#prince x fem reader

[nunununuy]

Part 1

Part 2

Prince x Fem Reader

Title: "Changing the Fate of the Third Prince"

After an accident causes her to regain memories of her past life, (name) realizes she is living in the world of a romance novel she once read. In this world, she is merely a minor character—the cousin of the novel’s female lead, Selina, who is engaged to the First Prince, Arthur. However, she knows that the novel’s story ends in tragedy when the neglected Third Prince, Rafael, stages a coup and becomes a tyrant, resulting in the death of the protagonist’s entire family.

Determined to change this terrible fate, she sets out to get closer to Rafael and prevent him from becoming the ruthless emperor. Through her careful efforts��frequenting the royal library, learning archery, and subtly encouraging Rafael’s reconciliation with his family—she hopes to alter the course of events and protect everyone from the dark future she remembers.

As she navigates the complex politics of the royal family and Rafael’s deep emotional scars, she must act quickly to rewrite the ending of the story before it’s too late.

---

Selina was the perfect fit for this aristocratic world—graceful, intelligent, and always smiling at everyone. She was the main character of the romance novel I had read in my previous life, and here, she was my cousin. Today, she was officially engaged to the First Prince, Arthur Elric, heir to the throne and the future emperor.

Arthur was the ideal prince—respected by everyone and always fair in his decisions. From the perspective of the novel, they were the perfect couple. However, I knew that their happiness would be shattered in the future when the Third Prince, Rafael, would stage a coup and seize the throne.

As the engagement party proceeded, I could see the joy radiating from Selina's face. But amidst the celebration, one figure stood apart: Rafael. As described in the novel, Rafael was Arthur's younger brother, but their relationship was distant, cold even. Rafael always felt ignored, forgotten by his family.

This was the beginning of the tragedy. In the future, Rafael's disappointment and anger towards his family would reach a boiling point, and he would use violence to claim the throne. And if I didn’t intervene, Selina—and my entire family—would be destroyed alongside him.

I had to act. The best way to prevent the dark future I had seen was to get close to Rafael. But in a world where status meant everything, a mere cousin of the future queen had no clear reason to approach the Third Prince so openly.

***

To meet Rafael more frequently, I needed a valid reason. Luckily, due to Selina's engagement to Arthur, I had access to many royal events. As Selina’s cousin, I was invited to every ball, formal gathering, and family occasion. However, just attending these events wasn’t enough. Rafael was rarely seen, even at his own family’s gatherings.

I had to figure out a way to cross paths with him outside of the major events.

1. Frequenting the Royal Library

One thing I had learned from the novel was that Rafael often spent his time in the royal library. He was interested in books about history, military strategy, and politics. The library was his sanctuary, a place where he could be alone and escape the outside world.

I decided to frequent the library as well, hoping to encounter him there. By carrying books that looked 'serious,' I tried to appear as though I was genuinely interested in the subjects that Rafael liked. I began visiting regularly, and after several coincidental encounters, Rafael started to notice my presence.

“Again?” his cold voice broke the silence as I was flipping through a book in one corner of the library.

I turned and saw Rafael standing near a bookshelf, his eyes narrowing slightly in suspicion. “Why are you always here?” he asked.

I smiled gently, trying not to show any nervousness. “I find peace in the library. It’s quiet and calm here. Besides, I’m interested in history.”

He stared at me for a moment, then without saying another word, turned back to his books. I knew this didn’t mean he accepted my presence, but at least he hadn’t told me to leave.

2. Joining Archery Practice

In the novel, it was mentioned that Rafael was an exceptionally skilled archer. To get closer to him, I decided to start learning archery. It was a risky idea since I had never held a bow or arrow before, but I knew Rafael frequently practiced in the palace grounds, and it could be an opportunity to interact with him.

I began with private lessons from one of the palace instructors, hoping to improve enough to not embarrass myself. Over time, I grew accustomed to the bow and arrow, though it was far from perfect.

One day, while I was practicing, Rafael appeared at the training ground. I noticed him from the corner of my eye but pretended not to acknowledge him. However, from the way he glanced in my direction, I knew he was aware of my frequent presence.

“Your bow is too low,” his sudden voice startled me.

I paused and turned to him. He was approaching, his expression unreadable. “You won’t hit the target like that.”

Without waiting for my response, Rafael took the bow from my hands with ease and positioned an arrow. In one swift motion, the arrow flew straight to the target, landing dead center.

I smiled, though inwardly I was a little nervous. This was the first time he had spoken to me with more than a single sentence. “Maybe I need more practice.”

He looked at me seriously, then handed the bow back. “Practice isn’t about how much time you spend, but how you do it.”

From that day on, Rafael occasionally watched me practice archery. Sometimes, he gave brief tips, always in his cold, matter-of-fact tone. But I knew, little by little, the distance between us was closing.

***

The more I observed Rafael around his family, the clearer it became: there was a deeper reason for the coldness between them. The tension wasn’t just a matter of different personalities or social obligations. There was something profound and painful hidden beneath the surface.

Through whispers from palace servants and snippets of conversations between the royal family members, I learned the truth. Rafael’s relationship with his family had been strained from the very beginning—since his birth. His mother, Empress Elena, had died giving birth to him. She left a wound so deep in the hearts of the Emperor and his two older sons, Arthur and the Second Prince, Lionel, that they could never fully accept Rafael.

For them, Rafael was a constant reminder of the loss they had suffered. Whenever they looked at him, they were reminded of Elena, the woman they had loved so dearly but who never had the chance to see her youngest son grow up. The Emperor had never truly accepted Rafael. In fact, unknowingly, he began distancing himself from his youngest son. Arthur and Lionel, following their father’s lead, also harbored an unspoken resentment towards Rafael, even though he was blameless.

The world could be cruel to those who were innocent. Rafael had been born into grief, and that was why he never had a place in his family’s heart.

Though I had read the novel, the deeper emotions behind the family’s dynamic were never fully explored. It only mentioned that Rafael was ignored and disliked, but now, understanding the backstory, I could see why he had become so cold and isolated.

Rafael wasn’t just neglected; he was a victim of his family’s tragedy. All their anger, all their grief, had been placed upon him—the Third Prince, whom no one had ever asked for.

Every time there was a royal event, Rafael preferred to sit alone in a corner. Not because he didn’t want to interact, but because he knew no one wanted him there. Every glance from his father and brothers was filled with unspoken grief and rejection.

***

I knew that healing a wound this deep wouldn’t be quick. Rafael had lived with the feeling of being an outcast for years. But if I wanted to change the future and prevent Rafael from becoming a tyrant, I had to help mend this broken relationship.

The first step I took was to subtly guide conversations whenever we met. Each time there was a chance to mention Arthur or the Emperor, I would casually bring up something positive about them. “I’ve heard Prince Arthur is quite skilled in diplomacy,” I mentioned one day at the library when we were reading near each other. “He’ll make a great emperor in the future.”

As expected, Rafael didn’t respond immediately, but I could tell he heard me. Even though he didn’t return with warm words, I knew I was slowly planting the seeds of reconciliation.

I also began creating small moments where Rafael could interact with his family. For example, during royal dinners, I would mention topics that could involve Rafael in the conversation. Once, I brought up a book on military strategy I had been reading, knowing Rafael was interested in the subject. Arthur, though not particularly intrigued, asked for Rafael’s opinion on the book.

“You must know more about military strategy than I do, Rafael,” Arthur half-joked.

Rafael simply nodded, but at least there was some form of conversation. It was a small step, but every word exchanged was a move toward change. My goal was simple: to help Rafael feel like he had a place in his family, even if only a little.

***

Helping Rafael rediscover a sense of belonging within his family was a crucial part of my plan to avoid the tragic future. If I could help him heal even a small part of his emotional wounds, perhaps he wouldn’t become the cruel tyrant who would seize the throne through bloody rebellion.

I knew the road ahead was long, but every small step mattered. Because behind his cold exterior, Rafael was just a wounded soul, one who had lost his family before he ever had the chance to know them.

But time was ticking, and I had to act quickly before the novel’s fate unfolded once again.

___

[lola-writes]

Prince Regent

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

Word Count: 8.6k

Synopsis: Aemond returns to the Red Keep after the battle of Rook’s Rest with a newfound vigor for his wife.

Themes & Warnings: 18+ (minors DNI!), POV first person (Aemond’s & reader’s), s2x04,05 inspired, enemies to lovers trope, smut, violence, blood, dark/possessive Aemond, breeding kink, swearing, mentions of rape, high valyrian, fingering, multiple orgasms, p in v, doggystyle, creampie, rough sex, hair pulling, choking

Song: Hide and Seek ~ Klergy, Mindy Jones

Latest oneshot: A Dragon's Lullaby

Masterlist | Add yourself to my taglist | Playlist | Ao3

Likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated ❤️

Enjoy the read!

[gif @aemondstark ]

AEMOND

Smoke. Dragon fire. Blood.

It clung to me, acrid and sweet, like a perverse cloak of victory.

A primal urge, raw and unbidden, erupted within me, a hunger that transcended the battle’s end. It devoured my senses. It vibrated within my bones. It consumed my very being.

My adrenaline ebbed, leaving a hollowness in its wake. The battle was over. Victory was ours. Gleaming armor was storming the castle. But that victory hung hollow, a meaningless echo in the carnage. My flesh seared with defeat. A strange fire, unsatiated, stirred beneath my skin.

I needed something more. Something I could sink my teeth into, as Vhagar had. Something warm and living.

From the air, I watched the smoke curl skyward, soldiers scattering like startled ants, and Meleys red corpse lay vanquished beneath brick and dust.

The warmth of my kill was still writhing. It was a fresh, living ember, demanding to be tended.

The impact of my brother’s fall had torn the wood asunder, set the ground ablaze, smoke and cinders rising steadily towards the heavens. My gaze settled on the inferno, and I urged Vhagar, my reflection in scales and fire, towards it, my mighty beast beating the wind like thunder as we circled twice around the barrenness of the forest, before she heeded my command.

“Qubemagon, Vhagar.” (Descend)

I dismounted her and trod a path towards the inferno, my sword materializing in my grasp with a practiced turn of my wrist. Shades of red marred my vision. The air shimmered, thick with smoke and the metallic tang of blood.

Adrenaline trickled into my bloodstream.

Never had I been so close to my birthright, so close to erasing the past. My grip tightened around the hilt. Images swam up before me. A lifetime of humiliations, each one a searing brand in my retina. My brother getting what he wasn’t fit for, presented to him on a silver platter. But no longer. No more would he be the architect of my suffering. 

But as a tremor shook the ground, a low rumble heralding the broken form of the golden dragon, a monument of smoke, blood, dirt, and ashes, none of it seemed to matter. 

As I crested a rise, the world snapped into sharp focus. My gaze landed on him - my brother; melted into a nightmarish tableau of steel, flesh, and bone, encircled by his dragon’s golden body.

Resolution, cold and heavy, settled in my chest. Killing him would be fruitless. The Stranger had already requested an audience.

I had achieved what needed to be done. As I lifted the edge of my sword to its sheath, a voice echoed through the forest.

“Aemond!” Cole cried my name like a desperate warning. I glanced back, my weapon disappearing into its sheath with a final rasp.

I looked down at my sacrifice. The damage was raw, excessive. The damage that was wanton. A pang of unease twisted in my gut. 

A glint of metal caught my eye, and I dropped to my haunches to retrieve the Conqueror’s Valyrian steel dagger from the bloodied earth. The dagger that was once Aegon’s. It was mine now. 

Ser Criston’s rustling armor announced his approach. “Where is His Grace?” he asked, voice quivering.

I didn’t respond. Instead, I tilted my chin, allowing the glistening steel guide his gaze toward the grotesque sculpture of my melted brother encircled by golden scales.

Ser Criston crumpled to his knees without a word, as I rose to my feet. 

A cold knot of regret twisted in my chest as I regarded my tribute. But it was fleeting, replaced by the icy fire of my ambition. 

There was much to be done, and I needed to proceed if I were to achieve it. I turned on my heel and left Cole and my broken brother behind. 

The battlefield and the devastation shrank beneath me as Vhagar’s powerful wings propelled us skyward. 

A sharp thrill prickled my skin that was naught from the velocity, but rather that of my impending regency. 

_

Upon returning to King’s Landing, I made my way to the small council chamber, ascending the stairs with slow deliberate steps. The air was thick with tension. The council was in disarray, engrossed in a heated discussion, but fell silent as the doors swung open. Eyes turned to me.

“My Lords,” I announced, my voice cutting through the sudden hush. I rounded the council table. “Mother,” I said, offering a curt nod of acknowledgement as I passed Alicent’s chair.

“Aemond,” she demanded, steel in her voice. “Where is Aegon?”

A heavy pause hung in the air before I met her gaze.

“Aegon has fallen,” I said. 

The council erupted in uproar. 

Cries of outrage and accusations.

Obscenities.

Scandal.

“How could this be allowed to happen?”

“What is the meaning of this?”

“We are doomed!”

The disapproval of the Lords sullied the chambers. This council was surely in lack of discipline. I already had my eyes on who I were to replace.  

“The King is dead!”

“The King is not dead,” I countered, my voice calm and mellifluous, soothing the council members like warm milk. Voices dipped and eyes turned to me, an invisible shudder surging through the air. “He has merely sustained grave injuries and is being brought back to the Red Keep for treatment as we speak.” I began to pace around the table, hands slotted behind my back. “The King fought bravely,” I continued. “Landing mortal injuries to the Pretender’s cause. But the Red Queen cast him out of the sky before I could get to him.”

My pacing had brought me to the head of the council table, where I ceased my step. My hand reached out to allow my fingers to trace the chair frame, its iron vibrating with the power I so craved. 

It was palpable. 

It was mine for the taking. 

I looked up at the members of the small council, my eye piercing each and every one of them until they quivered in their chairs.

“And in the coils of torment,” I spoke. “My brother, King Aegon, named me Prince Regent.”

A tremor vibrated the room, weary eyes glanced at each other, bodies twisting uncomfortably in creaking chairs. 

“If anyone should be named regent, surely it should be me, his mother,” voiced Alicent. 

I cast my gaze on her. 

“Aemond is next in line,” came voices from the small council.

“Yes, but the King still lives!” Alicent implored.

“Who am I to contest the wishes of the King?” I said softly, casting her a look of pure innocence.

Alicent’s eyes welled like a tide of despair, her head dipping to the table with defeat. If Alicent could conjure words that had not been uttered to serve her own ends, why could I not?

“Aemond…” she started, her voice a gentle tremble. “Could we at least discuss this?”

“As prince regent, I vow to serve this realm, my Lords, and guide our path to victory against the Whore of Dragonstone.”

My gaze drifted to the platform in the center of the table, settling on the cold polished marble that remained. The King’s marble. I reached for it, and as my fingers closed around its smooth surface, I met Alicent’s eyes. A flicker of desperate plea danced within them, and I held it with a cold response. She exhaled with defeat as I seated myself in the King’s chair, placing the marble in its rocky nest. 

“All hail Aemond, Prince Regent and Protector of the Realm,” Lord Tyland Lannister’s voice came, and the words echoed across the table. 

A smirk played on my lips. “My Lords,” I began, splaying my hands atop the table. “Let us commence.”

YOU

Mutters. Whispers. Gossip.

The news, carried on frantic breaths, was a tangled mess.

One moment, the King was dead, the next, grievously wounded. Some murmured of a crippled monarch, others of his mighty dragon slain. 

It buzzed in my ears as I made my way towards the throne room.

Fear, a cold serpent, coiled in my gut.

The throne room pulsed with tense energy. Hundreds of courtiers jostled for position, their faces etched with a mixture of morbid curiosity and nervous anticipation. I descended the cold stone steps, the weight of each step echoing the growing dread in my heart.

The Iron Throne loomed before me, an empty monument of jagged steel. Its cruel beauty, forged from a thousand fallen enemies, held a chilling glint in the flickering torchlight. I observed it over the shoulder of the woman in front of me, the precariousness of my position suddenly amplified. 

A shiver ran down my spine. Sometimes, I believed it was cursed. Promising to cast whoever graced it to a terrible fate.

My fingers, restless with apprehension, turned my rings about my fingers, pulling them off and on in a nervous dance. A prickling sensation spread through me as I felt countless eyes burning into my back. Disapproval mingled with a strange reverence. The room thrummed with unspoken questions, and I, too, yearned for answers, desperately seeking a foothold in the swirling vortex of uncertainty. 

A ripple of anticipation surged through the crowd as a figure emerged. I turned to witness the gleaming silver armor of the King’s Guard announcing Ser Criston Cole, the newly appointed Hand of the King. Hundreds of eyes swiveled in his wake as he strode towards the Iron Throne, which seemed to gnash its serrated teeth at his approach. 

