing about while Joost slams into you at a near brutal pace, your fingers ripping into his shoulders, sure to leave some marks for the next few days.

One of you will end up shutting the other one up with a fierce kiss, unable to stand the sound of their voice nagging and bickering any longer, wanting nothing more than to just reach your orgasm. And you will. Joost collapsing on top of you, a thick tension still lingering in the air. Aftercare is non-existent on some of those nights, the persistent anger having been unresolved by sex, leading to you wanting nothing to do with each other.

Other times, Joost will gently pull out of you, wordlessly making his way to the bathroom to get a warm washcloth before coming back to clean you up. You'll only share a few words for the rest of the night, maybe a quiet "I'm sorry" if you're lucky- but nobody needs to say it, you can feel it, the regret that fills the room, its almost suffocating. After he cleans you up Joost will join you back on the bed, pulling you to his chest, your naked bodies intertwine. He'll press a few kisses to your forehead, and you'll mumble your "I love you's" before falling asleep, hoping for a better day tomorrow.

62. who likes to walk around the house naked and who tells the other to put some clothes on?

Reader. But truthfully neither of you wear much clothes while you're together. It's not uncommon for the two of you to spend the entire day together at home only in your underwear, being skin to skin just feels better anyways.

But in terms of actual nudity, yes, reader. Joost prefers to not be completely naked, sometimes even during sex, occasionally opting to just pull his underwear down to his thighs instead of taking them off entirely.

If you've fallen asleep after having sex, and find yourself still naked in the morning, you won't bother to find something to put on before getting up to go run and grab a cup of water in the kitchen.

Or after a shower when you don't feel like getting ready right away you'll lounge around on your phone in bed, sometimes only in your towel, sometimes in nothing at all.

Joost will jokingly chastise you for constantly being naked or minimally clothed while the two of you are together, but he never actually means it. Obviously. He's obsessed with the way you look, clothed, or unclothed, and I mean- completely enamored. And he won't ever try to hide in, shamelessly staring at you, wherever and whenever he pleases, unable to fathom you're his.

Or post break up... deeply deeply regretting you're no longer his. Sometimes he'll remember that Michael has seen you like this too, filling his body with a hot pang of jealousy. He wishes he could be the only one to witness you in such a state, but he know's he's fucked that chance up.

[leychin]

MDNI

tw//noncon lmfao

Shigaraki doesn't like you.

thats what he has to tell himself as he pushes your head down further to choke on his cock. He's utterly repulsed by you, thats why his eyes are wound tight as he feels your throat squeezing so deliciously around him.

He hates you actually, but this is the only way you can make yourself useful to him so he doesnt dust you on the spot. You've made your jaw go slack as he ruts into your mouth like a virgin, your nose hits the unruly patch of snow white hair at the base of his cock and he feels no remorse.

He feels nothing when hes spitting hot ropes down your throat, holding your head at the base of his cock so you don't waste a drop. You should be honored that he's letting you take him like this, thats why tears flow so freely from your cheeks. But don't worry! Just because he hates you doesn't mean he's evil, he'll pick you up so youre eye level with him just so he can lick those salty tears up, he loves the sound of you catching your breath. He loves the taste of your tears.

He hates you but he loves to be inside you. He loves when you writhe and fight against him, its a game and you're a weak level boss. After the first phase of fighting against him, your legs will stop kicking him and instead shake in his grasp, and hands that would claw at him are now wrapped around his neck and over his shoulders as you try to pull him in for a kiss, it never happens. He hates you.

Its the only explanation for this unsettling warmth in his chest whenever you're around. Calling him 'Mr.Shigaraki' and 'Sir' like the whore you are, it's like you're asking for it. The league has no place for skimpy little sluts, yet here you are, in your room, begging for him to make you cum.

He's a lot of things, but he wouldn't call himself unnecessarily evil, so he lets you. But that doesn't mean he'll cum too. He still has to abuse your cute little cunny until you pass out. Yeah, its what you deserve.

Shigaraki hates you, but he places sloppy open-mouthed kisses along your neck, your face, your thighs, anywhere but your lips. He opts to let his spit roll into your mouth instead as hes on top of you with a fucked out daze, too pussy drunk to even consider your cries for him to 'stop' or you crying "please 's too much..!" he can't hear you. so shut up. He wouldn't stop anyway.

Though, there's a point where you squeeze him so tight he fucking cries from the tightness and he finally releases, and that causes something deep inside of you to snap. You squirt without warning. Tears racking through your whole body as you whimper and softly sob into your own hands, saying you're sorry, you wont do it again. please dont kill you.

Shigaraki hates you, but he loves your little pussy basically crying out for him. So he's already leaning down to get a taste, and when you say 'Mr. Shigaraki, s-stop!" it falls on deaf ears. Beause if you really wanted him to stop. you'd stop fucking calling him that you dumb little whore.

[bnecaz]

thinking about Lapdog Art who whines a lotttt he was whimpering and is hoarse from begging so much

Hi anon!! I was thinking about this for a few weeks and I finally got around to writing down my thoughts!!

Warnings: +18 smut, sub sub subb art, pet names, blowjob(?) premature ejaculation, lapdog art and practically what anon wrote, plus it's long!! :3

Thinking about art training hard every day, waking up early every day and not even having time to send you a message because tashi took his phone on purpose so he could train because this opening was very important for his career, so he was exhausted, he trained more than his body could handle and he was so fucking sore

he called you to his house early in the morning, everyone was asleep and he was waiting for you in front of his house, his pupils dilating when he saw you walking towards him, the tips of his finger turning white from squeezing

when you arrived close to him he wasted no time, kissing you calmly at first, then his tongue poked your lips, asking for silent permission that you quickly accepted, then his hands began to freely roam your body, going down to your tiny skirt that he handpicked for you to use, taking the smallest size because he knew that when you walked he would have a full view of your butt

his fingers grabbing your buttocks as if it would save your life from death, as he starts to whimper against your lips, kissing you so sloppily that drool was dripping down your chin, his fingers going to the strap of your blouse, slowly lowering them almost tripping

His kisses start moving down to your neck, giving open mouth kisses, he looked desperate, his bulge was very visible in his shorts, he was rubbing himself against your thigh, trying to get some friction on your thigh

his lips quickly descending to one of your breasts, putting it in him mouth it in an instant, his tongue circling the hardened nipple while squeezing and massaging the other

You could tell he was trying hard not to whimper at the sight in front of him, of him biting his lip as he guided both sides of your hips, rubbing you against his bulge

You haven't even left the front door of his house and he's rubbing himself against your thigh, hard as a rock

"Missed you," he pouts, drawing the syllables out like a whining little puppy. He's nuzzling his face against your neck, lips and teeth just about everywhere they can be, marking and nipping as his hands grasp desperately at your waist. He's trying to meld himself against you, like he's really, really trying to become one with you.

He mumbles something incoherent into your skin, and the ache in his shorts digs against your thigh, hot and hard and unnecessarily needy.

"I didn't even leave the front door baby" you try to murmur which he then visibly complains about

You almost feel sorry for how stupid he seems now, almost. You gently bring your lips to his and kiss him

He's sighing blissfully, tilting his face up to meet your kiss with parted, so greedy lips. Soft sighs are slipping off his tongue in a way that's only for you, and his hands are all over you, grasping and holding on like you're gonna slip from his hold.

He's pulling you into the apartment, pressing you roughly back against the door. His hips are flush against yours, a hard, aching bulge digging into your skin. Art's whining he sounds wanton and needy, desperate for more, as his tongue licks its way into your mouth.

He's panting against your lips, tongue flicking needily into your mouth. He's shivering in your grip, trying to grind into your hand as he whimpers out your name

His whole body is flush against yours, strong hands grasping at your hips and holding you right there, against him. One of his legs has even slipped between your thighs, shifting back and forth in small, aching friction.

"Baby" He's mewling, panting and breathless and desperate for more, he is always

You decide to tease him a little and pull away from his mouth, making him whimper "Stupid puppy" you whisper in his ear

He's whining at the name, his face burning in a way that makes it obvious he loves it. Big, wide puppy dog eyes fluttering open to look at you through dark lashes, and all you can see in them is need.

"Stop calling me names," He mumbles, and the way he's panting, grinding back and forth against your hand? It's obvious that he's actually not really all that bothered by the name.

You lower your hand to his dick and gently squeeze, palming it

He's groaning into your mouth, body shivering as your hand squeezes the aching, hard arousal in his pants. His hips are pressing flush into your touch like he's trying to grind himself into your hand

He tastes like the sweet nectar of honey, tongue licking into your mouth in a way that's needy and sloppy

And in a minute his lips are on your neck again, leaving marks and bites that would be very visible

He’s groaning against your neck, breath hitching at the question. He’s biting down on his lip so hard it’s turned white, the muscle in his jaw flexing as he tries not to beg

He’s panting and whimpering, tongue flicking out to taste your skin while his hand slides up to tangle into your hair

When you moved away from his lap to crouch down he instinctively groaned in disapproval, moaning again pathetically, hips arching into the air trying to reach more of you, his hands go to the back of your head, his fingers digging into the back of your neck as he pathetically tries to get you closer to his throbbing cock

He’s shuddering when you give a kiss on his cock dressed, hips arching into your touch like he’s desperate for it. “Baby” He’s whispering, mouth open and eyes wide, like he can’t even breathe when you’re touching him like this.

His hands are grabbing at your hair, and the muscle in his thighs is tensing as you move down. “Please, please, I need you,” He pants

“Where”

He’s whimpering in response, his hands grabbing at your hair while his hips arch up like he’s trying to force you somewhere. “Anywhere, baby, anywhere,” He mumbles, breath hitching with the words.

“Please, need you so bad… need to touch you,” He’s whimpering, face flushed and red and cute. The look in his eyes is downright desperate.

And just when you think it was bad, when you finally put just the tip of it in your mouth, it's wild, I can imagine his dick swollen, the tip leaking precum and very red

and I'm the biggest confidant and I'll never give up on the idea of art cumming too quickly when he's needy, no one will be able to change my mind, as he's whining and squeezing the back of your head so hard that you swear he's going to pull your hair out, the Their eyes are rolling back and if it were possible they would go to the back of his head, and with one final thrust he cums so quickly, and he just passes out there and doesn't give you time to at least tease him!!

[videogamelover99]

OKAY BUT LISTEN. LISTEN. I WANNA BREAK DOWN SOME OF THE PANELS FROM THIS SCENE CAUSE UH. This is like a powerpoint of the audience realizing the Sheep are not Chuuya's friends.

First off, baby? Baby. Also Chuuya's body language in the art is so, like, embarassed/self-conscious teen, except instead of the problem being hanging out with the wrong people in high school its...Mafia-level stakes. Anyway, Chuuya curling up while hiding from his "friends" immediately gives you a sense he is not the one in control.

Dazai-like expression who? Chuuya is putting on a mask so eerily similar...it gives us some great parallels.

Chuuya unnecessarily apologizing to Shirase? Yeah. Straight from the book.

Insane over Shirase's solid B+ gaslighting. I don't remember if these lines are from the book, but Shirase implying Chuuya's the one "acting like a tyrant" when he literally didn't do anything?? Except ask politely for favors? Throughout the whole conversation he's been the polar opposite. But hey, maybe Shirase's just projecting.

Haha, "somehow".

Nothing to add here except Shirase's body language in this is SO much better than the anime. In the anime he just acted mad and kinda hot-headed. Here he's smiling, acting friendly, giving off those "ofc I'm on your side Chuuya but you make it so hard for these made-up reasons" vibes. Shirase is opportunistic, manipulative, he believes he has control over Chuuya, and therefore his ability.

Of course, Dazai can tell immediately what Shirase is doing. That Shirase has more power over Chuuya than Chuuya does over any of the Sheep (which is once again reinforced by the body language. Shirase's arm over Chuuya's shoulders, swamping him. Being physically taller than Chuuya. Chuuya just kind of standing there, passively.

Also despite what Shirase seems to believe, he and the other Sheep are not one bit smarter than Chuuya. They're eagerly celebrating their victory when Chuuya can clearly tell this is some sort of plan on Dazai's part.

Dazai destroying any leverage they had over Chuuya and yet knowing there's some reason Chuuya is doing this anyway. Offering him a choice.

As I've said before (and it's more obvious than ever in the manga) Shirase's using it to gain Mafia territory by getting some of their members captured. I've stated this before, and we do get a confirmation:

The "self defense rule" is something Chuuya explicitly created. To not strike unless provoked. I have a lot of thoughts on this and why but that's not for this post.

And we have!! Dazai getting pissed off on Chuuya's behalf!! He's scary.

(Spoiler alert: they are not his friends.)

Ahhhh

Ahhhhhhhh

Guys I love this chapter. Because on one hand, Shirase, like the rest of the Sheep, have very legitimate fears. They're literally a bunch of kids that used to be preyed on by other organizations, and if Chuuya is not guaranteed to protect them, then...well...they're in horrible danger, really.

The problem is that Chuuya is ready to protect them. But they don't trust him, and it seems they never have. The whole thing is built on Shirase (and probably the others) holding some kind of emotional and social power over Chuuya, therefore guaranteeing their safety. But when that's not longer the case, well, they don't trust Chuuya to protect them. I'm curious how the manga is going to adapt Dazai's whole "meat" story later on because the issue isn't a selfish conflict of interest. The issue is trust, and the lack of it between Chuuya and the rest of the Sheep.

It's like the Sheep built their gang on high school clique rules, and didn't realize Chuuya's not just operating out of a sense of obligation and need to belong, but genuine care. Anyway, that's all I have to say. The art is beautiful.

[ransackedpotato3]

In public transportation

Aggie had shit 6 times today, she had unfortunately gotten sick with bad case of diarrhea right before her flight. After a painful 3 hour flight of running to and from the toilet, her stomach still ached. Aggie stood impatiently at the back of the bus, gripping the bus handle as tightly as her weak sick body could, maintaining balance as it bounced on the rocky road.

The first 10 minutes of the night time bus ride went smoothly. Then her legs started aching from standing so long, her stomach ached more and more, her ass was tired from holding the volume of liquid shit behind it.

The bus hits a bump and a little gas comes out, Loud enough to turn a few heads. Aggie blushes in embarrassment as the person to her side glances at her.

As her stomachache worsens by the second, She moves her free hand to hold her stomach as she scrunches her face in pain. Arching over slightly, she pushes in an attempt to release a fart, But it refuses to come out. She gradually intensifies her effort at pushing. she feels the gas right there about to flow out, it constantly feels like if she pushes just a little harder she’ll find the relief she desires. She pushes harder and harder to the point she grunts in effort.

She doesn’t feel it come out. The numbness of her asshole from shitting and wiping multiple times over hindered her ability to detect the aggressive shower of diarrhea she pushed out into her pants. She first heard the splashing sound coming from down below, then felt the stinging hot sensation of the diarrhea spreading around up and down her butt crack, to her privates, and down her thighs. She gasped at the realization that she had just shit herself. Looking down, she saw her dark grey jeans go darker from her crotch and back, to the cuffs at the bottom as a stream of diarrhea made its way to the floor of the bus making a loud noticeable splattering.

Half the bus turned to the sound as she panicked to stop the diarrhea from gushing out. However, her weary tired asshole seemed like it forgot how to stop pushing. the sound diarrhea flooding her pants and the ground continued as a large puddle formed around her, If it wasn’t for the smell it would have seemed like she’d pissed herself. The liquid poop only ended with the unnecessarily noisy sound of a powerful fart exiting her asshole into its liquid surroundings made a deep bubbling sound from her behind.

Aggie kept her head down with her eyes closed and her teeth clenched as voices of disgust surrounded her. There was a long bus ride ahead of her.

[wingedcat13]

Siren Call: 3

[We’ve had past and present Minerva, but what about future?]

One day, Minerva will be familiar with the island’s crags and shelves. She’ll know the way the shore slope becomes a drop off and where the sandbars are, the color and density of all the coral, the migratory patterns of the species who pass by.

Today, she knows enough to avoid triggering the sensors. Even pauses to adjust one that’s started sagging out of place.

Minerva chooses not to walk up the beach, not wanting to track sand into the - house? Facility? Building? - not wanting to get sand caked to her feet and legs. Jumping straight up to the roof in a waterspout is also unnecessarily dramatic when there isn’t a fight to get to. So she just gathers herself, waits for a wave, and urges it a little higher, placing herself at its apex.