My mind churned in chaotic disarray. Ser Criston had marched on Rook’s Rest, prompting Aemond’s hurried departure. Where my husband was now, remained a mystery. Perhaps still at Rook’s Rest, tending to the fallen King, or perhaps continuing on to Harrenhal, a destination he oft mentioned.  

None of it mattered. 

My marriage to Aemond had been a political maneuver, as cold and sterile as a septa’s cell. He held no affection for me, nor I for him. He was the absent, aloof prince I’d always imagined him to be. Carrying a frozen heart of a killer. Our union was no more than an alliance. Though I was hardly complaining. Married life granted me freedoms I scarcely thought possible for a highborn lady. But I would jest if I said I did not long for something more. Something warm. Something living. But in Aemond, either would be the last place I’d find. 

Ser Criston swept a steely gaze across the court, his face unreadable. He chewed the inside of his cheeks curiously, the motion ceasing abruptly when his eyes met mine. Cold and dark. I met his stare head-on, until an odd feeling took root in my gut. 

Unanswered questions swirled in my mind. 

Ser Criston tore his gaze from me, his eyes flitting across the room. Then, with a voice laced with authority, he boomed, “I address this court as Hand to inform you that the King has been grievously wounded in battle!”

A collective gasp ripped through the court. Whispers, like startled birds, rose in a flurry.

Ser Criston continued, a steely edge creeping into his voice, “Rhaenyra the Cruel will believe she won a great victory this day. May believe we will cower and offer her the throne like whipped dogs. But the False Queen is sorely mistaken. For the throne will not remain empty.”

Whispers escalated into a commotion. An unsettling prickle danced across my skin. My mind darted to the dowager Queen Alicent. Surely, in Aegon’s absence, they would elevate her to the throne. But after usurping Rhaenyra, would they truly place another woman in her stead? 

My thoughts, apparently, mirrored those of the court, for Alicent’s name drifted around me like a persistent echo.

Ser Criston’s voice rose to a commanding pitch, reverberating through the throne room, “I present to you…” The heavy oak doors of the throne room ground open, drawing every eye in unison.

My breath caught in my throat as a figure materialized at the stairs. 

It wasn’t Alicent. 

A frame, draped in dark green leather that shimmered with silver accents, emerged from the groaning doors. The Conqueror’s crown, a heavy circle of iron, sat upon their silver head, casting a long shadow across a face half-obscured by an eyepatch. 

“Prince Regent, Aemond Targaryen,” Ser Criston declared, his voice thick with forced authority. “Rider of Vhagar.”

Aemond descended the steps.

“Slayer of the queen who never was.”

Aemond’s footsteps, muffled by polished leather boots and the collective murmurs of the courtiers, made a predator’s approach as he stalked toward the Iron Throne. Two King’s Guard flanked him with stoic expressions. 

“And Protector of the Realm.”

He ascended the iron steps with a chilling grace, finally settling upon the throne. A hush fell over the court, thick and heavy. Silence stretched as he molded himself into the seat, his lethal hands caressing the equally lethal rests, a small smirk playing on his lips. His voice, a honeyed drawl laced with a hint of steel, echoed in the sudden silence.

“My Lords and Ladies,” he began, the menacing glint in his blue eye accentuated by the play of shadows on his face. “His Grace, the King, has been wounded at the battle of Rook’s Rest, and will be incapable to rule.”

There was a power in his presence, an unspoken threat that left the court speechless. Not a cough, not a rustle of fabric dared to break the silence. 

“Therefore,” he continued, his gaze sweeping over the frozen faces, “I, will act as your sovereign.”

Unease prickled at my skin. Something about Aemond’s demeanor, the unnatural sheen on his face, sent a tremor of suspicion through me. 

Had this all been a carefully orchestrated play? What truly transpired at Rook’s Rest? 

My eyes darted to the ornate dagger resting at his hip, the ancestral blade of Aegon the Conqueror. It was the same dagger I’d last seen clutched in the hand of his brother. 

As Aemond spoke on, a knot of apprehension tightened in my gut. 

“The tide has turned,” he declared, his voice ringing through the stunned silence. “Rhaenys Targaryen is slain, along with her dragon.” A small smile tugged at his lips, a low hum escaping them. “The largest serving the Pretender’s cause.” He said it like it was a jest. “Rook’s Rest has been claimed, leaving Dragonstone vulnerable.” His fingers tapped across the blades. “This is a victory for us.”

Scattered heads nodded in agreement. 

Then, his gaze snapped to me, a rapacious glint in his single blue eye. It seemed to bore into my very soul, stripping away any pretense. 

“It’s all going according to plan,” he murmured, his voice a silken threat, and for a moment, an eerie feeling within told me he was addressing me alone. The fire that danced within his eye flickered a touch too bright, and it felt like he could see every thought swirling in my mind, every flicker of doubt, every spark of fear. 

It felt like he was about to eat me alive.

A violent terror surged through me, icy fingers gripping my heart. Adrenaline tapped into my veins, a primal urge to flee. 

_

Frantic energy fueled my movements. I shoved dresses, jewelry, all of my belongings, into overflowing wooden trunks. Their straining hinges mocked my desperation. My handmaid, silent but swift, followed my frenzied instructions. I knew then, with a chilling certainty, that I owed her my life after this escape. 

Aemond’s chambers, once a familiar haven, felt cold and sterile now, stripped bare of my belongings. Rain lashed against the open windows, mirroring the frantic rhythm of my heart. The journey ahead would be long and treacherous. Circumstances weren’t optimal, but there was no other choice at my disposal.

My husband was a murderer and a kinslayer twice over. And my intuition told me it would soon be thrice. He wasn’t just ruthless; there was an unsettling hollowness behind his actions, a chilling absence of remorse. He was a walking blight, a storm that devoured everything in its path. And I refused to be struck down by its lightning.  

The apartment doors shuddered open, shattering me into distraught. My flight instincts flared, but I refused to cower. My hand instinctively shot out, grasping my maid’s hand tightly. We held our breath as a large, porcelain hand reached out and pushed the door wider. 

Aemond entered, leaving the door ajar. His gaze, unwavering and cold, locked with mine. “Leave us,” he commanded, his voice a smooth, cold current. 

My handmaid curtsied, her grip faltering as she pried my fingers loose. With a hurried glance back, she scurried out, the heavy door slamming shut behind her. 

An oppressive silence descended, broken only by the frantic pounding of my heart against my ribs. 

Escape seemed impossible; the air thick with a chilling dread. 

“You sent for me, wife?” Aemond’s voice, a silken caress laced with steel, echoed in the cavernous chamber. He approached with a predative grace, each deliberate step shrinking the distance between us. 

Confusion slammed into me. I hadn’t summoned him. This was, by far, the most he’d spoken to me since our loveless union. 

“You are mistaken,” I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper. My feet, traitors that they were, retreated with each of his advances. Then, it dawned on me, that it might have been his intention to put me in a state of dubiety, making me more malleable. A cutthroat, not only lethal, but cunning.

He stopped beside my overflowing trunk, a flicker of amusement playing on his lips. 

“Travelling somewhere?” His single blue eye, unnervingly perceptive, held me captive. 

Panic clawed at my throat. I clenched my trembling hands into fists, slotting them behind my back, forcing my lips into a gentle smile. 

“I wish to visit my family,” I said. “With war looming, I wish for us to be together.”

Aemond took another measured step closer. “Ao issi aerēbas mirriot daor,” (You’re not going anywhere), he murmured, the High Valyrian rolling off his tongue like a sinister threat. 

A furrow etched between my brows as I attempted to comprehend his words. My grasp of the ancient tongue was limited, and whether he intended me to understand was a cruel game. Perhaps, it was yet another tool to exert his dominance. But based on his relentless pursuit, I gathered me leaving wasn’t an option he entertained.

“I am of no use to you, Aemond,” I pleaded, maintaining a safe distance. “Me staying serves no purpose.”

“On the contrary,” he purred, his voice dripping with a dark promise. His head tilted covetously, venom flashing in his eye. 

“We barely exist to each other,” I continued. “What difference would it make if I was half a world away?”

“It would make all the difference.” The warmth in his voice vanished, replaced by a glacial edge. “There’s the matter of heirs.”

Seven Hells. 

Anguish twisted my gut. Intuition, a primal scream, roared to life. Images flashed behind my eyelids – Aemond sitting the throne, and Aegon reduced to ash. 

Had this been his plan all along? Was he the reason for the King’s lethal end?

The pieces slammed together in my mind, a horrifying mosaic. 

I gasped, my back hitting the cold stone wall. Aemond’s ambition stretched far beyond my naïve expectations. Loyalty to his house, to his brother, had been a carefully constructed facade. Beneath it, he schemed, a shrewd predator stalking his ultimate prize. The crown. 

And the crown needed heirs. 

He towered over me, his presence overwhelming. He was much taller than I recalled, every inch radiating a rapacious tension. A hand braced itself against the wall, inches from my head. 

“What have you done?” My thoughts materialized into shaky words, laced with an enmity that surprised even me. My gaze raked over him, revulsion twisting my features. The green leather seemed to pulse, an illusion fueled by my churning stomach. 

A flicker, a hint of something akin to uncertainty, crossed his single eye. It darted across my face, as if truly seeing me for the first time. Perhaps he was. In this desperate flight, we’d never been closer. Close enough to be enveloped by his scent, a foreign musk that did little to quell my churning nausea. 

“Skoros iksin bēvilagon.” (What was necessary)

I frowned again, aggravated that he took to High Valyrian as an attempt to shut me out of his thoughts. My jaw clenched, frustration a bitter taste on my tongue. 

Malevolence rose like a flood as I leaned forward, so close that our noses nearly touched, “I would not have your child in a million years, kinslayer,” I spat, my voice trembling with contained fury. I lunged forward, aiming to push past him, to escape his suffocating presence. But his other hand shot out, slamming against the wall beside me, effectively caging me in.

A venomous glint flickered in his eye as he narrowed it at me through his lashes. A twitch played on his lips, a cat batting at a cornered mouse. “Be that as it may,” he said mellowly. “But even a bad wife must obey her king.”

A scoff escaped my lips, my eyes sizing him up and down. “You are no king,” I hissed, defiance lacing my voice. “You are not even a man.”

His reaction was swift and brutal.

One hand shot out and grabbed my face, forcing my head against the cold stone. Pain erupted at the impact, but quickly subsided as he leaned in, his hot breath fanning against my lips.

“Speak such treason again, and I’ll show you what I really am.”

“What will you do?” I spat back, my voice trembling with a mix of fear and insurgence. “Cripple me, like you did your brother? Force yourself on me?”

“Don’t tempt me,” he growled, his voice simmering with barely contained violence.

A tense silence ensued, the air crackling with his restrained fury.

My suspicions, already simmering, solidified into a horrifying certainty. He’d orchestrated his brother’s downfall on purpose. 

“Have you no honor?” I whispered, the words a ragged plea. 

The silence stretched, broken only by our ragged breaths. His hold on my face loosened gradually, his hand falling away. But his gaze remained fixed on me, a storm brewing within its depths. 

“You cannot stop me, Aemond,” I said, my voice shrinking. “I will leave this place, one way or another. You can play king in my absence, but it will be a hollow crown.”

“Kesan arghugon ao naejot se mōris hen tegon.” (I will hunt you to the end of the earth)

“Speak plainly,” I snapped, my patience with his cryptic pronouncements wearing thin.

A chilling smile, devoid of warmth, stretched across his lips. He pushed himself away from the wall, backing away, creating my long-desired distance between us. 

“You may go,” he drawled, the amusement in his voice laced with a dangerous edge, that sardonic smile still plastered on his lips. 

Acrimony filled my gut. What little I knew of this man, I feared greatly, but also told me this was a trick. He wouldn’t relinquish control so easily. He’d allow me to make my “escape”, only to have me snatched back by the King’s Guard, now under his control, a public display of his authority. There was no true freedom with him.

Maegor’s tunnels, a potential escape route, loomed tantalizingly behind me. If only I were alone, a simple push against the wall would send me tumbling into its dark embrace. But escape without a plan or supplies was a fool’s errand. 

My mind spun, each possibility twisting the knife of despair deeper. Even if I reached my family, what awaited me there? Shame would be their welcome. Aemond, no doubt, would make sure of it. 

The rain continued its relentless assault on the outside world, punctuated by the booming symphony of thunder. A flash of lightning illuminated the apartments, casting Aemond in a grotesque, menacing silhouette. 

Exhaustion overwhelmed me. I slumped to the floor, seeking solace in the meager comfort of my arms wrapped around my knees. Here I was, a prisoner in this gilded cage, condemned to bear the children of a traitor until flames consumed us all. 

Aemond crouched before me, his wrists resting on his knees. He regarded me with an intensity that bordered on scientific curiosity. A flicker of something, perhaps disappointment, played at his edges. 

“I’d take you for many things, wife,” he cooed, the endearment dripping with veiled malice. “But weak was not one of them.” His words landed like a body blow. “If I’d known you’d crumble so easily, I would never have wed you in the first place.” 

I sniffed and looked up at him, exhaustion a heavy cloak on my lids. “You did not have much of a say in the matter,” I countered.

A wicked smile twisted his lips and his head tilted to the side. “No,” he said softly. A sudden chill iced his demeanor. “And neither do you.”

He rose to his feet with predacious grace, leaving me pleated on the floor. He sauntered to his chair and seated himself, one leg propped up on his knee, his leather splaying atop the arm rests.

I watched him. His face was turned to the violent storm outside, immersed in contemplation, lightning whipping across his features. A vision of menace. A weapon poised to strike. 

“So, what is your scheme, Aemond?” I started; my voice hoarse. His head turned slowly, his gaze locking onto mine with the piercing intensity of Valyrian steel. “Do you envision a period of mourning for the King, followed by a convenient acclamation in your favor? Or will you hurry along the succession and carry out the deed yourself before anyone suspects?”

A single corner of his mouth quirked into a cruel smile. “Suppose I have not yet decided.” His voice was like liquid. 

Defiance flickered within me. “The court will never agree to this once they find out what you’ve done.”

Aemond hummed, a deep sound in the bottom of his chest. “Dragons don’t concern themselves with the opinions of sheep.” He leaned forward, resting his arms across his knees. “I am next in line to the throne,” he drawled. “None is better suited than I.”

I staggered to my feet and went to sit beside him. “With a legitimate heir,” I said carefully. “Your claim would be uncontested.”

He smirked, as though I’d read his mind. He leaned back, his eyes gleaming with dangerous delight. 

“A woman’s pleasure is,” he began, a slow, suggestive smile playing on his lips. His blue eye drifted down my form in a way that made my skin crawl. “Of as much importance as the seed itself.”

A hot flush crept up my cheeks at his implication.

“Which is why submission must be a willing act,” he finished, his voice dropping to a husky murmur.

I swallowed, provocation crackling through me. Did he truly believe I would succumb to his advances? He seemed to think he could manipulate anyone to his will, whether through seduction or brutality, though I had yet to see the former. 

“And if I refuse?” I challenged, my voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor in my hands. 

A low growl vibrated in his chest, his face soft. “Then you’ll find yourself counted amongst the sheep,” he drawled.

Deflating, I sighed and dipped my head. The only path forward seemed excruciatingly clear. Raising my eyes to meet his, I lifted an eyebrow in rebellion.

“Consider me sheep then.” With that, I rose from the settee and strode towards the apartment doors, the cold of the metal handle stealing the warmth from my fingers as I heaved it open.

It shut then, with a loud thud, and I jumped, a sudden heat radiating behind me. Aemond’s fingers splayed on the oak door above my head. My pulse drummed in my ears, Aemond’s lips grazing my lobe, urging it to pick up the pace. 

“Jaelā naejot mazverdagon nyke jorarghutan ao, ābrazȳrys?” (You want to make me chase you, wife?) His voice rumbled into me, a low growl as potent as the thunderstorm.

The rolling, guttural words sent a strange warmth through my core. His air consumed me. A rich mixture of smoke, leather, and dragon, infiltrated my senses, intoxicating and unsettling in equal measure. 

“I can’t understand you,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. I felt him smiling against my ear, a low chuckle reverberating into it, sending goosebumps erupting across my skin. 

“You won't need to,” he said softly. His hand drifted away from the door and closed around my throat, surprisingly gentle, yet the warmth of his fingers felt like embers branding my skin. They snaked around the back of my neck, the pressure tightening as he turned me to face him. His single eye, a bottomless well of intricacy, held mine captive.