It gets her high enough that she can reach the railing of the overlooking balcony, with enough momentum to curl and tuck her body, cartwheeling over the rail partially just for the joy of motion. Even the smooth tiles feel rough compared to the water, strangely unyielding, and she wobbles just a little as she catches her bearings. Belatedly, she realizes she almost kicked the crap out of one of the balcony’s chairs. The little swerve she does is automatic. At least there wasn’t an audience-

“Minerva.” Says Synovus, sitting on the table because they’re deranged. There’s a surprised tilt to the end of her name, like half a question answering itself. They’re wearing civilian clothes again, and some part of Minerva’s mind can’t help noting that their arms are bare. “Welcome - back.”

One day, Minerva won’t scowl at them on reflex.

Today, she demands immediately, “Were you waiting for me?”

“Y-es?” Synovus hedges, not moving. “But also no? I was - I thought you’d be coming up from the shore.”

They sound almost abashed. But that’s too close to ‘embarrassed’ and Minerva is well aware that Synovus has no shame. She may have genuinely surprised them - they’re perched on the edge of the table, and had leaned away slightly. Synovus wanting to be a problem would have chosen a much more… blatant posture. Or at least to sit further back in the shadows. The absence of either a gaudy attention grabber or deliberate stealth indicated this middle ground was not an act. Or perhaps that’s what she’s meant to think.

One day, Minerva will not have to consciously pick aside the paranoia to see what is in front of her.

Today, it takes effort - but she does it.

With a sigh, she closes her eyes, and focuses on each part of her body, bringing herself down from the mild surge of adrenaline. One hand draws back the wet strands of her hair. The other removes the mask that was a gift. She leaves her eyes closed while she rubs the red marks out of her skin.

With her eyes closed, it’s easier to skip past the defensive retort, and say instead, “You could’ve at least had a coffee waiting for me.”

“I don’t actually know your preferences in that regard.” Synovus admits, and for a heartbeat Minerva is worried this will turn into a far too blunt conversation about homecomings, but - “Do you take it black? Iced? Green?”

Minerva scoffs, but it might have just been a laugh. Even she’s not sure. “White chocolate mocha.” She answers. “One shot espresso, oat milk.”

“Ah,” Synovus says, as Minerva opens her eyes. They seem to have had a revelation. “So that’s why Alexandria likes those Unicorn frappes so much. Hm. And here I usually go for the cider.”

A smile tugs at one corner of her mouth at the thought - Synovus, dread assassin, going to a coffee shop and ordering hot apple juice with whipped cream.

Minerva sets her mask on the table. “Stand up a minute.” She tells Synovus quietly, her voice nearly lost in the sound of the waves below.

“I don’t take direction well.” Synovus replies, even as they slide off the table and to their feet, turning to face her. There’s a caution to their movements, but also curiosity, written far more liberally across the unobscured face Minerva once never thought to see.

If Minerva meets their eyes too long, she’ll lose her nerve, so she winds up staring somewhere around Synovus’s collarbone instead. There’s a scar there, hidden for now by a high-necked top, and Minerva knows that because she put it there. It had been a targeted move: Synovus had broken her collarbone the fight before.

She wants to be better at giving back things other than pain.

“Just - give me a moment. Don’t move, please.” She’s pretty sure it’s the ‘please’ that gets them. Synovus goes so statue-still that Minerva’s not sure they’re blinking. But they don’t protest. And they certainly don’t move as Minerva steps forward.

And in one of the most awkward movements of her life, slides her arms around Synovus’s ribcage, setting her chin gently on their shoulder.

This is instantly easier when she no longer has to look at Synovus’s face. Well. When she can’t look. Can’t fixate on finding and parsing the smallest of expressions, assigning meaning to the specific tilt of a chin or speed of a blink. She’s still bad at it - hugging - because she usually just lets other people hug her, and initiating it is weird, but she can’t imagine Synovus is particularly good at it either.

After all, they’re still standing stock-still, and if Minerva wasn’t currently very aware of their breathing, she might even think they were panicking.

“Not a trap.” She mutters, and feels as much as hears Synovus’s responding huff. But their arms slowly, cautiously, hesitantly come up to return the embrace, hands resting lightly on her back. The side of Synovus’s head tips gently into hers.

One day, Minerva might not feel awkward about body contact and physical affection. One day, she may find herself as familiar with Synovus’s scars as she is her own. And she just might reach a point, eventually, where one of them could make a joke about this just being an excuse to get Synovus wet and not immediately both perish from the agony of an accidental allusion to arousal.

For today, this awkward embrace is enough.

———————————————————

Minerva probably won’t ever see a crowd as something other than a threat to be monitored.

Large groups have always made her tense, and that instinct had only gotten worse over the years. Most villains respect the ad hoc agreement about making an entrance, but there are a distinct few who would kill from a crowd. And there are those who are not villains in the distinct, identity sense, but would wreak havoc nonetheless.

So she scans the mall’s sheltered internal colonnade from behind her sunglasses, and listens to her daughter tell her about her day.

“- I just told him that I’d come from further South, and he didn’t ask me any more questions after that, but then freaking Brad asked me if I was an ‘illegal’ and I know what you mean now, about temptation to cram people into lockers. He’s lucky he’s so tall; I couldn’t fold him up to fit without taking some limbs off.”

Alexandria huffs, taking an aggressive pull from her milkshake. The stress of her life is getting to her - no teenager should have worry lines, or bags under their eyes that deep - but she insists this is what she wants. Even if Minerva sometimes wonders whether Alexandria sees herself as a member of the school’s attendees, or just a spectator who sometimes catches a stray ball.

“Did you tell Brad that?” Minerva asks mildly, mostly curious.

Alexandria sighs again, “No.” She says sullenly, shoulders slumping. “I asked him if he thought the government should determine who gets to live where, and then when he started to argue with me I told him I hoped his yacht sank with him on it.”

“Alexandria.” Minerva was still learning to find the right tone. The right amount of reproach, without exasperation or accusation. She must’ve gotten close, because Alexandria just lifts one hand in a ‘not me’ gesture.

“Specifically so he’d wash up in Mexico or Hawaii and get to be illegal himself.” She clarifies. “I don’t think that convinced anyone I wasn’t an immigrant, though. Til Seanna pointed out my grades in Spanish would probably be better.”

Minerva’s sigh is more restrained, but she points out, “There are other languages in South America. Brazilian Portuguese, for example.”

She’s not sure why she’s entertaining this, really.

“That’s true.” Alexandria ponders that for a moment, drinking more of her milkshake. “I mostly just meant to imply I was from one of the towns that got fu- uhhhh, screwed up by the power grabs.”

Minerva briefly leaves the conversation, remembering that shell of a place. The layouts, the dressings of a town, not quite abandoned yet but with nothing else to bleed.

Judging by the nudge she receives under the table, Alexandria isn’t totally oblivious to her distraction. She’s also changed the subject.

“So.” Alexandria is saying, drawing one syllable into three, “How are you and my godparent getting along?”

‘Godparent’ has become Alexandria’s favored way of referring to Synovus in public. It’s a joke on multiple levels, some of which Synovus seems to appreciate. But Minerva thinks it also makes them slightly uncomfortable, in a way they refuse to express to Alexandria.

“It’s fine.” Minerva replies, on rote. Her eyes flick to Alexandria, then back to the crowds. “What is it?”

“What do you mean, ‘what is it,’?”

“You wouldn’t have asked if you didn’t want something in particular.”

Alexandria’s mouth twists down, “Can I just get an answer without fishing for it, for once?”

Startled, Minerva looks at her again. Takes a better assessment of her daughter’s body language, the tension there. She knows she’s also gone tense.

Anger creeps into Alexandria’s voice, replacing the annoyance. “I’m not going to lose control. I’m not-“

She cuts herself off, abruptly looking away. Her fingers relax around the plastic cup, deliberately demonstrating that her strength won’t get away from her.

Minerva has a suspicion of how that sentence might have ended. I’m not like you and dad.

Reaching out physically feels like the wrong move here. So does stiffening up further and refusing to talk about it. Be better, she thinks to herself desperately, her mind flicking back to an image of a person with one foot in the water, one on dry land.

“We still… disagree, on some things. Some major things.” Minerva makes herself say. She still doesn’t like that Synovus kills people. She doesn’t like that Synovus has ostensibly killed for her, or for Alexandria. But she also feels relief that Synovus did, and a sense of gratitude she can’t quite smother. It makes her feel dirty, oily, and she hasn’t found it’s root.

Taking a breath, Minerva continues, “But… I don’t think they mean either of us harm.”

Alexandria has relaxed a little, absorbed by what Minerva’s saying. And probably having to pick through it for what she isn’t saying either.

“Would you say that you, I don’t know, maybe, trust them?” Alexandria prompts.

Minerva’s grimace is answer enough.

Alexandria sighs, “Mom.”

“It’s complicated, Alexandria.” She says, but it’s not the abrupt conversation-closer it would have once been. More… beseeching.

“Do you trust anyone?” Alexandria asks, “And like, I don’t even really mean me, here, but like. Anyone?”

Minerva remains silent.

“Do you trust yourself?” Alexandria asks, sounding a little alarmed.

Minerva hesitates - but she can’t really answer that one either.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, just the background roar of the mall’s crowds between them. Minerva hates this. She hates feeling like she can’t actually control herself, can’t master the emotional impulses she’s forcibly crammed into a box for years. She hates that Alexandria is having to pick up the conversation, make the overtures, do the work.

But any time she tries to think of a way to do it herself, her mind shies away from it. The words wilt and die in her throat. Because what if she gets it wrong?

What if she has more to lose?

Eventually, Alexandria looks at the melted remnants of her milkshake, and asks, “Can we stop at the Hot Topic before we leave.”

One day.

———————————

A week later, Rosie pokes her head into the common room Minerva’s reading in. “Minerva?”

She’d finally been asked point blank by one of them what she wanted to be called, because Athena no longer seemed accurate. Committing to Naiad hadn’t felt right either, so she’d given up her civilian name. Synovus already knew it, what was the point?

(It had occurred to her, later, that the small thrill she felt at being addressed by it was possibly what Alexandria felt at being addressed by her chosen name.)

(Also, it would’ve made Albion furious.)

“What is it?” Minerva asks now, letting one finger hold her place in the book as she sits up.

“There’s a fight drifting our way - Zephyr and a few others against the Eye. He’s made another floating platform again.” Rosie rolled her eyes, providing her professional opinion.

Minerva tilted her head, hesitating. Zephyr was a hero she’d worked with before, though they had never gotten along. He’d offered to take her flying, she’d taken that as flirting and shut it down, they’d never really overcome the resulting awkwardness. She had no idea who he’d be working with.

Eye, in contrast, was Eye in the Sky - a villain obsessed mostly with surveillance, and not being observed himself. He was a center point of several conspiracy theories involving the NRA, CIA, and a number of international organizations. She’d never fought him before, just heard the stories.

“What’s the protocol?” Minerva asks, rather than offer any of that information. She was certain this group of people knew far more about everyone involved anyway.

Rosie smiles, “Not much of one, just a lower alert status. Doll and I will make the rounds and check on everyone, Synovus is going to suit up just in case, but we won’t get involved unless territory agreements are breached.” She added, “Alexandria’s still on the mainland, we’ve made sure she knows to be suited if she makes her own way home.”

Minerva taps at the cover of her book, thinking. She feels adrift, still. This isn’t an actual fight, unless she wants to go and be Athena, and the idea of that is physically uncomfortable. It would also invite too many questions. Naiad would-

Hm. “Does Synovus want me in uniform?” She asks, sardonic.

“I didn’t ask and don’t plan to.” Rosie replies flippantly. “If they want you to do something, I imagine you’ll hear about it directly.”

Somehow, that isn’t the response she wants. “I don’t-“

“They also haven’t given any orders that you’re to be stopped.” Rosie points out, cutting her off. “The rest of us will be either in the operations room or up on the roof to watch. Klaxon if there’s trouble.”

She gave Minerva another smile, twiddled her fingers, and withdrew. Minerva shifted, and opened her book again.

She made it through two more paragraphs, then left it unceremoniously on the floor.

———————————-

On the roof, Synovus was pacing.

In a way, that’s reassuring, because even Minerva knew by now that if there was imminent danger, Synovus would be stock-still. The sun glints off the dark helmet, and threw the matte black of the rest of the suit into stark relief against the sandy-colored rooftop. Wind off the sea ripples through the cape, keeping it blown back, perpendicular to the path Synovus is walking.

The sun is kinder to Minerva’s costume, and there is no cape to blow. The dark mask helps keep her from being blinded by the sun. Athena wouldn’t be of much use here; Naiad might be.

Doll - the larger, Russian man who Minerva thought of as Synovus’s second in command - stood up here too, a viewfinder raised to cover his face. He’s looking into the direction of the wind, angled out and up, and Minerva follows that direction.

There it is - flashes of distant, shimmering silver in a cloud bank that’s thinning. Some masking device, most likely, now disabled. There’s tiny flashes of what must be powers or weaponry at use, but she can’t make out more than that.

“How bad is it?” She asks anyway, brisk and businesslike.

“The wind isn’t in our favor.” Doll comments. He’s always answered her as if she’s a coworker, and she appreciates that. “I can’t tell how much of it is powered and how much of it drifts. If there’s been damage to it -“ He lowers the viewfinder to make a hand gesture. “It might not be able to control its direction anymore.”

“Sloppy.” The comment is out of Minerva’s mouth before she can stop it. It draws Doll’s attention, if not Synovus’s. At the slightly raised eyebrow, she sighs and continues, “Disabling propulsion or navigation creates unnecessary risk to everyone involved. The only time it becomes necessary is when there’s weaponry that absolutely must be disabled, and you don’t have either the training or the time to sort out different power systems.”

Doll nods, offering her the viewfinder. “It could be self-inflicted,” he points out.

“Possible, but suicidal. That would require an exit strategy. Do you think Eye has one?”

“He’ll have three, only two of them will work, and none of them will be enough to keep him from getting captured.” Synovus breaks into the conversation abruptly, annoyed. Or perhaps professionally offended. “They’ll be personal craft.”

Meaning the rest of the platform’s crew would be left to die. Incentive for the heroes to try and rescue them rather than pursue, but what a waste.

The viewfinder lets Minerva get a better sense of the platform’s size, and also an estimate of its height and distance. She can make out a glimpse of a gray-shaded costume, diving through the clouds: Zephyr.

“If you interfere,” She asks, while her view is disconnected from her surroundings, “What would that look like?”

There’s a hesitation. A gust of wind snaps at Synovus’s cape. The distant battle continues.

“If they cross the boundaries, there must be consequences.” Synovus says reluctantly. “I will destroy the platform. Survivors will become my prisoners. If the heroes protest, I’ll fight them.”

Minerva lowers the viewfinder, and returns it to Doll. Synovus has stopped pacing. “You don’t have the facilities for a mass casualty event.”

“No.” Synovus agrees. “I don’t.”

————————————

Rosie has come out to join them on the roof by the time there’s significant change. The wind has died down some - likely a marker of Zephyr changing it, finally reaching their shores. The air feels thick and dead without it.

They’ve mostly stood in silence, watching. It feels longer than it has been, and Minerva knows it’ll be worse for those actually fighting. She’s surprised she hasn’t felt more of an urge to intervene.

Though she has been keeping watch for anyone falling to the water below.

It’s hard to say which of them notices first - their attention is collectively on the sky platform, and not each other. But there’s a decided tilt to the mostly-exposed metal monstrosity now, and in very short order, it begins to fall.

“Catch it.” Minerva finds herself murmuring. “Catch it. At least slow it-“

But no one does.

The platform hits the water at the full speed gained from a several thousand foot drop, slamming into the ocean. Those watching know that the metal will crumple on impact, water at that height and velocity worse than slamming into concrete. The surface area only makes it worse; tilted in at a slight angle, it displaces the water in a specific direction.

Towards the island.

Minerva had studied the ocean as much as she could. She knows this phenomena, and can cite times in the past it’s occurred. Not caused by the shifting of the ocean floor or tectonic plates, but by a sudden mass displacement.

They call it a super-tsunami.

Synovus is a statue beside her from the moment the platform starts to fall. Doll catches on once the surface of the water rises - and then doesn’t fall again.

“Three minutes.” Minerva calculates, based on distance and the probable speed of the wave. As many miles to cross. Much taller. “Evacuation?”

“The Jet is under repair, we can’t get it into the air in time.” Rosie answers, grim.

“Seals on the inner portions of the facility might hold, but we don’t know how long we’d be underwater.” Doll says, hitting the klaxon anyway. “The fridges?”

“Only as good as long as the power lasts.” Rosie replies. “Alexandria?”

“Still on the mainland.” Doll growls, running a hand through his hair. “Even if she could reach us in time, we’d have to get everyone onto the plane-“

Synovus has, so far, said nothing. Minerva is the only one close enough to catch when they choke out a strangled, “-fucking submarine -“

Minerva had expected Synovus to have a plan. A power, a strength, a defense mechanism. The realization that they don’t is like a fire’s been lit at the base of her spine.