My gaze flickered down to his lips. They were curved into a wicked grin.

His scent became a suffocating presence. The heat radiating from his body, fervid as a dragon, made sweat bead on my forehead. My entire being screamed I was at his mercy. He could crush my life out with a mere squeeze, or worse, with his single eye, he could strip me bare without ever laying a hand on me. 

But a strange fire flickered within me, a rebellion against his dominion. My hands, fueled by a desperate need for control, reached out and began loosening his doublet, my fingers slow and deliberate. 

Aemond stilled, his eye falling to my movements. He watched, transfixed, as I unfastened the green leather halfway down his chest, then trailed my fingers lower. His gaze darkened and his breath grew uneven, as the bulge beneath his belt pressed against my touch.

A visceral desire flared within me, a response I couldn’t fully comprehend. My pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs, slowly drifting between my thighs at the sight of his desire. 

His grip softened at my nape, and with a surge of defiance, I ripped myself free from his hold, and landed a heavy blow to his stomach. But a wave of terror washed over me when Aemond barely flinched.

Panic clawed at my throat. 

Taking advantage of his momentary surprise, I flung open the chamber doors and fled, the sound of my pounding heart echoing in my ears. 

AEMOND

The aftershock of her blow lingered, a dull ache radiating from my gut, while I allowed her to make her escape. Fury, a familiar companion, usually surged through me, promising retribution, suggesting to make her death appear an accident. This time, however, a different heat consumed me, a mix of surprise and… arousal. 

Rarely did I misjudge a person. Yet, the meek mouse I’d wed had transformed into a daring she-wolf before my very eyes. This escape attempt, fueled by defiance, was a revelation. It made my dick hard. 

A rapacious glint flickered in my eye. A grudging respect, laced with something far more primal, coiled in my gut. I had underestimated her, and the unexpected turn of events had ignited a spark within me. 

A smirk twisted my lips, and I hummed with satisfaction, the thrill of the hunt coursing through me. 

“Jaelā naejot tymagon?” (You want to play?) I murmured, the challenge laced with amusement. “Kesi tymagon.” (Let’s play.)

I started into the storm-ridden castle. 

YOU

Immediate regret shot through me with a pang, a cold fist squeezing my breath. 

To toy with a dragon was like asking to get burned.

My lungs screamed in protest, my legs burning with each step down the Red Keep’s slick stone steps. Blood, metallic and sharp, left traces in my mouth as I hoisted my cumbersome gown to avoid tripping. The castle shuddered from the storm, which groaned and wailed its onslaught. Guards stood stoic at their posts, their expressions unreadable underneath silver helms. Appealing to them was a fool’s errand.

None dared defy the one-eyed prince. 

Driven by blind instinct, I found myself pushing through the massive doors of the throne room. 

The Iron Throne, a monstrous silhouette of twisted blades, dominated the chamber, its edges flashing white-hot under the lightning’s fury. I stumbled towards it, chest heaving, gasping for air. 

If it truly was cursed, could touching it offer some strange absolution, a release from the gilded cage that was my life? Surely, it couldn’t be worse than the fate that awaited me back in his clutches. 

Ascension. My trembling legs carried me up the steps, each one a monumental effort. Reaching the top, I lingered to sit, an action so simple, yet it loomed so immensely in my mind.

“Waiting to make your peace with the gods?” came a voice, and I turned with a gasp.

Aemond stood in the middle of the room, arms slotted behind his back, approaching with slow, menacing steps, like a predator savoring the hunt. Thunder boomed overhead. 

“No,” I countered, spite flaring hot in my chest. “Waiting for you to catch up so I can meet them myself,” I said, descending the steps. 

“Once more, so quick to admit defeat,” he taunted, venom dripping from his words like the rain outside.

I studied his sharp features, while the burden of my reality settled like a weight in my chest. “There is no escaping you,” I gritted out, holding his heavy gaze. 

His violence loomed heavy, and depravity flickered in his gaze. “Your perception waxes,” he conceded, and suddenly, the world tilted on its axis as he scooped me up and tossed me effortlessly over his broad shoulder. 

The journey back to his chambers was a furious ballet of resistance. My limbs flailed wildly, desperate for purchase, and obscenities, laced with an untenable fear, ripped from my throat.

A sharp slap landed on my behind, eliciting a yelp of surprised pain. 

“The more you struggle,” he growled, the sound a low rumble in his chest, “the worse it will be.”

A part of me recognized the truth in his words, yet a bestial defiance warred within, refusing to yield. Fueled by a surge of adrenaline, I lunged for his silver hair, grabbing a fistful and yanking with all my might. 

He hissed through his teeth, followed by a guttural sound echoing deep within him. “Ilībōños,” (Bitch/Bastard) he cursed.

The apartment door slammed shut behind us as he entered, his movements purposeful. With a rough toss, I landed unceremoniously on the bed, the air whooshing out of my lungs on impact. Fury, a searing inferno, consumed me, each cell screaming in protest, my claws unsheathing. I wanted to hurt him. 

Anything within reach became a potential weapon. Pillows, a discarded jeweled comb – I hurled them all at him, each item a silent scream of rebellion. But his movements were swift, each projectile dodged with practiced ease. 

Frustration mounted, morphing into a desperate rage. I lunged at him, a clumsy attempt to push him back. But he remained immovable, an unyielding mountain. Undeterred, I pushed again, and again, fueled by a futile contempt. 

Finally, as I drew back for another pointless shove, his hands shot out, lightning fast, pinning my arms to my sides. He moved swiftly, his body caging mine in a steely embrace. 

“Lykirī,” he hummed, the word a low thrum against my ear. 

“Fuck you,” I spat, my chest heaving from my ambush.

Did he mistake me for his winged beast that he could command to his will?

My attempt to wiggle out of his hold was a pointless endeavour. Rage crackled in my veins, but it flickered under his touch. My breath hitched as he leaned closer, the heat of his body searing through my gown. The scent of him, smoke and leather, filled my senses. And the undeniable press of his erection against my stomach sent a jolt through me. 

This perverted man was enjoying my defiance. His grip tightened, a teasing hold that both frustrated and excited me. My body, traitor that it was, started to soften against him, a spark igniting beneath the embers of anger. 

“Have you had your fill of my company?” he whispered, his voice husky against my ear. His hands trailed down my arms, sending shivers skittering across my skin.

Every rational part of me screamed to break free, to run for the tunnels, to fight back. But the intoxication of his touch, the heat radiating from him, the suggestive murmur against my ear – they all conspired to trap me.

Before I could think, my head slowly turned from one side to the other. 

He hummed deeply. “Say it.”

Frustration warred with a strange vulnerability within me. My cheeks burned, and I clenched my jaw hard enough to taste blood. 

“I haven't.”

“You haven't what?”

Fury flickered back to life, fueled by his smug grin and the realization of how easily he’d manipulated me. 

“I haven't had enough,” I gritted out, the words a reluctant surrender. 

A growl of satisfaction escaped him before he grasped me by my throat, pushed me back against the wall, and tasted my next breath on his tongue. 

His lips, hot and demanding, devoured mine like a beggar, silencing the gasp that threatened to escape. Heat, a wildfire erupting at the junction of our bodies threatened to consume me. Fury, a simmering ember, still flickered within. I shoved against his chest and stomped on his feet; futile attempts against his unyielding form.

“Gaomagon vīlībagon nyke daor,” (Do not fight me) he said roughly against my lips, nipping at the bottom one. “Kesā botagon daor.” (You would not survive)

I didn’t understand him, and it urged on my fury. I opened my mouth with a quip in mind, but he used that opportunity to slide his tongue inside, hot and wet. The anger threatened to drown the blossoming desire, creating a tempestuous war within. I panted, torn between resistance and a strange, unfamiliar need, a fever writhing and pulsing inside my veins. My hands clenched in the rough leather of his doublet, a desperate attempt to maintain some sort of control. 

I closed my teeth on his bottom lip, and he hissed sharply, encircling my throat with his hand, pushing me against the stone. 

“Kelītīs,” (Stop) he growled.

The question of whether he even realized he was speaking High Valyrian was a fleeting thought. I melted into his rough hold, to his wicked mouth crashing against mine again and again, getting lost in the hot glide of his tongue. His rough kisses, the frantic press of his body, all contrived to unravel my carefully constructed defenses. A soft moan escaped my lips as my nipples brushed against his chest, sending sparks lower. He groaned low in his throat, sucking my bottom lip between his teeth.

With practiced ease, he untied the strings of my dress, letting the fabric pool around my ankles. I stood there in only my kirtle, breathless under his heated gaze. A dark groan rumbled from his chest as he slipped his hands beneath my thighs, effortlessly lifting me. My legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. His grip tightened on my bare flesh, a touch too rough, and I retaliated with another yank on his silver hair. An angry sound erupted in his throat as he attempted to shake off my grip. 

He carried us to the bed, the world tilting on its axis as he settled me on top of him. Our mouths met in a frantic clash, a tangle of tongues and heated breaths. We tore away from each other briefly, just long enough for him to pull my kirtle over my head.

Naked and exposed, I felt a shiver dance across my skin under the intensity of his gaze. Something dark moved through his eye, and my skin prickled with goosebumps.

He gripped the swell of my hips, his palms sliding upward, a slow exploration that sent sparks igniting in my blood. The fight drained from me, replaced by a heavy languor. His fingers, surprisingly gentle for a cold-blooded killer, traced patterns across my skin, before cupping my breasts into a rough grip. A soft moan escaped my lips as his thumb brushed a nipple, and pleasure rushed to my core. He leaned in and closed his mouth over a peak, drawing it in with a slow, gentle suck. My head fell back, a groan escaping my throat. My hands filtered into his thick silver, my fingers impulsively easing off the leather tie that kept it out of his face, and it went cascading around his features like spills of moonlight.

Awe mingled with desire as I watched him continue to explore my body, his mouth leaving a trail of wet heat across my skin. I cupped his sharp face in my hands, the rational, caged side of me screaming to tear him off me. I made weak, pitiful attempts to do so, but Aemond growled his disapproval and sucked my nipple hard. The wet heat of his mouth tugged between my legs as he moved to the other, flames curling low in my stomach. I ground down on him, my wet entrance dampening the dark leather of his breeches, the friction sending a delicious heat through my core. A moan ripped from his lips.

I was on fire, a confusing mix of desire and desperation clawing at me. I needed something more, something to push me over the edge. My body moved of its own accord, grinding harder, seeking that elusive release. 

He released my nipple with a graze of teeth that sent a jolt of white heat through me, and looked up at me with his eye dark like the storm.

“Skoros gaomagon jaelā?” (What do you crave?), he rumbled.

Exhaustion gnawed at me, but a visceral need pulsed deep within. “Please,” I pleaded, the word a ragged whisper escaping my lips, the frustration of the language barrier a dull ache compared to the firestorm raging in my core. “More,” I begged, grinding against his erection with desperate mewlings. 

When his hand lowered to palm my pussy, my skin caught on fire, burning me from scalp to toes. Desire inflated in my throat when he ran his hand up my neck, into my hair, grabbing a fistful and using it to arch my head back, his touch both possessive and arousing. 

“Is this what you desire?” he rasped against my throat, his voice husky with restrained passion. His calloused thumb began drawing circles on my clit, a slow, deliberate exploration that sent frustration battling with a rising tide of pleasure. 

I nodded desperately. “Yes,” I gasped.

He slipped two fingers into my wetness, and I arched my back, groaning in pleasure and a little pain, his fingers filling me up to the brim. My hands found purchase in his hair, anchoring myself as he moved his digits, flames of pleasure licking at my walls. 

Ecstasy unfurled in my veins like milk of the poppy, mind-numbing, delirious, as he slid his thick fingers in and out of me, rubbing a sensitive spot deep within. Hot pressure expanded, and my eyes rolled back in my head. A throaty moan escaped my lips with every thrust of his fingers and a delicious rumble rolled in his chest. 

His grip around my hair suddenly vanished and his thumb began rubbing circles on my clit as he fingered me. I cried out, the intensity overwhelming, and I braced myself on his leather-covered shoulders, a cold sweat starting beneath my skin.

“Sholīze,” (You’re so wet), he groaned against my skin, the word a brand that sent shivers lancing through me, the heat beneath the surface threatening to erupt. I rolled my hips on his fingers, and a satisfied growl escaped his mouth, his eye dropping to witness me riding his hand as my pleasure ran down his wrist, my leg and onto his lap. 

“Shkelagon zhēdys,” (You’re making a mess), he whispered into my mouth, swallowing my desperate cries. 

A third finger, bold and intrusive, slid inside, the added pressure sending me over the edge. My vision swam, black dots exploding at the edges. My heart pounded to the fire searing through every nerve in my body. Throaty moans tore from my lips over and over, as I clenched around his moving fingers. He groaned with dark satisfaction, encircling my waist, pressing me against him as I rode out my orgasm. 

The storm within me subsided slowly. His fingers, once urgent, now moved slowly in and out of me while I caught my breath and the ringing in my ears faded. He didn’t withdraw until he’d coaxed out the very last tremor of pleasure from my body. 

A languorous warmth, a deep sense of satiation unlike anything I’d ever known, bloomed within me.

Lost in the afterglow, I trailed kisses up his neck, small noises of contentment escaping my lips. 

“Gevie,” he panted, slipping his fingers out of me.

I knew that word.

Beautiful. 

AEMOND

I never thought the act of making an heir would be this… riveting. 

So much pure heat, flame and pleasure, fueled not just by my own desire, but by the sight of her pleasure burgeoning under my touch. It was a new prospect entirely. I could have reached my own release simply from witnessing hers. 

But this was not going to make an heir, after all.  

She ran her fingers over my erection, her lips and teeth teasing a line down my neck as she came down from her high. My hand, forearm and lap were slick from her sweet desire. 

She settled back into my lap, a vision of post-orgasmic bliss. Her eyes, usually bright and defiant, were now hooded with languid satisfaction, her cheeks flushed a becoming crimson. Her lips, slightly parted, breathed shallowly. I pushed my thumb between them, and she met the intrusion with a beckoning glide of her tongue, the wet heat settling in my groin. I pulled my thumb free, wiping the evidence of her touch across her lips. 

This woman, this force of nature, was mine. My wife.

Lightning played across her features like she was its master. Like she embodied the raw power of the storm. 

Untamed, fierce, fuckable.

She was molded just for me.

Her fingers, tracing a familiar path down my doublet, encountered the bulge straining against the fabric, my dick throbbing at her faintest touch.

“Take it off,” she said, working on the buckle. I reached my hands up my neck, loosening the doublet from my frame. 

“Do not attempt any strikes this time,” I drawled, a playful challenge in my voice. I relished the smile that spread across her lips.

“You have my word,” she said softly. 

The leather of my arms whispered down, discarded on the floor like a shed skin. Her eyes ignited with raw desire, a flickering flame that mirrored the inferno that had been building within me. Her fingers, hesitant at first, traced a path down my chest, my abs, further, until her hand slipped beneath my breeches and over the length of my dick. 

I hissed through my teeth. The heat, a branding iron searing flesh, intensified as her hand, unsure but determined, wrapped around my erection, heat curling at the base of my spine. Her hesitant touch grew more confident as she stroked me from base to head with smooth, gentle motions, sending a low groan rumbling from my chest. 

I grabbed her face and grazed her chin with my teeth, making her stroke me harder. “I’ll fill you with my seed, wife,” I growled, the words rough against her skin. A promise, a threat, a declaration of possession – all rolled into one.  

Her sigh held a hint of resignation, contrasting the fire in her eyes. “As long as you’ll leave me alone once you’re done,” she mumbled, the words laced with quiet defiance. 

Fury, a red-hot ember, flared within me. 

I threw her down on her knees on the bed and yanked her head back by her hair until her head rested against my shoulder. The vulnerability in her exposed throat fueled a dark avarice within me. My erection pressed against the heat of her ass, restraint becoming an impossible enemy. 

“You’re bound to me now,” I growled in her ear, the words a possessive vow. “You’re not going anywhere.”

A ghost of a smile played on her lips, a silent challenge that both frustrated and excited me. I leaned in, whispering a single word against her ear, “Ñuhon.” (Mine) I nipped her earlobe, making her hiss. 

When I released her, she sagged forward, head hanging low. Her shoulders slumped, and she lowered herself onto her hands, the curve of her backside a sight that ignited a fresh wave of heat within me. 

I discarded my breeches, the urgency a physical ache in my core. Kneeling behind her, I pushed two fingers inside of her. She clenched down on me so tightly. I groaned and pulled my fingers free. As I rubbed the head of my cock against her wet opening, the heat of it almost burned me. A tremble coasted throat her, and her fingers gripped the sheets, bracing herself. 