She doesn’t remember grabbing Synovus’s collar, or dragging them to face her. She does remember saying, “I can stop it.”

Synovus doesn’t hesitate. “What do you need?”

There is no questioning of if she’s sure, or recommendation that she go into the waves to ride it out. No suggestion of running.

“Get me in front of it.”

Immediately, Synovus has one arm under her knees, the other around her shoulders, and they’re running. Off the edge of the roof, not quite flying, flickers of shadow beneath their feet. Minerva doesn’t have time to question it, because her attention is on the big damn wave.

When she had said she could stop it, she had spoken with a bone-deep certainty. But she’d never actually tried to divert a tsunami before, let alone one of this size. The largest amount of water she’s worked with has always been as much as she needs to accomplish her goal, and nothing more. Diverting some rain-induced flooding is nothing compared to the power of the tides.

But she can feel the ocean beneath them, as Synovus clears the island’s coast. She can sense the oncoming wave, so fast to them, but to the ocean like a flinch in slow motion. The ocean doesn’t know how to control a fall.

But Minerva does.

The trick is in grasping the majority of the wave without over extending. She doesn’t need every droplet, every molecule, but she does need the vast majority of them.

It’s like trying to get a grip on something flat with only the pads of her fingers. It’s like misjudging a stair and finding herself both plummeting and ramming into an outside force. It’s like taking the first breath of rain-rich air in the early morning, and feeling life enter her lungs again.

Minerva twists the top back over itself, breaking the wave in the wrong direction. She cuts it down the middle, diverting it off to the sides. She forbids it to go forward, as though it’s met a cliff. And as the water falls, the wave collapsing, so does she.

It takes a brief second to put together that the body that had been holding her aloft is now limp, twisted slightly as though to put itself between her and the wave. Synovus is unresponsive, the shadows gone, only the cape whipping around them as they fall. Minerva is able to catch them, now, grabbing on before they can drift away.

She reaches for the water below them, calling it up to catch them with less than bone-breaking force. It’s easier, somehow, but also harder, and she’s having trouble fixing a direction in her mind for where the wave was and where the shore should be. Hot air, harsh wind, cool water and the dimming depths as they’re both drawn down.

And she remembers, finally, that Synovus can’t swim.

—————

The disorientation has mostly worn off by the time Synovus wakes up.

Minerva had managed to follow the upset currents, but hadn’t wanted to risk trying to shape and change them. Or to fight them overmuch, with her cargo. So they’d wound up washed not to shore, but to a small opening into one of the partial lava tubes at the island’s base.

Outside, saltwater rain is still falling, though it will stop soon. The ocean’s roar sounds, to her ears, slightly confused. The sun is still shining, and the wind has picked up again. ‘Calm’ is a subjective definition, but they’re approaching it.

Minerva had been relieved to find that Synovus’s helmet was intact, even with the impact to the water. She’d managed to find its clasps, and to remove it, making sure the seals had also held and that Synovus wasn’t drowning in their own personal fishbowl. They’re propped up against her legs, which are folded beneath her, and she’s prepared for a violent awakening.

But Synovus’s eyes blink open, and Minerva is able to watch their facial muscles work as they come to terms with their surroundings.

“You fainted.” Minerva informs them.

Synovus squints at her, but doesn’t immediately protest. They also don’t try to move much, other than a slight squirm that Minerva recognizes as a full body check. Do I still have my appendages? Do my fingers and toes all work?

“Yeah.” Synovus concedes. Their voice is raspy with saltwater, even though they didn’t get much of a chance to drown. This time.

Minerva should probably start somewhere else - like making certain they’re okay, or assuring them about the conditions outside, that the wave had been averted. Instead, she all but demands, “If you’re so terrified of water, why in the hells did you build on an island?”

She can see the balk in Synovus’s expression: a furrowing of their brow, a twitch of the nose. Synovus lifts a hand to consider covering their face, eyes the sand on their glove, and lowers it again.

“I already know you can’t swim.” Minerva says flatly.

“I can swim.” Synovus shoots back, annoyed. “I cannot swim well, there’s a difference.”

They sigh, and move to sit up. Minerva doesn’t stop them. She doesn’t expect an answer, at least not without further prompting, but Synovus continues:

“It’s… easier. The isolation. Clearly defined borders. This is mine, everyone else fuck off. And it…” Synovus shakes their head. “It serves its purpose.”

Once, Minerva would’ve accused them of grandstanding. Of the island being a show of wealth and status. She knows better now - knows that while that is true, there’s other reasons, layered beneath.

And she thinks about everything Synovus has ever told her about self control.

“It contains you.”

Synovus hesitates, partially grimacing, but nods. “Serves its purpose.” They repeat quietly.

The two of them sit in silence, in the dark shadow of the cave. They listen to the water, and the waves as they return to normal.

“Thank you.” Synovus says, into the silence.

“I don’t require thanks.”

“But I feel you deserve it, and it’s mine to give.”

“And if I don’t want it?”

“Refuse it. I will survive the disappointment.”

Minerva has the uncomfortable feeling that they are not discussing only gratitude. Rather than address that, or continue the discussion, she says instead: “I don’t know what I believe anymore.”

Synovus doesn’t reply. They tilt their head, studying her in the dark. Minerva’s dragged them into a cave and confronted them with truths after they passed out from fear doing something on her word, she should give them a break. She doesn’t.

“I should be out there looking for survivors, or recovering the dead. I don’t want to. I should’ve involved myself in the fight, reminded them to be careful of the platform’s vulnerabilities. I didn’t. I don’t feel guilt. I feel… annoyed. Angry. Because they should’ve known better.”

Synovus just turns a bit, to rest their back against a rock. “And that in turn makes you feel..?”

“Foolish. Arrogant. A bad hero, and a worse teacher. I should be patient. Forgiving.”

“They nearly killed you.” Synovus points out dryly. “You’re allowed to be angry about that.”

“And more would’ve died if the wave had reached the coast.” Minerva grits her teeth. “But that anger should be - I can’t control them. I cannot fix them. But I didn’t even try to intervene until it was almost too late.”

“But you did intervene.”

Minerva gestures, attempts to pinpoint the logic fruitless and frustrated. “Am I a hero or not?” She demands. “Do I act for others or only my own skin? I’ve spent years - decades - so sure of the answer but now -“

She raises her hands, half-fisting them in her hair. The sensation provides a little bit of grounding, enough of a distraction she doesn’t think about the words before she says them. “- now you make sense to me, and the things I thought I believed in enough to die for are - are hollow or gone or dead. And I let you kill them. I let you kill him.”

Abruptly, she draws her knees up, burying her face in them. “I let - I made - my child - our child -“

Minerva can’t tell if she’s crying or not. Her breath is coming in gasps, and her face feels hot, and this was always the part of weeping that she hated the most; the lack of control, the inability to communicate. Her eyes burn. So does the center of her chest, her stomach.

And Synovus is here, as her witness. Why not? They’ve seen every other ugly part of her, every other failure. She’s spent a good portion of her adult life fighting this person, exchanging scars, only for them to pick up the pieces and try to protect her. She’s finally had the upper hand, proven that she does have power, that Synovus now owes her in the brutal calculus of lives, and instead of reassuring her it’s broken her.

Because Synovus doesn’t trust themself either.

But Synovus trusts her.

“Do you wish I wouldn’t have killed Albion?” Synovus asks quietly.

The answer is as simple and certain as the water. “No.” She says honestly. “No I - I don’t.”

There’s a pause. Then, “Do you wish I would’ve killed you too?”

That answer isn’t as clear to find. “I - some days.” She says hoarsely. “I committed the same crimes.”

Synovus exhales, across from her, and it isn’t quite a sigh. “Alexandria feels differently.”

Minerva stops breathing.

Of all the answers Synovus could’ve given, that’s the one she can’t counter. She can’t afford to do this. To wallow in self recrimination. Her daughter is out there. And while maybe - maybe her morals are falling to pieces, and she doesn’t know who she is, but she knows that whoever she is loves Alexandria.

“Is it pathetic?” She asks Synovus, in the dark she can’t see through and Synovus can. “To need someone else to determine who I am. What I believe.”

She can hear the twist in Synovus’s expression as they reply, “That’s… inherently not a question I can answer. But, Minerva?” Synovus doesn’t hesitate, so much as pick their way across uncertain footing, “I don’t think you would’ve been able to turn back that wave if you weren’t… as much as you are.”