I eased into her, and, gods spare me, she was so fucking tense, to the point she nearly resisted me entirely. I caressed her ass, her hips, running my hand up and down her back, attempting to relax her, uttering words I scarcely knew were the Common Tongue or High Valyrian. 

“Vīrȳn (take it), you’re so fucking wet, gūrogon mirre yno (take all of me).”

Until her walls softened and I watched myself slide into her, until I was as deep as I could go.

Seven Hells. 

The feeling was overwhelming. The way she clutched me like a wet fist. Every cell in me ached for more, to fuck her hard, relentlessly, but I gave her a moment to adjust, squeezing her, running my hands all over her. 

Soon, she was rocking back against me, and I gave her what she wanted, pulling out all the way before slowly pushing back in, every inch of me vanishing. She groaned and dropped her face to the bed, fisting the sheets in her hands. I gripped the swell of her hips, guiding her warm, wet pussy onto my throbbing dick over and over, watching their salacious union, my sight darkening at the squelching sounds that ensued. A deep hum erupted from my chest.

She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes hooded with lust, settling on each lazy thrust. 

“Iksis ao bisa ijiōrtan?” (Is this pleasing you?) I rasped, but before she could answer, I fucked her a little harder. It occurred to me that she probably could not have understood what I’d been saying half the time. 

Her head fell forward, and the sight of her biting down on her hand to quiet her moans sent a heady rush to my head, lighting me on fire. 

Thunder rolled overhead. 

I was completely lost in the heat of her, taking her hard, watching her ass bounce against me with every thrust. I wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her back against my chest.

She was panting, fucked into soft compliancy.

“To whom do you belong?” I growled in her ear.

She didn’t resist any of my advances this time. “You,” she breathed. 

“Say my name.”

“Aemond.”

“And who is your King?”

“Aemond.”

My grip snaked and tightened around her neck as I fucked her.

“Say it.”

“You’re the King, Your Grace,” she whined. “The first of your name.”

It set me on fire.

I pushed her back down and fucked her through her second orgasm, holding her hips up when her legs gave out. She shuddered and clenched around me, the pressure sending licking fires down my back, threatening to erupt. I gritted my teeth as I came inside of her, a white, hot fire shooting through me so hard, my vision went black.

My muscles shook from the aftershock.

I doubled over her, letting my forehead rest on her back as we came down. 

When I pulled out of her, I watched my seed leak out of her entrance like white tears. I plugged it with my fingers, burrowing deep inside of her, and she gasped.

“Dragonseed is precious,” I rumbled into her ear. “Would not want it to go to waste.” I kissed her temple.

“Tepagon aōha dārys iā dārilaros, dōna ābrazȳrys.” (Give your king an heir, sweet wife)

[baepsays]

A FINE LINE BETWEEN LUST AND LOATHE ★ ⸻ Gojo Satoru.

cw⸻★ NSFW, MDNI, dark content, HATE SEX!!! they actually hate e/o, but it's also just that it's the tension, they cannot come to terms with the fact they want to fuck someone so wildly not their type, fem reader, no pronouns, fem anatomy, drunk sex, so ig dub-con/non-con, name calling, oral sex (f! and m! receiving), head pusher Gojo, hair pulling, more spit stuff cause I said so, raw dogging, no missionary cause that'd make it too real and they'd explode, bro cums inside her without warning, he is lowkey an asshole, but reader is also provoking him any chance they get, hashtag on my period so like every month you get your freaky stuff.

a/n: enjoyyyyy ( or don't I will eat this up myself). based on this mind dump.

If only staring at Gojo Satoru hard enough made him disappear from your sight. And if only side eyeing you from across the room made you disappear from his sight. Either of you wanted nothing more than each other's existence coming to an end.

But unfortunately the universe was against your respective enjoyment of sanity and pleasure.

It has been almost sixteen years since you've known each other. Yet not a day goes by where you don't think of resigning just to not see him everyday. And Satoru makes sure to go out of his way to stay flooded in work just to avoid being in the same space as you.

But every time he happens to open his mouth, or flash those shiny teeth; or when you intentionally stop talking when he slips into the room, or when you roll your eyes at him, it ticks you guys off.

And what's worse is sitting here right now, basically pushed together, by Shoko to your left and Suguru to his right. Why were you guys sitting beside each other anyway? Couldn't he have been early for once in his life and just taken a seat anywhere! Anywhere, but here.

So how to deal with his overwhelmingly stuffy cologne infiltrating your nostrils, like the thought of him infiltrating your mind and making your blood boil?—The answer is given in all the alcohol on the table in front of you. If you have to tolerate a work dinner with Gojo, you might as well just get drunk. And it seems like maybe he had the same plans. Or maybe it was just you trying to annoy the wannabe cool guy out of him.

"Hah. That's all you can drink? And you call yourself the strongest?" The third glass was getting to your head. Clearly.

“You're clearly drunk out of your mind.” His eyes narrowed at you upon being suddenly addressed by you. It's never often that you directly speak to him, from your own accordance with that.

“And you're clearly a pussy.” You grinned at him in victory. A sly provoking grin that made his eyes twitch under that blindfold.

“Just say you want me to give you something to fawn over.” congratulations you've yet again successfully pissed off Gojo Satoru.

Everyone knew that despite being a big brooding man, Gojo Satoru was a lightweight. No shame in that! But there's no meaning in saying that to Gojo, when he has never felt shame in his life. Then why were your words getting to him? One moment he is sipping on half a glass of beer for hours, and the next he is chugging down some concoction of sake and beer mixed together.

You blame him. But you also blame your colleagues/friends, and you also blame the alcohol. Because everyone knew not to go close to Gojo Satoru after he had over half a glass of alcohol. So as usual everyone very tactfully handed his responsibility to you—a lesser drunk individual. Who would probably leave him on the side of the street with a note that says, ‘rob him, he's rich.’ But since you have to constantly prove something to Gojo, for some reason, you couldn't help but take up the responsibility of getting him home in one piece. And it's not like this is the first time you're doing this, just the first time you're both pretty drunk. 

Some people might wonder why would you do that for someone you hate? Because if you do not, the next day he'll just float around you scoffing and annoying you with petty words. So this is just a preemptive measure, yeah! Anything to keep your sanity from further depleting just because Gojo Satoru decided to exist.

The task was simple. Get a taxi, drag Gojo up to his home, enter his very weak passcode, get tempted to dump him in the bathtub, instead just leave him on the cold marble floor. You've done this before. Six times excluding this to be exact. This is nothing new or crazy.

But what's crazy is that how did you end up like this?

Instead of being on your own merry way back home, why are you under Gojo Satoru on his entrance hall floor, kissing him? He is actually kissing you. And you're kissing him back. His lips are quite feverish compared to the rest of him, or maybe it's your own body and face gradually becoming hotter and hotter.

This is suffocating, he is suffocating. The kiss is suffocating. This might just be a dream. No, a nightmare. You have dreamed about this before, you've wished for this for a certain period of time in your life when you were just freshly sixteen maybe, and you had just met Gojo Satoru, after hearing so much about him. It felt like you already knew a part of him, you wanted to know more about him, you wanted to be friends. And maybe something more if fate allowed it. Alas, you didn't know then how disappointing expectations are.

Just thinking about how you used to feel things other than deep, unsettling, and aggravating disdain for Gojo Satoru; it makes your skin crawl. It makes you want to walk into quicksand willingly rather than addressing those thoughts and feelings. Because why would you? They don't exist anymore. Those were fleeting teenage hormones. 

Because if we are being objective here, Gojo is attractive, he has always been so. Everyone agrees upon that. He knows it, the world knows it, unfortunately even you know it. So without knowing anything about him other than his gallant stories and pretty face, it was inevitable to develop a petty crush in him. 

Which he crushed with his own bare hands in mere seconds of being introduced to you. You remember that day very clearly, he called you weak, and some other things along that string. You did tune it all out after that first scoff that came out of his mouth that day, when all you did was extend an enthusiastic hand of friendship and compliments. “pfft. You think a weakling like you knows anything about me?” is what he exactly said that day.

Ever since that day, he has remained the bane of your existence and the perpetual source of agony in your life.

And yet here you are, making out with drunk Gojo Satoru, while being under the influence of alcohol yourself, on his cold marble floors. Dragging your hands through his hair, pulling on it, for support or just maybe to inflict some pain onto him—both very unsure but reasonable possibilities. 

A flicker of conscience flashed through you the moment his other hand—which was not preoccupied with holding his weight off the floor—pressed itself down your waist, when one of your hands, still stuck in the strands of his white hair; dug itself under his blindfold. When your nails scratched his undercut, under his blindfold, his own fingers dug themselves into your flesh.

And it just hit you, what was happening. So you broke off the kiss, pushed him back, and he backed off, as he was caught off guard. He was confused, because if he was not, he would not have given you the chance to break free from his lips or would have let you crawl away from under his body, like you were. 

“Tryin’ to run from what you started sweets?” He dragged you backwards by getting a hold on one of your ankles. It was petrifying. How you were pulled towards him with no resistance, your hands flapped around and just made screeching noises as you tried to latch onto the sleek marble floor. But you were not in control of the situation anymore. There was nothing you could do to stop yourself from being dragged into the lion's den. Because the lion has already dug his teeth in your flesh, and the sweet taste of your flesh and blood is too tempting to set you free now. 

“I thought you were the responsible one between us. Hmm?” He was above you. No, he was caging you. The cold marble floor on the side of your face was not cool enough to calm you down. You felt a shiver running down every hair on your body, when he spoke into the shell of your ear. “Y-you're d-drunk.” 

“Stutterin’ for me now?” His nose nuzzled itself into the back of your neck, and you tried to further dig your face into the floor. Which was futile to say the least. 

“I would fuck ya’ right here. Right now.”

You could only gasp at him. You don't know how to respond to anything he says. It's hard enough to converse with a sober Gojo, for sake of work, so drunk Satoru is very much out of your area of expertise.

“Tell me no.” His breathing started to get heavier, along with his pants. One of his hands pressed you still under him, while the other one pulled the blindfold off his face. The outline of his now hard cock poked your ass, and dare I say it was tempting to not grind back into him. 

“Tell me to fuck off. And I will.” 

You could do that. When the strongest spares you, you take that offer gladly and run for your life. But maybe you lack that will to live, or just simply wanted to be crushed by him. Which one is more fucked up, is a decision for later. Because right now you are nodding yes to this guy, whom you apparently hate with all the fibers in your body. Essentially giving him approval to fuck you.

As drunk as Gojo may be, he at least had the sensibility to pick you up and take you to his bed. Which was massive, I mean he lives quite the comfortable life, he always has. Part of the reason why you made yourself believe where the influx of arrogance came from. But there is no time to ponder about those things, when Gojo Satoru is haphazardly stripping you bare, to then strip down to nothing himself.

“God. Look at ya.” This is not making love with the love of your life. But setting aside your pride to fuck this anomaly you do not understand. So the kissies he peppered along with occasional bites, from your neck down to your cunt—was unwarranted. But then also neither of you are in your right mind.

Gojo Satoru is truly good at everything. Which has always been annoying. It's so annoying how he has you biting down on your lips to contain your moans from slipping out of your throat, as he eats you out like a starved man. He is two knuckles deep in your hole, sucking, biting, and even slapping your clit. Moving his mouth off your cunt to hover over your hole with his tongue out, to let his spit drool out of his mouth, and straight onto your hole being penetrated by his fingers. And all you could do was helplessly pull on his hair to maybe pry him off you, to catch a breather. But it seems like it's easier to get leeches off your body than taking Gojo Satoru off your pussy.

“J-just, get, get on with it.” A slurry of words came out of your mouth along with grunts to conceal the moans, because if you dare moan for this man, there is no way you'll live that down. Does not matter if he doesn't remember it, you'll remember. And that'd be just enough to eat you alive. But it is advisable that you worry more about the man eating you out currently. 

“Ok. Cum for me then.” He says with a flat voice before diving back in, this time shoving his tongue along with his fingers. “I CAN’T JUST DO THAT ON COMMAND!?” 

“Maybe we should train you.” He mumbles while working your pussy, trying to find your spongy spot, to get you exactly where he needed you to be. And when he did get a hold of it, it was over. 

You squirted all over his face. And at the sign of your unearned release, he opened his mouth wide to welcome the taste of your juices on his tongue. And he got more than that, his entire face got drenched. You really never thought you were capable of squirting, neither were you suspecting the man to make you do such obscene things would be Gojo. 

“How sweet.” He lapped his tongue around his lips, as if to gather any leftovers around his mouth. “She speaks to me so nicely. Unlike you.” With one last parting slap on your cunt, he got off you. 

But rest was not what he was trying to give you. He pulled you off the bed, to sit on the edge of the bed himself, and sitting you on his lap. The feeling of his cock under your wet folds and quivering thighs, was not helpful by any means. If you felt the outline of his cock in his pants earlier and got scared, then the real thing under you, skin to skin, throbbing against your heat—was enough to give you a cardiac arrest.

“You'll return the favour right? Don't like owing me, do ya’?” You wish you could slap that smirk off his face. But then again, it was just wishful thinking that got you involved in this situation. But he was not wrong. You did not like to owe anyone anything, especially not Gojo Satoru. You've gone out of your way to get a pack of sticky notes at two am just to not owe him for the single sticky note he gave you during a meeting.

“And how do I do that?” If you found that smirk annoying, then you'd find the obnoxious grin on him aggravating. 

An eye for an eye. And mouth for mouth, I guess?

Trying to give Gojo a blowjob was wildly more difficult than fighting a special grade curse. How do you even wrap your lips around such a massive thing? Sure it's pretty pink, with a blushy tip, and veins running down his girth; but it was mouthful. And Gojo was really no help, it was as if he was getting more drunk by the minute. His eyes were getting glossier, his pupils were more glowy than usual, if his face was flushed then, now it was properly and fully red. And it was as if his hands had a mind of their own, with how they were cradling your head, tangling those fingers in your strands and pushing you down on his length beyond your capacity—he is an asshole. 

“Ya’ can take more right? Hmm? Come onnn, you have taken more hits on the field. Can't just lose against m' cock.” His voice dripped with malice and lack of self control. The guttural grunts coming from him were becoming worse and worse with the vibration of your own groans around him.

But the heavy leaking cock felt so good on your tongue. Sure the choking was inevitable, he is disgustingly huge. Blessed in every area but humility. Because why would he? A huge cock must sustain a huge ego, in his opinion. And that pretty mouth of yours looks so much better stuffed shut with his cock. Why would he trade that for being humble?

“Maybe from now on, I'll just have to stuff your mouth full when you get mouthy at me.” The chuckle after that was meaner than those words itself, if you think about it, but your mind was too fucked to think. Because otherwise maybe Gojo would have to work around a bleeding cock.

But for now he's much content in the tight fit of your throat. Face fucking your teary eyes and heavy tongue, with his hips fully off the bed, and his cock nestled cozy in your throat—this is better than pissing you off to make himself feel things, better than having you shout profanities at him. 

He might be an addict, or maybe you should be deemed illegal. Because how dare you simply exist and mess up his brain? Ever since the day you extended your hand at him, he has not known sanity. This is his full circle moment. Fucking your mouth so well he forgets how much your tongue makes his blood boil.

It was easy to cum down your throat. To feed you his seed, seep a little disgusting part of him in your veins, even if it is biologically not possible, but Gojo would like to think it is. That you are just as much him, as he is now you, and he hopes the thought of it makes you lose sleep. But maybe he'd be the one losing sleep, because the sight of you was lethal. His cum dripping down the side of your mouth, and your throat moving in a rapid up and down motion to swallow him whole. 

He's going to be dreaming about this for the rest of his life.

But there are bigger and better things to tackle, like finally stuffing your cunt with his cock. Because who needs downtime when you are Gojo Satoru about to fuck the cause of half of his migraines. And if it was in his power he would've done it right there at the entrance like he threatened, but he believes in a good build up.

“Wait.” He stopped in his tracks of putting the condom on. You pulled your back off the bed and sat up to look him directly in the eyes. They were still hazy with something unrecognizable.

“Not missionary.”

“Pfft. Right. That's the line you refuse to cross huh?” Despite the deceiving smile on his lips, he looked pissed. After everything that you two have done, that's the line you don't want to cross, what a joke. He knows the feeling inside your pussy, where your weak spots are, the texture of your tongue, the mole above your tailbone and on your waist; but god forbid he looks into your eyes as he thrusts his cock inside you. 

Well, he'll be nice. He'll be nice to you, for once, and grant you this measly wish. 

So with an achy throat and teary eyes, you buried your face in his pillows, as he flipled you over on the mattress without further protest. He did not waste time with easing himself into your hole. He slid himself inside in one go, and ploughed you from behind like it meant business. Every smack of skin slapping, the ripples in your ass after each thrust, and the squelches of your cunt swallowing his cock whole—it was all getting to his head. If he was still drunk then he would've probably passed out at this point. But then again if he was not drunk anymore how else was he going to explain this feeling?

The feeling of wanting to hold you for an eternity, wanting to see you bite down on his skin instead of his pillow, wanting to see more of his hand print all over your body other than just your waist. The urge to flip you over and just fuck you as slow as he could while staring into your eyes like they held secret to immortality, it was tempting.

What was the fear that was holding him back? That if he did just give in he'd never see you like this again, and if that happened he would probably take himself down with the entire city. So, he can just settle for taking off the condom as fast as he could, while you whine from the lack of stretch inside you. 

“Aw, whining like a cock hungry slut now, are we?” He can settle with coming inside you for now. Yes, he can settle. 

You did not think twice when he slid back in, you chalked it out as him being a tease as usual. And the new warmth that fit right inside you like a perfect piece of puzzle, was much welcomed. So much so, that you could not help but cum again without any warning, I mean you'd warn him if you were cognizant of these things yourself. At this point your body was betraying your mind, and your mind was too drunk to even feel how backstabbed it was, it was too busy feeling every single ridge and curve of Gojo’s cock. Trying to memorize the shape of him into all of your muscles. 

“Coming without me? How mean, sweets.” 

As he started throbbing inside you, and strings of cum started to leak, then it hit. He was coming inside you, like, inside you. “WAIT. SATORU. W-” 

Your protests were too late; his body flopped over on your back, and his cock curved inside you so far it started hitting your cervix. At that point you were paralyzed, eyes were rolled far too back inside your sockets, the sting from his teeth digging into your neck, and the sound of his groans and grunts were deafening. You were shaking, he was shaking, his hips could not stop themselves from thrusting even while his cock shot ropes and ropes of cum inside your walls. 

“Yes. Ye- scream Satoru. Scream my name. Let my neighbours know who's sluttin’ ya’ out.” 

“Sa-satoru.”

“Louder.” 

“S-ATORU.”

“LOUDER.” 

“SATORU!”

With that last scream you came again, gushed and tightened your walls around him one more time. Before passing out with tears rolling down your cheeks and your lower body essentially numb, and all you could utter was mumbles of ‘Satoru’, over and over again until you fully fell asleep.

If you were awake just a little longer to feel or see Satoru lick your tears clean off of your face, and shoving his dripping cum back in your cunt with his shaky fingers, you might have passed out again.

Whether or not you make it out of Gojo Satoru’s bed, or his head—those are questions for his sober self tomorrow. For now, all he knows is that he wants you in his arms, under his blankets, on his bed, maybe on some cleaner sheets;  just dreaming about nothing else but him.

After all, when all the lines are crossed and blurred, why pretend for the sake of civility?

TO FIND MORE OF MY WORKS CLICK HERE.

a/n: dividers by @/enchanthings-a

on my period so this is extra filthy. also sorry if the tension and bits of backstory was not good enough ＞︿＜and i did leave their relation after this ambiguous you are totally welcome in my inbox to discuss about this couple from hell.

tag list: @cheralith @madamechrissy @gojosperms @gojao @cuntphoric @nanamiskentos @cuntyji @cuntphoric @aishi-toru @fushitoru @rriwyu @exquisink @lover-lyn @buckysm @wwwritererm @indiewritesxoxo @soupicidesquad @shouiow @user25384959574 @dxmnsaera @kazupop @slayzzz @undercvrfan444 @miizuzu @getoistic @infinitatis-ink @theorphicangel @ricecake-mochi - (perm list) @chachawheeee11 @magnificientscarlett @samoankpoper21 @yenayaps @shhhhhhxoxo125 @saoirses-things @saylorslove @rain-soaked-sun

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

For King and Kin

22/12: Party and Position Changes - Aemond Targaryen Word Count: 1.6k~ | Warnings: mentions of pregnancy, smut, prince regent aemond, doggy

12 Days of Smuff Masterlist

“She is of a weak disposition, I heard. Perhaps she is with child.”

“The Prince Regent certainly needs an heir.”

“He has looked sour since his Lady Wife left the celebrations.”

Aemond scoffed from his spot at the high table, circling a finger over the rim of his cup, half-filled with wine. They spoke as if he did not hear them, whispering such gossip. It was infuriating.

It was true that his lady wife suffered from sickness, especially in the mornings, but not exclusively. The maesters had told him in quiet confidence that they suspected she was with child, but that it was sensible to wait until the quickening to confirm.

What an excruciating wait.

She had graced the court with her presence earlier in the evening, but when she began to feel her stomach churning, she need only pay him a furrow of her brows in pain and he was more than happy to allow her rest if she needed it.

He was willing to carry her even, excuse himself from the celebrations himself. But she reassured him she was still able to walk, with a small, amused smile.

Even with the conqueror's crown planted firmly upon his head, all he could think of was the sweet curve of his wife's body in his. How warm she is. How smooth her skin. How plush her thighs. How tight her—

“Your Grace.”

Aemond blinked, swallowing thickly as he felt his breeches tighten at the mere tangent his mind was about to embark upon. Nothing softened him faster than the sight of Ser Tyland Lannister though, smug and stood tall as if he himself had been crowned instead of him.

“I wish to congratulate you on your Regency. As always your council will remain steadfast and trustworthy. And should you ever desire a Hand—”

“Thank you, Ser Tyland,” Aemond half-smiled, half-grimaced, “your loyalty is appreciated.”

Aemond nodded curtly to Ser Tyland, signalling the conversation was over, though the Lannister lingered a moment too long for Aemond’s liking before finally bowing and stepping away. 

His good eye drifted across the festivities. Everyone was drunk at best, smiles too wide, laughter too hollow, and he was overcome with the sudden desire to leave it all behind. He glanced in his mother’s direction as he pushed his chair out, her brown eyes wide with curiosity and judgement perhaps. 

She had given him no other look since Rook’s Rest.

“I believe they’ve seen enough of me tonight,” Aemond said, his tone firm. “The realm will not crumble if its Regent retires an hour early.”

“Aemond–”

“Mother,” he interrupted, his voice low but final.

It was only in the hall where he felt he could finally breathe. Air flowed easily, no longer stifled by the pomp and proper of the evening he had just sought to leave. He opened the heavy door to their chambers and stepped inside. The fire had burned low and she was already in bed, lying on her side, her hair spilling over the pillow.

“You left early,” he said quietly, closing the door behind him.

Her eyes opened slowly, and a small smile curved her lips. “And yet you followed.”

As he reached the bed, she shifted to sit up, the blanket pooling around her waist. “I thought you’d stay longer. Your mother will have words, I’m sure.”

“She always does,” he replied, sitting on the edge of the bed. His hand reached out to brush a strand of hair from her face. “Are you feeling unwell?”

Her gaze dropped for a moment, her fingers grazing her stomach in that way that had haunted him all evening. “No,” she said softly. “Just…tired.”

He hummed, “when will the maesters give their opinion?”

She looked up at him then, her expression caught somewhere between apprehension and hope. “They said it would be unwise to speculate for a few more weeks,” she replied. “But I am aware patience is not your strong suit, is it?”

He smirked faintly. “It is not.”

“You’ve waited for so much, Aemond,” she said softly, her voice warm and soothing, eyes glancing up at the conqueror’s crown sat atop his head. “A little longer won’t harm you.”

“Hm,” he murmurs, crawling over the bed towards her delicate form, pressing his face to her stomach with his hands on her hips, “spare me, dear wife. Have the maesters forbade coupling? I do not think I can wait.”

Her fingers threaded through his hair as she let out a soft laugh. “No,” she said, “but we must be careful. They warned against anything too…strenuous. Until we know for certain.”

“I am no beast,” he muffled against her shift, bunching it up as if desperate to touch her flesh, “I know restraint.”

“I seem to recall differently,” she countered with a teasing lilt.

With a hand to his chest, she pushes him back, enough to be able to straddle his lap as he sits with his back against the bed frame. For a moment his pupil widened slightly and she relished in the warm pride that spread through her at his reaction. 

She wasted no time. Unlacing his breeches was the simple part, but in this position, face to face, it was novel and intimate, more than usual. It was always Aemond on top, commanding her body to his. She wasn't sure how her husband was likely to cope with the change.

His breath hitched, eye closing as she pulled his cock free and worked him to full hardness, her slight palm massaging the ruddy tip, knowing what he liked. He was surely about to speak before she rose her hips, and the tip of him kissed her waiting slit, and slowly, slowly took her husband to the hilt.

Her movements were slow, deliberate, her hands braced against his chest as she guided them both into a steady rhythm. Aemond’s hands gripped her hips, his fingers pressing into her flesh as he resisted the urge to take control. He let her lead, his lips parting as a low groan escaped him.

“Ābrazȳrys” his voice caught, his eye blazing as he gazed up at her. “You are perfection.”

She leaned forward, her fingers threading through his silver hair, and pressed her lips to his. The dark crown brushed her fingertips, and in her annoyed breath, she slipped it from his head onto the bed. An action only the wife of the Prince Regent in this intimate moment would ever get away with.

Their breaths mingled, their shared movements growing more heated, more desperate. It felt good to roll her hips against him, each slide home was easy, aided by her unending desire to please him. But soon, she began to slow, the strain in her thighs becoming too much.

Her brows furrowed, her rhythm faltering as she let out a shaky breath. “Aemond.”

He must have felt the shake, as he was already moving her off his lap, “enough. Allow me.”

He guided her off him carefully, laying her down on her side before helping her onto her hands and knees. She looked over her shoulder, her eyes wide, and for a moment, uncertainty flickered across her face.

Her cheeks burned as he pulled the shift over her backside, pulling her legs apart so he might see the wetness that glazed her womanhood. She felt exposed and utterly at his mercy in such a compromising position.

Not to mention, this was uncharted territory.

“We’ve never…” she began, her voice trailing off.

Aemond smirked, his fingers trailing down her spine. “No,” he murmured, his tone low, “but we will now.”

He positioned himself behind her, and watched with curiosity and admiration, as for from this angle, he was able to watch himself disappear inside, swallowed by her silky walls. She gasped in turn, this was deeper than she had ever felt him, with her spine curved and backside held against him. Her fingers clutched the sheets as his pace began slow enough, before his restraint began to ebb away.

“Alright?” he rasped, leaning forward to press kisses along her shoulder, his voice rough with both pleasure and concern.

Her hips instinctively pushed back, “don't stop…”

Her approval shocked him, but ignited his confidence all the same as he began to push into her with renewed vigour. She was surprised at how much she liked it, the way he fit against her, the way his hands held her so firmly. It felt raw, intimate, and utterly consuming.

His hands slid up to her waist as he felt her peak quiver through her body, her walls spasming around him and in the force of it, her arms gave out and she pressed her front to the sheets. She swore she felt the palm of his hand on her lower stomach, stroking lovingly as he reached his, pushing hot, pearly ropes of his release so much inside her, that she felt it dribble down her thigh.

Aemond helped her shift onto her side, gathering her into his arms as they both caught their breath. His hand instinctively returned to her stomach, his thumb brushing over the soft skin in slow, soothing circles.

“You will let me know once the maesters give their opinion, won’t you?”

“Of course,” she replied, leaning into him. “But tonight, you are Prince Regent. Let us celebrate that.”

Aemond shook his head, his lips curling into a rare, genuine smile. His gaze softened as he looked at her, his wife, who had managed to calm the storm in him more times than he cared to admit.

“Tonight, I am your husband. Nothing else matters.”

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[sena-seastar]

Heart to Heart

Aemond x Wife Reader

Summary: Aemond spends time with your child so that you can have a much-needed break.

A/N: I'm back with more, Dad!Aemond, because I adore him so much. Aemond deserves someone who will love him as deeply and unconditionally as he loves them, and his baby definitely would. (Also, any dialogue in italics means the characters are speaking in high valyrian. I was too lazy to attempt to translate it.) No beta, so I apologize for any grammar and spelling mistakes.

“Daenys, please calm down,” you plead as you try to pacify the wailing girl.

Though your words seem to fall on deaf ears, she continues to scream and flail in your arms. You want nothing more than to join in as tears well in your eyes. You were at your wit's end. Nothing seemed to placate your child. Not even the sweets you had tried to bribe her with. 

The nursemaids had changed her nappy several times. They’ve tried feeding, bathing, offering toys, and even taking her for a walk in the gardens. Yet none of it worked. They brought her to you as a last resort, hoping she might be missing her mother. Unfortunately, their hopes went unfounded.

Daenys continued to thrash in your arms, and you struggled to keep a grip on her. She was surprisingly strong for someone so small. 

“Shh, it’s alright,” you coo, bouncing the fussy girl in your arms. “Are you tired? Shall we take a nap?”

Your questions only incite her fury. Daenys lets out an ear-splitting screech. You groaned, eyes closing in frustration at the situation. 

“How about we give your mother a break, hmm?”

You look up, finding your husband now standing before you. He takes your little girl into his arms, and for the first time in forever, she settles down. She doesn’t squirm and try to get away from him, and her wails turn into low whimpers and quiet hiccups. You watch as he handles her with such ease. Aemond pats her back and talks to her in a soothing voice, gently bouncing her in his arms. Daenys rested her head on his shoulder, her tiny fists held tightly onto his coat.

“I’m terrible at this,” you huffed, shame blooming in your chest. 

“No, you’re not.” Aemond leaned down, pressing a gentle, reassuring kiss to your head. “I’ll take her for a bit. Get some rest.”

You nod, grateful for his help. He waves Daenys’ hand towards you as they leave. You wave back until the pair disappear from your view. You sigh in relief as your body slumps onto the Grecian couch beneath you. You debate whether to continue with your book or take a quick nap.

-

Aemond holds Daenys close to his chest as he maneuvers himself off his saddle. Ser Rickard Thorne stands to the side, wearing his freshly polished armor and pristine white cloak. Aemond nods at him, and the white knight quickly takes Aemond’s horse by the reins, leading the horse away.

The dragon lord looked down, watching Daenys as she toyed with the wooden dragon in her hands. He smiled. The familiar warm fuzzy feeling that filled his entire body every time he laid his eyes on her returned. It was hard to believe that something so beautiful and innocent could come from him. But here she was. The two of you had created something- someone so precious. 

A loud grumble sounded in the air. Aemond lifted his head, observing Vhagar. The giant dragon was hard to miss, even from a great distance.

The overgrown grass and twigs squish and cackle beneath his boots as he walked into the open field where the ancient she-dragon resided. Vhagar had outgrown the dragonpit years before he had even claimed her. Vhagar turned her giant head to the side, watching them as they approached. She shut her eyes again when she realized it was just him.

Daenys let out a delighted squeal when her eyes finally landed on the giant dragon. Aemond struggled to hold her as she excitedly kicked her legs and waved her arms. Aemound cursed under his breath as the wooden dragon toy fell to the ground. Oh well, he would retrieve it later.

“What is it, my little dragon?” He asked enthusiastically. “What do you see?”

 Daenys clapped her little hands and babbled, “Vava!”

“Vhagar? Do you see Vhagar?”

She looks up to him and nods her head. Her violet eyes lock onto his, and the two smile at each other. Aemond planted a kiss on the girl’s temple, gaining sweet, girlish giggles in response.

“Very good, my little dragon. It is Vhagar.”

Daenys begins to squirm in his arms and tries to push him away.

“What is it? Do you want down?”

Aemond looks down at the grass, checking for any potential dangers. Your little girl grunts and continues to try to push him away.

Aemond huffs, “Alright, alright.”

His lips curve downward into a slight frown. The two of you had been very proud and excited when Daenys started walking. However, Aemond was a little saddened by the fact that his sweet little girl didn’t want to be in his arms all the time anymore.

His mother had told him that it’s normal for them to want to be more independent when they start walking. The man understood that, but he still did not like it one bit.

Aemond carefully lowers the little girl to her feet. Her chubby little fingers hold onto his hands as she tries to stabilize herself. When she finally stops wobbling, she lets go. Aemond’s heart races in his chest as he watches her take a small, shaky step forward. His hands immediately reach out to grab her, but he stops himself.

Daenys takes another step; this time, she’s a bit more stable. She holds her arms out, trying to balance her weight as she trots forward. Aemond follows closely behind. With each step, he felt a twinge of panic in his chest. The man struggled not to swoop her into his arms every time she stumbled.