It’s clumsily phrased. Wavering and uncertain. But Minerva, whether because she’s reading what she wants to from it, or because it’s actually Synovus’s intention, understands.

She takes a deep breath. Then another. Then she stands, and offers a hand in Synovus’s general direction. Her voice is much more certain, calm, when she says, “I need to go organize a search party.”

——————

Minerva may not ever come to terms with her role in her ex-husband’s death, or the harm she caused her daughter. She might not ever find the rock-solid beliefs that she once thought she had.

But she might - just might - come to terms with that uncertainty. The ocean doesn’t have roots either.

She’ll have good days and bad days. She’ll need to make decisions about who she wants to become, and how she feels about who she is. But as both Naiad, and Minerva, she has that freedom.

She’ll never touch the Athena costume again.

And one day, while she’s working on a laptop in one of the common rooms, Synovus on one of the other couches and Alexandria sprawled on the floor, Minerva will say, “I have an idea. Something I’d like to do about the Pacific garbage patch.”

And Alexandria will roll over to look at her, and Synovus will glance up. And Minerva will add, “It’s not precisely legal.”

And Synovus will say, “I’m listening.”

——————————

[And so ends Siren Call! This took much longer than it’s other pieces, and there were things I debated including and things I wanted to cut, but in the end, this was the flow the story took. I’m not saying I’m *done* with Synovus and co, but I will say that I’m glad to have this chapter closed and tied off.]

[As per usual, a copy of this will go up on Ao3 soon, and I’ll find out how long it is, because I’ve once again written directly into tumblr drafts. It’s where the Synovus muse lives, apparently.]

[mochidoie]

diet pepsi (preview)

listen to - diet pepsi by addison rae na jaemin x reader expected wc - ~ 7k?? teaser wc - 933 genre - a mixture of fluff and hotness, shy!reader, flirty!jaemin warnings - multiple encounters w/ shirtless jaemin, mentions of a "nude" pic, partying/drinking, a makeout session, aloootttt of sensual tension! a/n - ya so that pic jaemin posted on his instagram.... hasn't left my mind since. and what's crazier is that it provoked enough feelings that i had to write something about it. i will also preface that there will be no smut.

Accidentally walking in on your best friend's hot housemate half naked with a towel around his waist in the bathroom was never in your plans. But maybe, it was in his?

** READ HERE **

“Why do you guys have so much Diet Pepsi in your fridge?” There is a slight cadence of disgust in your voice, judgment for the most part, knowing damn well no one drinks Pepsi – let alone Diet Pepsi. 

Mark shuts the fridge door that you’ve left idly open as you rummage through the kitchen cabinets for a snack. “It was a late night purchase. The store ran out of all the good stuff.”

“Now, it’s left taking up space.” You snarl, picking through opened bags of crackers, chips and candy that aren’t sealed properly. “You guys never have good snacks.” Giving up, you make your way upstairs toward the only bathroom in this entire shared house.

“Well, last time I checked, you don’t live here.” Mark hollers from the kitchen, a bit of sass in his statement. “Yet you’re here all the time!”

“You’re overjoyed I’m always here!” Your body leans over the railing of the stairs, calling out to your best friend in an unnecessarily booming voice and a light giggle at the end of your sentence.

Mark doesn’t respond and you’re deep in the hallway in search for the bathroom that is shared between four college men. Although you’re solely Mark’s best friend, the other three guys have welcomed you into their house as they would their own friend.

Honestly speaking, you’re only rambunctiously annoying when you’re just around Mark. His housemates know you as his shy and sweet friend. 

It’s hard for you to open up to others, despite these people being equally as close to Mark as you are. There is just not enough common ground for you to relate to them, as nice as they are when you’re at their house.

Jeno is probably the most similar to you, a man of few words and a smile that resembles a kind puppy. He doesn’t contribute much to the conversation, but he is always laughing at their shared jokes and silly antics. Haechan is the most different from you, playful and Mark’s nightmare at times. Lastly, there’s Jaemin, a man who you’ve found yourself stealing glimpses of whenever he is near. 

Your heart leaps and twirls at any mention of his name, his whereabouts, him. Though, your crush on Jaemin will never come to light. You only let yourself admire from afar, a man as hot and charming as he is already has an entourage waiting on him. And Mark would never let you live it down that you’re practically drooling over his housemate. 

So as you find yourself in front of the bathroom door, you don’t hear the shuffling on the other side. You mindlessly turn the knob and open to reveal Jaemin, shirtless with a towel low around his waist.  

He doesn’t even flinch at the sudden exposure, clearly engulfed in taking a mirror picture. Both of his arms hold up his soft pink phone, his biceps flexing at the simple position. His broad, wide shoulders are on display and all you see is his bare silky skin. You’re gawking, anyone can see at a mile away, hungry eyes tracing the outline of his toned chest and chiseled abs. 

When he finally acknowledges your presence, a big toothy grin appears on his face. Your name rolls off his tongue excitedly, “you’re right. I am overjoyed you’re here.” His lower register catches you off guard and something inside of you spikes at its rumble.

Jaemin watches as you try to find your words, tripping over your own tongue. He drinks up how your eyes bounce between his face and his bare upper body, lost in his canvas. 

“Sorry!” You quickly shut the door, odd that you’re the one embarrassed when he is the one who got walked in on. Running down the stairs, you nearly slam right into Mark, causing him to fall back onto the couch.

“Whoa! Are you in a rush or something?” Mark groans. His eyes widen at your flustered expression. “What happened?”

You’re deciding whether or not you should lie to him, committed to not exposing and embarrassing yourself even further. “Just bumped into Jaemin. Does he normally not lock the bathroom door?”

There is a small quiver in your voice, but you try your best to remain nonchalant and calm. Mark raises a curious eyebrow, a shaky grin grows on his lips. You can’t even imagine all the wild and inappropriate thoughts spinning in this college boy’s head.

“That’s weird. He’s usually good about that stuff.” He snickers, “What did you see?”

“Get your head out of the gutter.” You lightly slap the back of his head, but feel heat spread across the tips of your ears and run its way down to your cheeks. “I didn’t see anything.”

“Bummer, bet you wanted to.” Mark jokes, a fit of giggles erupting from his stomach. 

You roll your eyes and proclaim loudly, “I have no interest in Jaemin.” Liar. The image of his hot body still hasn’t left your mind. It’s catastrophic. Crossing your arms, you plop onto the sofa next to your best friend. 

Right on cue, another voice chimes in. Coming down the stairs, Jaemin dances his hand on the railing. His muscular arms catches your immediate attention as he flaunts around in a tight white tank, his other hand in the pocket of his gray sweats. “Damn, that really hurts my ego, (y/n), especially after you’ve seen me naked just now.” 

Nonetheless, he doesn’t look offended. Instead, a sweet smirk curves upward on his perfect face. You swallow hard, embarrassed and ashamed yet again that Jaemin continues to ruin you. READ HERE

[no-nameno-face]

REMINDER (WITH AUDIO)

Ellie Williams x Listener Scene

Warnings: NSFW, 18+ ONLY, minors do not interact. You will be blocked. ellie!dom, reader!sub, jealousy, angst, kissing, biting, hickies, fingering, edging, public sex, bathroom sex

Author's Notes: this WAS gonna just be an audio but there was a lot of context in my head and it definitely wouldnt make sense without it so it turned into a messy little blurb (does this count as a blurb? Idk tumblr vocab someone help) very loose (bad) writing, just to give something to bounce off of ellies dialog. (and give you some voice lines if you feel so inclined) <3 also giggling at how unnecessarily dramatic ellie is in this. I'm such a slut for jealous ellie (and bathroom sex omg). I think something is wrong with me. Lmfao. This was just a quick little throw together, so its nothing special butttt i still hope you enjoy bestiessss! <3

CONTEXT:

You and your girlfriend Ellie are at a party where some girl has been flirting with you all night, right in front of Ellie too. You’re fucking oblivious. Ellie is fucking mad. She's always been a jealous person, but was even more so when she had a drink or two in her. After the girl “playfully” touched your shoulder for the third time in two minutes Ellie decides to pull you to the bathroom to have a “conversation”. A reminder.

[START OF AUDIO] 

She closes the door behind you. You can hear the muffled sound of the crowd filling the halls.

“Whats wrong love?” 

“She was all over you babe. Dont like it.”

“No she wasn't, she was just being nice!”