Thankfully, they made it to Vhagar rather quickly. Vhagar gave a small huff as Daenys small hands smacked against her snout. 

“Gentle,” Aemond warned sternly, well aware of his dragon's short temper. 

The man kneeled next to her. He took one of Daenys little hands into his own, showing her how to pet Vhagar’s snout carefully. Daenys let out another excited squeal that made Aemond wince. 

“Yes,” he nodded. “It’s very exciting, but we must be quiet.”

Daenys pulled her hand away from his, wanting to try it alone. Vhagar remained still, resting lazily on her chin. Aemond stood back up. He rested his large palm against her warm green scales with a joyous smile. She truly is a sight to behold.

Vhagar was the largest and fiercest dragon in the world. Nothing could stand against her. And yet she decided that he, of all people, was worthy of her. That he deserved the privilege to call himself her rider. No one could question or deny his worth now.

“Vava, pay?”

Aemond looked down, watching as his little girl tried to get the dragon’s attention. Her silver curls fell onto her face. The man reached down, pushing the strands of hair behind her ears. He felt a bit sorry for her. Vhagar was nowhere near as active as Daenys' little hatchling, who resided in the dragon pit. She did not flap her wings or let out any shrieks of excitement like Daenys’ hatchling did when they saw each other.

Daenys tugged on his coat. She turned her head up to look at him. Her brows were drawn together, and her bottom lip protruded further than her top lip. The look on her face tugged at his heartstrings.

“Play? No, Vhagar does not want to play.”

Your little girl does not seem to accept his answer. She turns her attention back to the dragon, gently petting her scales a few more times. Daenys tries calling out to her again, but Vhagar still gives no response. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea. Aemond initially planned to take her to the dragon pit, but he decided against it. Mostly because he wanted to come out and visit Vhagar. He could seldom go a day without coming to see his winged companion. 

Suddenly, a loud grumble echoed in Vhagar’s throat. The dragon, finally having enough of the child’s affection, raised her head. Daenys, who was balancing herself on Vhagar’s head, fell back, landing on her bottom with a loud oomph.

“Lykirī, Vhagar. Lykirī,” Aemond commanded as he swiftly took Daenys into his arms.

Vhagar did not move, nor did she make a sound. The ancient dragon merely eyed the two of them. When Aemond felt confident enough that she would not act, he turned his attention to Daenys.

The look on her face is heart-wrenching. Her wide eyes filled with tears, and her trembling lips stretched into a deep frown. Her breath hitched as she tried not to cry. It makes Aemond feel like he wants to cry as well. He pressed a kiss to the child’s temple.

“Don’t cry, my little love. You’ll be alright.” He tried to reassure her.

She blinks, and tears fall from her violet eyes. Sad, quiet whimpers escape from her lips. Tears started to well up in Aemond’s eye, his breath quivered, and a lump formed in his throat. He was never one to cry. It made him feel weak and small, something he despised more than anything. 

But when his little girl was upset like this, he wanted to cry. Sometimes, he still wanted to cry even when she wasn’t upset. There were many times when he would just watch her while she played or slept, and then suddenly, he would be hit with a massive wave of emotions. Aemond wondered if Viserys had ever felt that way when he looked at him or any of his siblings.

Vhagar let out a loud huff. A wave of hot air engulfs Aemond and Daenys. Aemond looks up, observing Vhagar carefully. The green dragon lowers her head, gently nudging her snout against the crying girl. Aemond raises his hand to wipe away Daenys’ tears.

“Look, she’s sorry for making you sad.”

Daenys sniffled and turned to look at Vhagar. The corners of her mouth turned upwards. She giggled as she rested her forehead against Vhagar’s snout. Her little arms did their best to hug the dragon’s giant head. 

Aemond chuckled lightly, raising his hand to give Vhagar a few rewarding pats. His chest was bursting with pride as he watched his favorite girls interact. The only one who was missing was you.

[desireangel]

Bad Things | Aemond Targaryen

Summary: Aemond is plagued with doubts and seeks refuge in the one place where he is at peace with himself; between his beloved wife's legs.

Pairing: Aemond x fem!reader

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: MDNI, 18+ only!! this is so in Aemond's thoughts, self doubt, lack of remorse, smut, oral (f receiving), talk of sex, slight breeding kink, Aemond is lost in his head and obsessed with eating his wife out, Aemond may be prince regent of Westeros but he is king of eating pussy, unedited, hmm kinda just porn really - let me know to add anything if need be!

Author's Note: Came home drunk (typos??? potentially. unnecessary droning on??? potentially.) after a couple cocktails and had the urge to erm write. About oral sex specifically, of course. Anywayssss, enjoy (I hope!) - xoxo kisses!!! <3

Masterlist!

Sometimes Aemond let his mind wander to all that could have been and all that could come to be had he only made his decisions differently. He seldom felt regret - never felt as if he would change the things that have led him towards the path of greatness he was on. But what ifs and the memory of failures are as stubborn as a newborn plague and Aemond was just as vulnerable to illness as those whom he revered and those whom he detested. 

It was warm under the light of the setting sun, a kiss on his skin as Aemond rested against the balcony at the window and watched over what he longed to have for himself. If things had been different, at any time and any place, where would he be now?

The thought of living his life without his injury had come to sicken him but it lingered at the back of his mind. Had certain moments taken a different turn, would he still feel the need to drive people to respect him through fear and prove himself worthy at every chance he could find? Aemond swallowed at the thought. And he stood there, looking to the skies as if the clouds could free him from the suffocation of the feelings that had haunted him since the night he lost his eye. 

Feelings of failure, feelings of defeat, feelings of fear and feelings of humiliation. 

Even after meeting you, and understanding that loving you meant different things - things he wasn’t familiar with, things he wasn’t sure he was capable of becoming familiar with - the lingering thought of what if was all consuming.

Aemond could hear you coming seconds before you were beside him. He was thankful you stood by his side, silently and wordlessly as your eyes dragged across his face, analysing what you could of his thoughts from his perfected emotionless expression. Quiet moments like this, where Aemond got lost in his mind grew fewer at each move he made within this war.

But here you both were, silently in each other’s company. Aemond was a passionate lover. But he was also at times a cold and imperfect partner. And some of those times where he retreated into himself, although he had rarely lost control of himself in front of you, left him vexed at your presence.  

Because to Aemond, you were perfect. Frustrating at times but that was often the fault of his own lack of patience and tolerance. You were, at the end of the day, too perfect. He saw your compassion, your empathy, your kindness. And he saw your strength, your wit, your fearsome loyalty.

And here Aemond was, unable to even regret many of the times he acted without any of those perfect things. After the fate that Lucerys had met, Aemond found he could not find it in himself to feel remorse for much else. 

You let your fingers graze along the leather sleeve on his arm, your light touch burning into his skin through the fabric. He closed his eye and kept it closed for minutes of silence that felt like hours before he spoke lowly.

“I have done bad things.”

You sucked in a breath. “Would you be here today if you had not done those things?”

“No, you do not understand me. I cannot bring myself to care for some of the vile things that I have done. That I have caused. I should care, should I not?” 

Releasing a long sigh, you shifted on your feet. Aemond knew that you were different to him. You didn’t agree with many of his actions and decisions but you knew there was nothing you could do except to be there when he needed you. It had taken time to realise you couldn’t change the way he thought, the way he felt, the way he reacted to things - you weren’t sure if you truly, deeply wanted to take on that burden. 

As Aemond grew more honest with you, you had come to realise that when it came down to it he was not a completely good man. But he was good to you and while Aemond saw your strength, you knew you were weak when it came to him. Loyalty and love for your husband burned painfully in your chest no matter his imperfections and you never bothered to try to justify it. 

“Perhaps if I had acted differently, somewhere,” Aemond’s words were rushed, a switch from his normally slow drawl. He would curse himself tomorrow for his moment of weakness but he couldn’t ignore the pit in his stomach. “Then I would not be the way that I am now.”

You stared at him for a moment. His expression was of ice and had you not known him the way that you do, then you would never have noticed the confliction in his eyes. “There is no use-”

“I know there is no use in thinking about what may have been, I know,” Aemond spat. 

“Alright,” you paused. “But you will never know what could have changed. You made your decisions, you were the author of your own fate, Aemond. ‘Tis the way things go - we must face it. What difference would it make if things could have been different? You cannot undo what you have already done.”

Aemond’s jaw ticked and he moved so that his arm hung at your waist. You briefly glanced back inside at the servant who prepared your nightly cup of tea at your bedside. Aemond seldom made a show of your relationship when you weren’t entirely alone. Nevertheless, you didn’t let your mind linger on that fact. 

He gazed down at you, his ocean-strong eye never failing to make your breath hitch and goosebumps to rise on your skin. You were relieved that he seemed to agree with your words. Aemond’s shoulders had lost much of the tension they held and the start of the sweet smile that was shared only with you played on his lips. 

He had to try hard to believe what you had told him. Because here you were, no matter what he did and no matter his lack of conviction, at his side and wrapped around his finger. You were the calming breeze that cooled his heat, you were the shade that gave him relief from the scorching sun and you were the water that flushed the burn from his skin. Aemond was not one to be an emotional man but he knew that he had love for you and your endless, boundless support. And he dreamed of how he would share with you the world that will one day be at his feet. 

“I shall share your bed tonight, my love.” Aemond’s words were as they always have been; smooth with honey but laced with venomous promises. You bit back a smile as he pulled you inside, addicted to whatever venom dripped from his words, from his eye, from him.  “And that shall serve as all the reminder that I need to be sure I have not been so misguided that I have lost my way to no return.” 

When he pressed his nose into the crook of your neck, dragging it along your soft skin, he inhaled deeply. Aemond thought for a moment of how perfect it would be if he could bottle your scent and keep it with him forever. A reminder of the woman for whom he wished he could become a good, honest man. 

Your body felt so familiar to him that it made his mind turn quiet and Aemond could only think of having you closer, closer, closer. And it was never close enough, no matter how hard he squeezed at the flesh of your hips to pull you in, no matter how your breath tickled his skin and  how your eyelashes fluttered against his hair as he dragged his lips over your shoulder and along the side of your neck. 

If there were no roof atop your heads, you would have thought that it rained flames onto the both of you and to relieve the burn of it, you melted into Aemond, pressing yourself further into him and squirming for more as he grabbed at your nightclothes to toss them to the floor. 

You tugged hopelessly at the buckles on his tunic, whining. “Get it off, Aemond.”

Aemond didn’t need to be told a second time because hardly a moment later he was as naked as you were, pushing you until the back of your legs hit the edge of your bed and you fell onto it gently. A strained groan fell from his lips as he let you pull him down with you, holding his face in your hands as he held himself above you with an arm beside your head. You gently removed the leather that covered his glimmering sapphire, sighing contently. 

Admiring Aemond as he was, bare and honest and beautiful had become your favourite way to see him. Without the need to hide any part of himself from you. 

Smirking, he let his lips graze yours softly. It was a stark contrast to the way Aemond’s other hand was roughly grabbing at whatever flesh he could hold, squeezing you and sending shockwaves straight through to your core. 

You could barely get the words out of you. “Kiss me–Gods, kiss me.”

And he did kiss you, his lips desperately clashing against yours with a new kind of vigour. Aemond rarely kissed you with such force, such rage and such raw, unfettered need. But as his teeth knocked against yours, catching your lip in between and drawing blood, he entertained the thought that maybe he did regret something. All of the kisses he never had the chance to give you. 

The air between you was charged with something sharp and electric, a primal energy that clouded your head and had you gasping Aemond’s name at the way he brushed his knuckle against your core. Normally, he would have taken his time with you. But despite the fact that you had the entire night ahead of you, Aemond was rushed and impatient. 

“Always so ready for me,” he murmured, taking in a sharp breath as his fingers rubbed through your slick folds, pulling a soft whine from you. Aemond’s cock twitched at the perfect sound and he ground his hips against the plush of your thigh. He dragged the pads of his fingers teasingly up from the slit of your hole to the hood of your clit, drawing teasing circles so softly you could have been convinced his touch was a figment of your fantasies. 

“Aemond, please-”

He shushed you softly. “Patience, my sweet.”

Aemonds lips, wet on your jaw, travelled down the expanse of your neck and over your collarbones. He nibbled at you, amused at the way you arched and squirmed, replacing his fingers with his cock and sliding it against your clit. When his lips met your nipple he sucked harshly with a flick of his tongue, giving your right breast hardly enough attention before turning to the other. 

It sent shivers down your spine and you were sure Aemond felt you shudder against him when his lips travelled lower, leaving a wet trail down your skin until he was finally just below your naval. Aemond turned his head, his teeth pinching the flesh of your thigh harshly, just above where your thigh curved into your pelvis. You squealed. 

“Hm,” He chuckled darkly, smiling up at you and shaking his head with a deep tsk when your legs instinctively moved to shut. His hands groped at your thighs and pushed them up so that you were folded yet entirely spread in front of him. “I will fuck you with my tongue first. And my fingers. Then I will fuck you with my cock and fill you with my seed, only after I have made you quiver and shake from the pleasure of my mouth on your perfect cunt.”

Aemond’s eye dropped to your sopping cunt and his words coiled in his throat, coming out as a muffled moan. You gasped as he lewdly spat, his head falling downwards in an instant, wave after wave of pleasure stealing the oxygen from your lungs as he sucked on your pussy, tongue weaving across your clit and back down. 

All of the loud doubts that plagued his mind turned into whispers of incoherence the moment his mouth met the velvety skin of your womanhood, Aemond’s favourite place to lose himself when his thoughts became unbearable. The tangy, sweet taste of your arousal pulled a deep growl from his chest and when your hips jerked against his face, he wrapped a strong arm over your hips to hold you in place. 

As Aemond’s tongue dipped into you, his lips latched on the expanse of your cunt, you let out a cry, your hand falling to his hair and pulling hard. Your body was hot with desire, thighs squeezing your husband’s head as he greedily feasted on the most intimate parts of you. He pulled away for one quick second to catch his breath before burying himself in you once again, the obscene smacking sounds of how he relentlessly sucked and lapped at your slit. 

For such vulgar noises, they had become increasingly beautiful. 

“I dream of staying here forever,” Aemond’s words were muffled, difficult to hear over your own whimpers and the movement of his lips on your folds had you bucking to follow his mouth. He hid his grin in your wetness. “I can do no wrong with the taste of you on my tongue.”

The pleasure that Aemond always submerged you was almost becoming overwhelming and you lost the ability to form sentences, muttering and mumbling in response. He could decipher his name, falling for your flushed lips so many times, and his eye flickered up to watch how your body climbed to the highest point of satisfaction where such a sinful act became heavenly. 

You were always beautiful, Aemond thought. But you were at your most beautiful when you came undone for him, lost in the throes of bliss and grasping at him as if you could not live for another second without his touch. He carried you through your orgasm, unrelenting as he greedily devoured every part of your pussy, looking up at you with his darkened eye and shining sapphire, strands of his hair that had come loose sticking to the wetness on his jaw. Aemond relished in the strangled, melodic sounds that you made for him. 

When you jerked away from him with a squeal, so sensitive when the tip of his tongue flicked against your clit that your hips bucked suddenly, Aemond pulled away while chuckling and placing featherlight kisses along your shaking thighs. He watched how your cunt continued to clench around nothing as you came down from your orgasm, the messy mixture of his spit and your arousal glistening under the light from the lamps. 

You let yourself relax into the bedsheets and moved to close your legs, tugging Aemond to meet you for a kiss and giggling when he stopped to quickly wipe your slick from his face. But before your knees could come together, he caught them, settling himself in between and you could feel the steady heat from his hardened cock grazing across the outside of your slit. 

“I think my pretty wife believes she is going to have a restful night,” Aemond teased against your lips, sliding a hand down between your bodies and spreading your folds once again to make way for his fingers. You shuddered against him with a mewl. “You are mistaken, my love, if you believe I will not have you full of my seed by the time I am done making love to you. I am a man of my word, am I not?”