“Jesus, you can be really fucking dense sometimes.”

“Ellie…”

She pivots me so I am resting against the bathroom counter, bodies inches apart. 

“Did you forget who you came here with?”

she leans in

“Forget who you’re going home with?”

I swallow hard, looking away. Flustered. 

“You're just jealous… it's not that deep” 

Her strong hand grabs my chin, pulling my eyes to meet her own. 

“Let me remind you who you belong to.”

She lifts me up, my ass now resting on the cold counter as my short dress has hitched over my thighs, ellie between my legs pushing it up even more. My warmth pressed against her stomach makes her suck against her teeth before her lips smash into mine. Her tongue claiming my mouth. I let out a moan against her lips. Her breathing is heavy, hot on my face. Fuck, she really is mad. 

“You gonna let her touch you again?”

She grabs my tits over my dress firmly. A moan escapes my lips, followed by a “no” dancing on my breath.

“That's right. No. You won't. ” 

Suddenly she pulls the cups of my dress down, exposing my breasts and pushing them up. Her mouth wraps around my flesh and I gasp at the contact, my hands tangling in her hair. She nips at my nipple and an unsolicited cry leaves me. Loud enough that anyone outside of the bathroom door could definitely hear. 

“Ellie… they… fuck… they’re gonna hear…”

“Let em’ hear you.”

She starts sucking and biting over the bareness of my chest and neck, leaving dark bruises and bite marks in a trail behind her lips. 

“Let em’ know how well you're taken care of.”

My cheeks flush red at the thought of everyone being able to hear what she is doing to me. I can't tell if i hate it… or love it…

Her hands trace down my body, to my knees around her, then slowly… slowly… up, stopping on the growing damp spot on my black thong.

“Who makes you this wet?” 

She circles my clit softly through the thin fabric. My head thrown back, I bite at my fist. Desperately trying to hold in my sounds.

“Is it her?”

Her fingers stop when I don't respond immediately…

“No!” I call out, “It's you! Ellie, it's you…”

“That's right… it's me.”

Her fingers are fast as they push my underwear to the side and plunge into me. Deep. hard. My responding sounds echo off the bathroom walls. Her fingers pumping into me, thumb pressed against my clit. 

“Don't forget it.”

Her eyes observe me, drinking in the heaves of my chest and the crease between my brow, deepening as the tension in my stomach builds. 

“Squeezing my fingers so tight.”

“Think she could make you feel this good?”

“Ellie… Ellie!” her name rolling off my tongue in succession as my senses are filled with her.

“Shit already so close…” 

Her pace was steady, continuing getting me closer and closer to the edge, my legs starting to tremble around her.

“Would be a shame if I…” her fingers pause, “stopped.” 

slowly they pull out of me, my body shaking with the empty promise of release. A knot in my belly begging to be untied.

“Ellie please”

I beg, as she steps back looking at her shiny fingers. Her eyes meet mine as she puts them in her mouth and sucks me off of them. I groan at the sight. 

“Be a good girl, and ill finish the job tonight.” 

She turns and leaves the bathroom.

[END OF AUDIO]

My chest still heaving, my cunt throbbing. I take a moment to gather myself and hop off the counter, pulling my dress up and down. Turning to look in the mirror I see a necklace of black and blue adorns my neck. 

Marked for everyone to see.

Hers.

[yutxsgf]

I deeply love to imagine Bakugou as the grumpiest person walking on the earth when he grows up and pursues his heroic dream. But every grump needs his sunshine gf that's terrible at something.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺

"It's done!"

An ash-blonde tuft of hair peeked out from the kitchen doorframe before moving out from behind the wall with his softened scowl.

You glanced over your shoulder behind you at the tall male, smiling softly as you beamed him a loving gaze.

"Gonna pass me one or keep smilin' at me?"

He crossed his arms, a faint smile making its way on his lips before he began striding towards your bent figure as you took your homemade cookies out of the oven.

"Can't I do both?" You hummed before hissing when you accidentally touched the hot pan with your non-mittened hand.

His eyes barely widened before he quickly made his way over to you, looming over you as he stood behind you with your wrist in his overly large hand. "Idiot." He mumbled before rubbing your hand with his calloused fingers.

You huffed, rolling your eyes before pointing down at the cookies on the pan.

You were pretty adamant on learning how to bake. Why? Because you were absolutely ass at it. But that never stopped Bakugou from encouraging you and supporting each and every one of your pastries. But of course, since you weren't the best at baking, you can only guess how they'd come out.

"They look great, honey." He mumbled, kissing your cheek before taking a dark obsidian black, supposedly chocolate chip cookie.

You smiled brightly at your boyfriend as he took a hearty bite out of your cookie, your happiness never deterring as he kept a straight face.

That was all that mattered.

"So.. how are they..?" You whispered, turning around to face him as you craned your neck up.

He hummed in thought before throwing the rest of the cookie in his mouth and sticking his thumb up with approval.

He swallowed, clearing his throat before pointing behind you at the cookies, "Gonna give 'em to the group, that okay?"

"Of course!" You smiled, "Can I come? I wanna see their reactions and take some tips."

"'Course baby, go get dressed." And with a light tap on your behind, you were off to your shared bedroom with a small skip in your step.

"What are those." Kaminari whispered to Bakugou, pointing a slim finger at the cookies in a small zip lock baggy.

"My cookies." You replied before Bakugou could, glancing up at the charcoal in your boyfriend's hands.

The group froze before simultaneously nodding together. You took nothing of it, but Bakugou did as he sent a deathly glare to each of them.

"Go on, pick one." Bakugou grumbled, keeping his stone cold glare as he carefully opened the bag and spread it large enough for their hands to fit through.

Sero and Kaminari gulped, clearing their throat before reluctantly taking the so-called cookie from the baggy. Ashido, Kirishima, and Jirou following soon after.

"Hey, babe, can you go get us some water over there?" Bakugou asked quietly, pointing to the water dispenser near the corner of his unnecessarily large office.

You happily obligated, nodding before shuffling over to the dispenser with your fluffy winter boots.

"One negative thing, 'n I'm slitting all of your goddamn throats."

"Yes, sir." Kaminari and Sero saluted foolishly as the rest froze, seemingly lost in thought as they stared at your cookie. wondering how in the world did it get that bad.

You quickly came back with both arms full of plastic cups filled with water. Bakugou was quick to set the cookies down on his desk and grab all the waters from your grasp.

When you smiled expectedly at them, they all glanced at each other before sighing and taking a reluctantly large bite.

"They're– They're um.." "They're awesome!" Kirishima finished for Kaminari, nudging his arm behind their bodies before gulping down his bite.

You happily squealed, jumping up and down before hugging your boyfriend at his neck.

And then, he smiled.

"Say a thing, and I'll kill you."

[ravencincaide]

A Hit Beyond Rock Bottom 

Summary:  You may not be able to bond with your children but you were still going to be a good mother, a wonderful mother. You would not abandon them and you’d make sure they didn’t unnecessarily suffer in this cruel cruel world. If only Dazai and Chuuya would let you. 

Pairing: Dazai x Chuuya xfem! Reader (skk x fem!reader) 

Author note: An independent part two for Happy unhappy home!Check that fic out if you’d like more angst, skkx reader new parents and see more of what happened right before this scene! 

Warning: Cursing, depression/ postpartum depression, New parents/exhausted parents =bad choices/reactions, Angst, 

Enjoy~

The water was warm. 

Yet against your freezing body it felt almost burning. Boiling. Scalded your skin on the feel- yet left the flesh normal coloured, barely tinted pink in comparison to its usual pale shade. As you stare at your hand, you understood that it couldn’t be as hot as it felt. And yet each shift- each rocking back and forth motion seemed to hurt you. The manifestation of imaginary pain. A pain you just wanted to stop as much as the responsibilities and the lonely suffocation feeling. And yet the more you thought of leaving the safety of the bathroom- of the bathtub, the more it filled you with dread. It made the tears stream harsher down your cheeks. Thankfully your crying was muffled by the sound of the running water. 

-art

You held the twins closer to your chest, cradled them. Rocked them back and forth, back and forth in the water. Here, in this tub, in this warm liquid they’d be safe and comfortable, They were protected, sheltered in their mothers embrace. Fed and clean. Not loved- not yet at least but tolerated and guarded. You were going to shelter them- from the darkness, from the yelling downstairs, from the world that only consisted of pain. You would save them from all this suffering. 