[beatlebvm]

wet dream

summary: after a long night of intense activities, aegon targaryen falls asleep in the arms of his sweet and pretty niece visenya not knowing that in the morning there will be a surprise waiting for him.

pairing: aegon II targaryen x visenya targaryen (rhaenyra's daughter)

word count: ~1.6k

warnings: not proofread, 18+ mdni, language, smut, just filth and little fluff if you squint at the end, oral sex (m receiving), it's con — basically waking him up with head :P. ugly ending :/. ENGLISH ISN'T MY FIRST LANGUAGE!!!

author's note: this might be the last and only thing i'll ever publish in my life since i still have traumas from my wattpad era of 10 years ago lmao. i feel super insecure about this, it sounded nicer in my head but i hope you like it too!

maybe it was a dream.

such a beautiful dream — as the ones you don't want to wake up from, the ones you want to live through until the last second, the last bit. and it was so good.

too good to be true. visenya's mouth was so warm and welcoming, soft and wet just as aegon liked, and her lips moved eagerly and confidently, playing and sucking him off with the only ways she knew. aegon sighed, his hips shifted and he could already feel himself harden in his state of semi-unconsciousness, between wakefulness and a deep slumber.

her sultry gaze was fixed on him, a mischievous smirk lingered on her pretty lips and aegon just wanted to tear it away with an harsh thrust of his hips, wanted to feel her gag around his cock. but visenya just chuckled at his weak attempt to. gods, why was she so warm? why did it feel so real?

aegon shifted again, the dream was starting to get uncomfortable, his cock was rock hard and borderline painful and he couldn't bear it for any longer. plus, a strange stickiness between his legs seemed to grow and the targaryen was pretty sure that he might've spilled on his bed sheets with just that dream. a fucking dream. how embarrassing if someone found out that he wetted his bed at the modest age of twenty?

he shifted again and again, until the maddening image of visenya sucking his cock vanished in a blurry corner of aegon's mind, much to his displeasure. he could've stayed like that forever. but the discomfort and the wetness didn't leave, his cock still hard.

and the sounds too.

wet sound after wet sound, a few soft sighs and aegon was pretty sure that it wasn't just a dream anymore, and when finally sleepiness was slipping away and he was finally back into the real world, his eyes opened — visenya was there.

laying on his bed, her body still bare in all of its glory and naked from the night before when they indulged in their pleasurable and greedy company, her head dipped on to his lap. but she wasn't supposed to be there. not at that time — weak sunlight penetrated the windows of aegon's chambers, shades of orange and yellow sealed the dawn just creeping over king's landing and also aegon's full attention on the girl in front of him.

it wasn't just a dream. a wet dream. visenya was there, her lips really moving on him and the smirk on her face widened as she realized that her uncle finally awakened up. “good morning.”

good fucking morning indeed.

aegon blinked a few times, rubbed his eyes until his vision was clear just to make sure that his sweet niece was really there, and a rush of pleasure crossed through his body when visenya’s tongue teased and pressed on the slit of his dick. she shouldn’t have been there — by dawn visenya should’ve sneaked out of his chambers and gone back to her own to avoid unpleasant encounters within the halls of the red keep, unpleasant questions about her strange presence at such late hours in those corridors, or why the daughter of rhaenyra targaryen was just coming out of prince aegon’s chambers.

“w-what the fuck are you doing here?”, aegon asked, his voice low and raspy from a deep sleep which sent a shiver down visenya’s spine. but despite his harsh words, aegon wasn’t displeased by visenya’s presence, at all.

he wanted so bad to fuck that pretty face, thrust his hips up her mouth and claim her throat just like they both needed to, but aegon’s body was still heavy and stiff from his slumber — his hand found visenya’s silver hair and gripped them in a weak fist, guiding and following the motions of her head down his cock but not forcing her, jut telling her silently to not stop and continue with the superb and lovely job she was doing.

“isn’t that obvious?”, visenya teased, her voice hoarse too but holding that suggestive tone that always characterized her everytime she was in aegon’s company. her hand stroked him gently, not wanting to overwhelm him and leave him without attention as she spoke at the same time.

aegon whined, his fingers tightened around visenya’s wavy strands as he watched her mouth engulf him once again and swallowing him whole in her warmth. fuck, she was so good, too good to him. he was an asshole, and sometimes he felt he was just using her, taking advantage of her need for him — it was so wrong, sharing the bed and getting his cock wet from who aegon considered a bastard hs entire life, even if her hair were silver and her eyes of pale purple, her other features didn’t lie. but he couldn’t stop, he couldn’t pull away, even if visenya was rhaenyra’s daughter. “you shouldn’t be here.”

visenya cocked an eyebrow up, the idea of leaving didn’t even cross her mind when aegon’s protest sounded and came out of his lips more lighthearted than he wanted. he didn’t want for her to stop, she could read well the signs of his body well, no matter how weak they were: the slightest twitch of his hips, the way his hand seemed to push her head down more and more. “do you want me to stop?”

aegon didn’t reply in that moment, a moment of silence followed and only interrupted by the soft sighs and grunts leaving his lips and visenya’s mouth wet sounds. his body reacted once again, his hips weakly buckled up searching for more pleasure — which visenya didn’t give to him, and aegon couldn’t simply take it anymore. he needed her, needed that release. “n-no, fuck—”.

and his sweet niece didn’t need any more words, resuming her motions and giving aegon the good morning she planned to gift him and he was glad to take everything, feeling any resistance leave his body the moment pleasure settled in completely. not that there was some actual resistance. the farce was pathetic as much as aegon’s pretense that it was just sex between him and visenya, that there was no actual feeling growing for his favorite and only niece.

the obscene sounds of visenya’s mouth only grew louder as she doubled her efforts, her cheeks hollowed around him and the sight alone was almost enough to make aegon come on the spot — he couldn’t wait to fill that mouth with his seed, claim it and see her swallow his cum like the greedy and good girl visenya was. he shutted his eyes, and his mind was soon filled with memories of previous night, when visenya rode his cock like her life depended on it and with her pretty tits bouncing everytime their hips met, her moans echoing in the four walls of his chambers.

fuck, it couldn’t be already it… and yet visenya noticed aegon’s body tensing up, his balls tightening up under her warm palm, and she knew that in a matter of seconds and a few other gags around his cock ropes of his cum would paint her throat. and she couldn’t be more ready for it, more eager to taste him and not waste a single drop. “vis, i—”.

and just like visenya predicted, it took aegon a few moments to completely shudder and let the bliss overflow his body and mind, coming and spilling into her welcoming mouth with a single and beautiful moan that made visenya quiver too. aegon seemed to lighten, he buckled his hips up a few times, the tip of his dick kissed the back of visenya’s throat and spurts of his warm cum marked her as his, and he made sure that no drop went to waste. aegon could’ve died right in that moment and he would’ve been the happiest man in the whole world — no better awakening than that one could’ve existed and aegon couldn’t have felt better than in that moment. he was so fucking lucky to have her, he couldn’t believe it.

sadly, to aegon’s displeasure and reluctance the peak didn’t last as much as he desired and the effects of it inevitably subsided but he couldn’t help but groan again as he felt visenya’s thighs straddle his hips and her settle on top of him once again. just like last night. with a satisfied sigh and a greedy lick of her lips, visenya hid her face in the crook of his neck and wrapped her arms around his torso, leaving a few sloppy and lazy kisses on the pale skin of his throat. aegon sighed too, his arms doing the same with her and let himself enjoy the warmth that her sweet embrace brought. he could’ve done that every morning and never got tired of it — fuck anybody’s suspiciousness.

a weary smile creeped on aegon’s lips as he nuzzled his nose against her soft hair, his heart swelling with content as he heard visenya chuckle lightly at his gentle tickle. his fingers caressed her kindly, with a sweetness that rarely characterized aegon and that he never showed in public, but for a reason or another, it felt right to act around visenya like that, almost unconsciously even. he brought his lips to her hair, tilting her head to kiss her forehead, eyelids, nose, cheeks and eventually her lips with chaste but sweet pecks. aegon could briefly taste himself on her soft lips and it almost spurred him on and made his cock to stiffen but he held back, wanting to savour the moment with visenya.

“good morning indeed.”

[aemondwhoresworld]

HOTD2 spoilers | nudity | MINOR DO NOT INTERACT!

Aemond Targaryen in House Of The Dragon S2E3

[hyukascampfire]

𝓐T 𝓢WA𝓝 𝓛AKE ﹐､﹒ c.bg ˏˋ੭ꠥ ¸ˎ

as both equals and opposites, white swan and black swan, it is paramount that you and choi beomgyu do not touch. the curse of your natures did not even make exception for incidental brushes. that was never an issue for you—not until the day the prince took it upon himself to break every rule you’d ever known. ⋆˛ ˛

⸺ listen to the playlist .ᐟ ‧˚

⸉⋆ ᧔ 🦢᧓ ･ 10.3k

𝒫airings ˒ black swan prince!beomgyu 𝓍 white swan princess!reader

𝒢 ‎⍪ smut ˒ fantasy ˒ forbidden romance

𝒲arnings ˒ smut, angst and longing, unprotected sex, lots of teasing, jealousy…, yearning and yearning, he cums on her, theyre both desperate, pathetically in love!beomgyu, shes all he wants, virgin!reader, loss of innocence, he talks her through it, he gets a little whiny… hmm i can’t remember if i’m missing anything. this is not proofread!! i’m gonna nap first.

✎୭ ashlynn's note @hmusunoo … baby you did your big one with this. i can not explain to you how excited i’ve been for this one. this is absolutely my favorite. it’s just so me, u know me so well and i think we should kiss. THANK U!

﹙⋞ ﹚... back to the 𝓂asterlist

Around you, mist and delicate flurries sit over white, fluffy blankets. Where it sits over the lake, it turns the horizon of the lake’s expanse into an obscured uncertainty. If you hadn’t spent so much time right here, you might think that it goes on forever. 

It’s a beautiful, clear winter’s morning. Sparkling air wraps you in sweet and crisp tendrils, every breath to your lungs almost bitingly fresh. But in all its lightness, your chest only feels heavier. You had hoped that coming here would be a little, momentary respite. The air is so free around you, though, the weight doesn’t float away with it—it just leaves nothing but the feeling for you to contend with. No skittish wildlife rustle the foliage, and a thin film holds the crystalline lake from lapping at the bank. It seems that not even the wind moves. Just you.  

It’s not your tears that you hide here. Sadness is a soft, gentle thing; an acceptable thing for a Lady like yourself to indulge in. It’s what the people expect of their princess. The demure and always prim White Swan. Always correct, always just how you should be. 

Your tears are more like scalding, molten licks of fire than the slow, darling tears that are expected of you, though. They’re angry. It clashes up against the walls you’ve built up within yourself, against the role you’ve assumed. 

That’s why you’ve come here. Coarser emotions are unbecoming of you, and it’d be a shame to feel them in front of others. It’s a shame that you’re letting yourself feel it now, even. You summon a thin sigh, funneling up all the tangy bitterness on your tongue to let it fall out into the air before you. 

It doesn’t do much for you, really. This—feeling like this, so beyond the reach of your usual ways to shove down ugliness—is unfamiliar. Your entire life has been this, why do you struggle with it now? In the center of you, mingling with that anger, it’s as though a blackness blooms. Like a wretched flowering of some invasive plume, or perhaps the floating of inky black feathers through your bloodstream, you feel painted dark and unpleasant. 

Holding the dappled fur of your shawl closer, you decide to watch chunks of crystal white ice float on the water’s surface. Or maybe the on-and-off snowflakes that float down around you. Even tracing the lengths of barren branches, lined with white fluff so still and serene, with your eyes. Anything but delving into what that tainted tug inside is, or what it might mean about you.  

Snow crunches, or maybe a branch shifting, beckons your attention. But the foliage isn’t too thick, and trees are sparse around the lake, and there is always some small winged creature fluttering between branches out here. So, you brush it off. 

A tingling about your person, some sort of whispering premonition, whisps and tugs just around your form. You straighten up at another thick step crunching in the snow from behind you. This time, you can’t explain it away.  

A figure greets you. Dark, raven strands of silken hair fallen over eyes of the same, his skin so stark against it, black shoulder cloak on his shoulder flowing like velvet water against his billowing sleeves all ruffled and enamoring. He glitters like the frost, twinkling silver threads and black crystals sewn in to catch the light and make a show of him. Standing there, looking at you, he doesn’t look caught or frozen. 

But you are. Wholly still, all of you like a sculpture of frost, you gawk right at him. You’d never interacted with the prince, the black swan. Never even seen him. It was never in the cards. Fear like ice curls clawed fingers over your heart and grasps it.  

All your life, grand warnings of terrible things of him and what might happen should the two of you ever touch fell from the mouths of those around you. It was the constitution of who the two of you are—born to be the balance to each other, never to touch. Just an incidental brushing of fingers meant turning the world’s balance over on its head. They told you that the world would begin to fray at the seams, reality would warp, and that it’d be all your fault. And they also told you plenty about who the prince was as a person, too. Not only do you fear him for the curse of your nature, but also for all the nasty things you’ve heard of him. This, meeting him, was a thing of your deepest-cutting nightmares. 

And, there, he stands in front of you. 

“What are you doing out here crying?” Beomgyu says, curious eyes darting over your face. Under his gaze, you’re not sure how to feel. But you feel every last bit of it, regardless. 

You wipe at your cheek, where he must’ve seen the wet streaks glistening in the light. Summoning some poise up from where you keep it in handy, you say, “It’s no matter. I was just looking out on the snow.” You fix up your hair and your dress.  

The prince frowns, studying your face once again. Utterly unconvinced by what he finds there, he gestures toward you. “You’ve been crying, princess,” he says. “I didn’t think that lying was in the cards for you.” 

Lying? Not in the cards for you? Lying is all you do. You lie to yourself and to others more than you are honest. “Maybe, but I’m well,” you say, and then you lift the soft skirts of your dress to step without treading it in the snow. “Really, I ought to get home before the snowfall gets heavier. It was lovely seeing you.” You try and make sure to keep a good and proper distance from him as you make for where you arrived here from. 

Beomgyu reaches out for you, only pulling back from grabbing your arm at a frighteningly slim realization. “Wait,” he says, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he realizes what he’d almost just done. “You don’t have to leave. Why is it that you cry?” 

He’d almost touched you. That close—you’d come that close to tragedy in only the first moments of your meeting. Your heart pumps out sizzling, frantic energy that has you looking at him wide-eyed and shaken. “I think you and I both are the most aware why it’s best that I leave,” you tell him, keeping it curt. You hold your arms to you.  

Strong brows knitting, he shakes his head and takes some big steps back. The snow, sat powdery and calf-high on the ground, creaks beneath them. “I’ll stay back here,” he says. “Just don’t go. Won’t you entertain me? It’s a gentleman’s duty to help a weeping Lady.” 

You falter. The words might have you blushing and offering him a modest thank you, but the way he says it—it’s rather taunting. It’s taunting in a way that gets right up under your skin and ruffles your feathers. “And why does it bother you so?” you ask him, arching a dainty brow. You’re not even sure why he’s come out here in the first place. This is the one place that you ordain your own. It seems that not even here can you be totally alone. “They’ll have a fit if they know I was here with you.” 

The prince, with his clear, ethereal features cracking into a wicked amusement that you’re not sure how to digest, says, “Perhaps they will.” He tilts his head at you, wispy strands of hair moving over his shadowed eyes with it. “But, princess, that’s the fun in it. That they will admonish you for it. Is that why you’re crying?” 

Fun? Nothing about what your people, your parents, might do should they find that you’d not only been near but spoken to the black swan, is fun. You level him wary eyes. And, though sense tugs at your feet and asks you to get going, you do not. You do not know why. 

“I think it is.” He’s got an obnoxious tilt to his lips. “I think that’s why you cry.” 

A scoff, an abrasive and distasteful sound coming from you, falls out from your mouth. There’s that awful imprudence and temerity that you’ve heard of the black swan—everything you ought not to be. “You seem the type to know everything,” you say. 

He laughs, delighted. “Is that snark?” 

Pursing your lips as though confused, you spin spiced threads of patronization into your voice. “Not snark,” you say. “Just an observation.” 

 “Hmm.” Beomgyu slides his hands into his pockets to warm his hands. “Might I make an observation about you, princess?” 

There’s interest written all over his face—you know he’s playing some sort of game. You also know that you shouldn’t indulge him in it. Still, you do. A slight raising of your brow, or maybe the interest twinkling in your eyes, too, tells him to go on. 

“I think that you are too dutiful for your own good,” he says.  

In a slight, testy step, he inches closer. Not so close that you worry, but the two of you are not even supposed to be in the same room. Anything is too close. You mirror it with a step back. “You don’t know me,” you say. Against your better judgement, though, your lips twitch into a soft smile. The kind of smile that is insistent, no matter how you refuse it. “So, I believe your wonderings to be entirely groundless.” 

Hair blowing gently in the wisps of a winter wind and his nose and cheeks gone pink, he says, “Oh, princess. Hardly. I think we know a great deal about each other.” 

Well, that’s true enough. All your life you heard of him and your curse. You’re sure it was no different for him, no matter your differences. “And what do you know about me?” you ask.  