-heart

They were not loved; but at least not abandoned. They were cared for and their every need met. Even if you did not bond with them- you wouldn’t forsaken them. They were yours; your two precious ginger balls of anything-but-joy. Yours- they came out of you and you had put so much into their care and well being at expense of your own. They were the physical token- the manifestation of your deep love for your partners. More accurately- for your once partners; Dazai and Chuuya. The thought of their names broke something in you. Reminded you of your earlier argument; 

“– we think you might have postpartum depression”  

 The way they looked at you–the iciness in their eyes- as if you were a murderer. No, as if you were worse than a criminal. All because there was something so inherently wrong with you that you couldn’t love them; your twins. A sob tore through your chest, then another as the twins let out a sleepy coo’s. As if sensing your distress amidst their slumber. You brought them even closer to your chest. Then bit your lips hard- so hard you tasted blood- to hold back the wail which threatened to spill into the open. No.. Quiet. You had to be quiet. The twins were snoozing. A good mother would let them sleep. Rest peacefully. A good mother would make sure her babies were fed and happy and sleeping in her embrace the way they were supposed to. The way things were always supposed to be. Happy, cared for and safe. 

You couldn’t love them but you could be a good mother for them. You were going to do everything right for them. You would make sure they were safe and peaceful. You would make sure they did not experience the painful reality that was this world; protect them from the agony that existed all around you. The endless torture- the human existence. 

“ SWEETHEART!” 

The sound of the smashed bathroom door snapped you out of your trail of thoughts. It made you aware of water overflowing out of the bathtub and then the paddling of feet right through the mess. 

“ No, don’t take them from me. They’re mine, MINE, STOP!” you screamed as you felt hands grasp at you. You felt them grab at your arms, trying to pry them away from your twins. Two male voices hollered- the sound rang painfully in your ears. They were more desperate now, trying to take your twins out of your hold “ They’re mine! Don’t take them from me!” you screamed just as the babies were torn out of your grasp, away from your chest. 

You felt panic set in, and rushed to stand up in the tub, desperately trying to follow Chuuya out of the bathroom. You felt lightheaded, dizzy and yet forced your body out of the tub. You stumbled, your ankle bruised as your feet made painful contact with the bathroom floor. You ignored it trying to run and yet--- You were blocked by Dazai’s chest; his hands on your shoulders; they pressed down painfully onto your skin. He was holding you back from going after Chuuya, from going after the twins. 

You realized you were screaming- making inhuman wails of anguish. You were trying to escape his hold, thrashed and screamed in the inhuman fear of not seeing or hearing your babies. The terror of never seeing them again. 

“ -donna” you managed to shake one hand off your shoulder and did another desperate attempt to leave the bathroom. But Dazai held you back; he pushed you further and further away from the door and towards the bathtub. His now free hand grasped at your chin, trying to get you to look up and face him. To look at him. You thought he was saying something- could see his lips moving but all you could hear was the rushing water around you and your own desperate cry

“ THEY’RE MINE, I’m their mother, you can’t; YOU CAN’--” 

Slap

The force of the slap threw you to the ground; your knees made contact with the bathroom floor and the several inches of cold standing water there. The coldness of it sippied into your body, chilled you down to your soul. But not as much as the sudden silence in the bathroom. You didn’t realize what happened. Stumped by the fact that your normally controlled lover would dare raise his hand against you. To hurt you, to humiliate you. You. If not his lover then at the very least the mother of the twins- the children. Your children. 

You said nothing, did not even look at him as Dazai knelt down to your height a few paces away. He wasn’t touching you anymore. Did not even reach out to check on you, to comfort you. Just stared at you as if you were no different from anyone else in his life; no different from any of his so-called students. 

“ I have never had a reason to hit you. You’ve always been a smart girl- don’t give me another reason to do it, again. If you’re sick- get help.” You felt a shiver- a fear induced shudder settled in your body as Dazai stared you down. The distance between you was so painfully obvious. The clear indifference on his part hurt you more than the thumbing of your cheek and the pain in your knees. 

Why couldn’t he see that you were doing your best? That you just wanted to be a good mother, and a good partner. That you just wanted to be appreciated for everything you did. That you just wanted to be his and Chuuya’s wife. 

“ They’re fine!” Chuuya’s voice echoed from outside the bathroom. “ Heard that Mackrel?! The twins are fucking fine- thank fuck for that” 

You heard Dazai breath out a sigh- an frustrated hissing noise. His eyes searched you for a moment longer, searched your gaze. But you didn’t meet his eyes. Did not even look at him as the tears streamed down your cheeks.

In ice cold fashion Dazai stood back up. He fixed you with one final pointed look. A sharp glance filled with detest and anger. Like you were his enemy. Then he brushed past you and out towards the wailing twins and Chuuya outside. He did not care about anything else besides them. No, he left you all alone on your knees amidst the still gushing water. Left you all alone to do whatever you wanted, seemingly completely indifferent to whatever happened to you. 

More tears rushed down your cheeks, your hands balled into fists. Your cheek stung, your throat hurt. Yet not as much as the sound of your twins wailing and the words of sweetness and comfort spewing out from Dazai and Chuuya’s mouths. Words of praise and affirmation they so easily uttered towards the babies, yet not towards you. 

The kind of words that just told you, you had just lost it all.  Your family, your lovers and most probably, most frighteningly; your twins. 

Authors note:... Happy ending and resolving it all? Nope not this one either. Better luck next time?

This fic exists thanks to all the people who wished to see how this series of fics would end. Thank you so much for your continued support and motivation. I know this one does not entirely fit the style but trust me, I have a plan with it (or well more of an idea really)

Click here for: Part 1 and part 2; or Check out Raven's masterlist. For next part see: The word that made the difference

©ravencincaide 2024. Do not copy/repost/translate or spread my work(s) without my explicit permission. If you see any of my work(s) reposted/copied anywhere else without my consent, please inform me!

[fruitsofbeingafraid]

rating forgetmenauts couples on ren faire cosplay ability

bigfoot and mothman- 4/10

now they may be ICONIC, but god this would be a pain. either you do it low effort and just look like a regular wedding or do it high effort and then melt bc summer is ren faire season and it will be hot. the slay value is off the charts though. maybe if they're on their honeymoon?

thomas the rhymer & his faerie queen- 9/10

Average Fairytale Man and beautiful ethereal faeire queen is such a dynamic and you wouldn't be too hard-pressed to do either of them! you could even spice it up and do hawker thomas! wouldn't stand out too much at all. 

helena and gerard-8/10

great and wonderful and beautiful. 1872 is SUCH a time period to be replicating the fashions of. absolutely gorgeous. vampires are inherently pretty too. however they have exactly Zero defining features other than vampire so have fun with that.

the rusalka and the shepherd girl- 10/10

this would go SO hard. shepherd girl-esque outfits and humanoid fantasy creatures are both ren fest staples and i am just reiterating how UNNECESSARILY HARD THIS WOULD GO. no complaints. perfect.

persephone and hades- 7/10

i mean. iconic. beautiful for sure. however as we have discussed, summer is ren fest season, and not being together during summer is kinda their whole thing. also they're maybe the least forgetmenauts-y couple on this list bc its a retelling.

the summer king and his husband- 9/10

breathtaking. the summer king music video is so gorgeously beautiful. -1 point because in said music video the summer king does not have legs. if you're a wheelchair user disregard that last segment its an 11/10 for you. 

gay werewolfs- 2/10

if you want to either wear fursuits or do the most low effort unrecognizable cosplay ever these are the fellows for you! they have even less defining features than helena and gerard, i don't even know how you would successfully cosplay them. 

charlatan in red & foxbride- 3/10

i would LOVE to see people's interpretations of the foxbride. however a ren fest is probably not the place for that. i also feel like perhaps drawings would be better than a human for portraying that. the phrase "charlatan in red" evokes a lot of ren fest vibes though so idk! 

zombie promgoers- 5/10

now this may not fully fit the theme of ren fest but i personally would love to do this. get that sunday best into rags and tatters and dirty yourself up. the outfits would be great and it definitely wouldn't be the weirdest things there.

tam lin & lover- 4/10

i may be unsure how you would successfully do this but that won't stop me from thinking its a good idea. another song that has a set time it takes place in that is not summer, not sure how i feel about that. if you went solo as tam lin's captor though????? 10/10gorgeous perfect etc.

james & lover from cottonwood- 1/10

have fun cosplaying High School Boy.

skeletons from interlace of bones- 0/10

theyre skeletons.?