Beomgyu’s laugh falls out in a white puff of curling frost. “I know it’s been arranged that you’ll marry a superior Lord,” he says. He observes you. “Am I right?” 

So fast, just with that, lightness falls from your face. You hadn’t wanted to be reminded. Your feet itch to be off, so that you can feel it elsewhere. Not here; not in front of him. Leveling yourself so that your voice doesn’t come out as stilted as you feel, you say, “Yeah. You are.” 

With his eyes narrowing on you, he says, “You know, it’s weird. I’ve never seen a girl excited to be wedded look like that when it’s brought up.” 

You reign in your face and shake your head. “I am perfectly excited. It’s a blessing to be married into such a family.” As much as you smooth over the furrowing of your brows, or make your expression pleasant, it’s not so easy to tame the picking of your fingers. 

Anything other than excited, you might be. But absolutely not that. In fact, you are beyond yourself with anger, and you have nowhere to go with it. It bubbles hot just under your skin and demands a release that you cannot give. 

Being who you are, it’s been a truth you’ve known your whole life. Someday, you were going to be offered like a shiny, silver pawn to the highest bidder. And you, as the world’s white swan, are quite the enticing thing to own. You thought you’d banished the hope for a union of love right where you’d left the sense of self behind: years ago. The time’s come now, but you aren’t as at peace with it as you should be. No matter how hard you try, you are more human than you’d like to be, and far too human to be what the world expects you to be. 

If you’re going to be frank with yourself: you do not want to marry him. Living as something bought, expected to live forever as this mellowed out, poised version of yourself by the side of some man who you don’t even know or love... Of any fate you might be made to live, you think that this one is the worst. 

Beomgyu begins working on taking off his jacket, a white and pretty thing with thick, winter fabric. He offers it to you. “You don’t have to lie to me about it. Maybe them, but not me.” 

You look between him and his offering hand—his perfect features that are so elegant, and yet, there’s a wildness to him in those hard black eyes. If you didn’t already know so much about him, you might still be able to see the untamed in him. Who couldn’t? He wears it plainly; without remorse. You’re not sure how to interact with it, but, in a way, you envy him. 

Reaching out, you accept the jacket from his hand. Tentatively, with great care so as to avoid touch, but you do.  

It’s nice and soft against your frost-kissed shoulders. But it’s not enough to fix the bite against the skin on your face, so you trudge through the snow over to the sparse tree line, where the trunks might protect you better from it than the flat expanse of the lake’s surface. You press your back to a tree, and he mirrors it on the tree opposite to you. Looking over the great lake, so very serene. It twinkles with an ice film like sugar crystals atop its surface. “I guess I’m just... scared,” you say. The words come out soft and uncertain. 

He nods. Listening. So, you continue. “I don’t even know him. I haven’t spoken to my betrothed once. Maybe I’ll get to know him, and maybe he won’t be bad, but...” 

“But he’s not who you want,” Beomgyu says. “Not who you love.” 

Licking your winter-chapped lips, you eye him for a moment. You nod slowly and say, “...Yeah. I suppose it’s selfish, but...” 

Ignited, Beomgyu pushes off the tree to say, “Selfish? You give your whole life to being their saint. Maybe they think they do, but they don’t own you.” 

You, not us. Frowning, you ask him, “Are you not set for some marriage of convenience?” Marrying is different as a woman, but you don’t doubt that the prince’s family intends to strengthen alliances by offering his marriage up to some optimistic, lesser family with a daughter to bargain the way yours has done with you. Every last girl and boy born as you two have been—destined to a life bigger than yourself, a force in the world as much as you are a person—have lived just the same. All of them. Each incarnation of the white swan, and you’re sure every black swan too. The people of this world paint you as embodiments of balance and life, but use you more like power plays. Even your own parents. You were born from your mother all the same as all your siblings, but as much as it aches to admit it, you are not their child. In the back of your throat, hurt and bare anger wells up thick. 

He half laughs, half scoffs. “They could try. It doesn’t matter to me. They’d have to kill me before I do their bidding. Is it our fault that we were born this?” he says. “I’m going to live my life how I want, no matter what.” 

You tuck your hands into your sides, where they warm between the jacket and your body heat. His words and how he looks at your lives, it’s everything you’re not. Sense of self and determination to live for more than just your predetermined role—while you’d surrendered it all, he lives thrashing and fighting against it. A product of your mirrored and opposite natures.  

“Why?” you say, teeth chattering a bit under the cold’s caress. “You have a girl in mind?” 

That sounds nice. Being so hopefully devoted to someone, and them to you, that you might war against destiny for it. The thought only nurses hurt somewhere deep in your chest, though. Not for you. Never for you. You could be the prettiest on this Earth, the kindest, the most disciplined, or the least even. Still, that would never be yours. You know that, so why does it taste so bitter?  

A quick look, something new, passes over him. In his eyes, you see it. He looks at you for a long minute, the morning so quiet that nothing but tranquility hangs in the air for a moment, and then finally says, “Yeah. Something like that.”  

Entirely intrigued, you ask, “Who? Is she a Lady?” 

Beomgyu nods his head, that strange look lingering. “Of sorts,” he answers, crossing his arms over his chest to lean back into the bark. “And your betrothed? Some well-off Lord?” 

A smile ghosts over your mouth. “Probably. I haven’t a clue who it is; but I’m sure he’s got enough coin to spare, if my parents settled on him.” 

The lines of his face gone playful, he says, “Not possibly more well-off than me.” 

Your nose crinkles. “What’s that supposed to mean?” you say. A husband with money is nice. You can’t pretend that you don’t think of that, especially that none of your family’s wealth belongs to you, nor will it follow you into your marriage. Your heart revolts regardless.  

Shrugging after a few beats of silent considering, he turns his attention on the lake. His face turned like that, you admire the straight slope of his nose and his eyelashes as they flutter with his heavy eyes. Like the rest of him, his side profile is a contradiction. Strong and noble, but elegant like hewn from marble. It’s perfect. With all the talk in your ears, you’d pictured something far off from the youthful, wry man stood before you. Why you’d come to imagine him brutish, you’re not sure; he’s as much swan as you. Different and mirrored all the same. 

“I used to come here all the time,” he says. 

“Here? To the lake?” You perk up. This had been your hideaway as a girl; where you’d come at times like this when you needed to bury something away. You thought it’d been just yours. “I wonder how we never ran into each other. I used to do the same. I guess, I still do.” 

When his eyes fall back on you, they’re softer. More deep brown than black, but maybe it’s because you’re closer now. He says, “Well, I came here once or twice on my own, maybe when I was five. I didn’t really start coming back until I saw you. You were crying, all snotty, and throwing bread out for some ducks.” 

Your face twists up, maybe at the memory or maybe with confusion. It seems like if he’d really come here so often, and had even seen you here, you’d have noticed. “You must have thought I was weird,” you say, the words coming out around a shiver.  

“Maybe,” he says through a wry smile that’s cracked over his lips. “But mostly, I just wished I could talk to you.” 

He’d watched you, because he couldn’t approach you? You were under the impression that the prince had never cared for the rules, not even one so paramount as that. But, it seems that his brashness came to him later. He stands in front of you now, doesn’t he? Maybe it was just that innocent trust that, as children, you levy out to those arounds you. Especially toward adults; and all of those had preached over moments like this. You imagine a young, curious Beomgyu, hiding himself away between bushes, itching to approach or play with you. But he never did; you hadn’t the slightest clue he’d even been there until now. Could you two have been friends, if not for the curse? 

“You never came out,” you say. “Or introduced yourself?” It’s all you can really think. 

His mouth twitches. “Would you have stayed?” 

No. Then, you don’t think you would’ve. Even now, you’re stricken with the innate fear of touching him, no matter how surprised you are at how different he is. Different from what they said he’d be. You think you would’ve darted, should you have known who he was. For some reason, that makes your heart ache. A dark ebbing wave of ache that you are unfamiliar with. 

A slight knowing smile danced over his features, eyes gone to sweet crescents that turn them, usually so dark, into something rounded. Not so abrasive. He tilts his head off to one side and says, “You’re freezing. How long have you been out here?” 

Cheeks long been numb, you answer, “An hour. Maybe and a half?” 

“I’ll walk you home.” 

You grimace. Arriving with him by your side, the man you quite literally were not supposed to even speak with, is the very last thing you should do. An awful idea. “I wouldn’t bother you. It’s probably not the best idea to show up after disappearing, with a man by my side. Especially not as a to-be-married woman,” you say. “But, thank you. Really.” 

He knows what you really mean, though. A muscle in his jaw feathers. “Alright,” he says. “I suppose we wouldn’t want that, would we?” 

As he begins to turn, making for wherever he’d come here from, you call out to him. “Hey, wait. Your jacket.” You pull it off your shoulders and joust it out at him. Against your skin which it had warmed, the air is bitterly cold. 

“Keep it, princess,” he says, giving you a parting nod. “Get home warm.” 

Today, you are to give your hand to a man that you do not know.

In the air, the rich nuttiness of fire-toasted chestnuts dance and mingle with the roar of chatter. Hundreds of familiar and unfamiliar faces line long tables with runners decorated by platters of plump, sugar-dusted plums and fruit pies. They’ve all come in their winter’s best—whites and reds and luxurious furs lining thick, velvety fabrics or embroidered with sparkling threads and studded with crystals that twinkle in the low firelight. It’s warm and lovely and all just for you. 

But, you don’t feel any of that. All you feel is a heavy belly. Each smile you tug over your mouth feels like dead weight. You’re familiar with this—putting on the act. Smiling in faces that you know will turn around and have something else to say about you, pretending like you don’t know that it’s all false sweetness. You’d been trained in noble propriety since you could walk and talk. 

But, considering that they’ve all come here to shower you with gifts and lovely words for a marriage in which they could really not care about beyond how they make it a profit, it’s all a bit more sour. 

You’ve met your promised. The man you’re supposed to wed and spend the entirety of your life beside. You spoke with him for... what, two minutes? Two very awkward, very awful minutes. What should you have to say to each other? You’re meeting for the first time today. At your engagement feast. It’s a real conscious effort to not take your lip into your mouth and gnaw, or to not fuss over your hair, or honestly anything that might show these people that you are anything but pleased. 

So, you relent to their gaudy pleasantries. You listen to them tell you that it’s such a blessing to be married to a man of high society—and a wealthy one, too. They tell you that they knew your marriage would bring a great dowry; that all the white swans have. That they were watching and expecting it. All you hear is the dripping of greed; all you see is hungry eyes and fingers crossed behind backs. 

You relent to it until your stomach is sick and wrought with it. And then, the older lady ahead of you singing praises of your beauty, of how she wishes her daughter might catch the eye of a husband as advantageous as yours, does something out of the ordinary. Her eyes drift behind you, her snooty, pinched features twisting up into something new. You follow her gaze. 

Dark and beautiful and his eyes trained right on you, the black swan prince stands beside you. He’s lazed, a heavy cup of some thick, spiced and wintery drink in one hand, as he does. In the clear light of morning, he’d looked so out of place. But here, soft and hard planes of his face illustrated by the flickering orange firelight, he looks so right. 

You blink. And then blink again. Never once had Beomgyu made any sort of appearance at any hosted thing by your family. You just stand in place for a moment, registering his presence.

“You look lovely, princess,” he says. His eyes fall up and down you. The way he says it—it’s liquid smooth, but it’s taunting in a way. “The perfect image of a bride-to-be.”

He can’t be here. He can’t be here at all. When you look to the side, the woman is already gone. You have no doubt in your mind that she’s whispering in somebody’s ear right now.

“Prince,” you say, gritting your teeth while also dipping into an elegant curtsy. 

“Do you feel that way?” He raises his eyebrows at you, his gaze heavy with underlying tension. “A perfect bride? Happy?”

Making the conscious decision to not look around you, because you can already feel the burning interest of the eyes that you’ll find on you, you say, “I do. Isn’t this quite the feast?”

“I told you that you don’t have to lie to me, princess.”

You shouldn’t even be standing here talking to him. They’re all watching. Stepping back to cut conversation with something witty, you stop in the onslaught of a chorus of surrounding gasps.

Beomgyu had reached out to grab you, and only stopped himself short the same way he had the first time you met him. A muscle twitches in his jaw as he brings his hand down, curling the fingers as if to wash away the urge to reach out.

He’s closer now, too. His breath smells sickly sweet with the liqueur he drinks. A sarcastic grin over his lips, he says, “Did he pay for all this?”

You do a dance of give and take. You step back, and he meets it with a step toward you, all the way until you find yourselves in a quieter corner. “He did sponsor the feast, yes.”

“Well, isn’t that just great,” he says, voice carrying over the many layered sounds of the gathering. “And that makes you happy? You feel fulfilled by that? Is that the purpose of the lovely white swan?”

You’re not sure what he’s getting at, or why your marriage is any of his business. For some reason, though, despite those rational thoughts, some faraway memory whispers that it makes every bit of sense. “He is a lovely man.”

Barking a laugh, Beomgyu says, “Don’t make me laugh. You don’t believe that, no matter how many times you tell it to yourself.”

You curl your fingers into the obnoxious, glittering material of your dress. “Seriously, what makes you so sure?” you say. “What makes you so sure you know? This is good for me. This is the way things are supposed to go. Not everybody in this world can get away with serving only themselves and doing whatever they want. Maybe it works for you, but not for the rest of us. I’m glad your life is fun, though. Really.” 

His face doesn’t sharpen into offence, though you brace for him to. You’ve never spoken to anybody like that. Ever. Shaking his head, raven locks glowing warm around the edges, he says, “Because I know. I know. Are you listening to me? You don’t have to lie to me.”

Balking at him, you don’t know how to answer. That was nowhere near the answer you were expecting from the prince, known and notorious for his chaos and fire.

“I am listening,” you say, keeping your voice measured. Thick emotion slips through the seams. “Honesty has never done me any good. This is going to happen; all honesty is going to do is hurt me. So, I’m sorry.”

His mouth opens to fire something back, but you don’t hear it. Somebody digs their fingers into your upper arm, dragging you without a word away from your conversation. You stumble, letting them take you without a fuss. This was to be expected. You shouldn’t look back. If today was already going to be the last day you ever see him, it certainly is now that you’ve been caught not only in touching distance to him, but making conversation with him.

Tossing a self-betraying glace over your shoulder, you find his figure. Hand in pocket and his lips turned down, he watches you go.

You wish you wouldn’t have. You have no explanation for the emptiness it casts into your chest.

Recently, you’ve been crying so much. You might believe that it’s because you’ve been letting yourself feel freely, but you don’t feel free.

Your palms are soaked against your cheeks, face fallen into them as you shudder with it. Their words pin and scrape in your head, forcing you to contend with them before bouncing off the walls and you hear them again and again until your stomach has gone sick. Your parents had given you an earful. That’s been your whole life; you can handle that. The moment you saw him there, intending to speak to you, you’d prepared for it. Instead, it was their contempt and sneering faces that bleed your heart like this. 

In this life, you are alone. Totally, wholly alone. Who you are—your role in life—is not the blessing they claim it to be. Is it selfish to ask to be understood? For somebody to just understand, without your pleading or begging?

Maybe. It feels that way, anyway.

“Why is it that I always find you crying?”

His voice freezes you to where you sit sprawled on your floor. Spinning to him, you say, “What are you doing?”

Beomgyu shrugs, as though he hasn’t snuck his way into your room. “I felt bad for getting you dragged off. Wanted to come see how you’re doing.”

Maybe his insisting on being around you should be annoying, but right now… You think you appreciate the company, even from the forbidden likes of him. “You can’t be here,” you hiss. “How did you get in? They’ll… if they find you here…”

His boots squeak against the polished flooring as he approaches you, and then settles down on the floor with you. The fire flickering behind him, his back to it, casts an orange light around the edges of his figure. He looks terribly inviting, like this: strewn on the floor, no holier or better than you, his face not sickly sweet nor cold and devoid of love, and his eyes curious to know how you feel. 

“I don’t care what they’ll do to me. I want to see you.” He tugs his jacket off, letting it fall on the dirty floor. Improper for a prince, but Beomgyu doesn’t care. That’s who he’s always been—that’s the one thing that was entirely true out of all the things you heard about him. “Who the hell cares about their approval? We don’t need it.”

You know what he means by they and we. Only a few days ago, you’d still believed that Beomgyu was other; that he was your total opposite, and that you should fear his darkness for all your lightness. All it’s taken is being around him the once or twice that you’ve been able to for you to realize the falsity that drips from that. When you’re around him, your soul, feathery and wispy in your chest and your veins and all the rest of you that constitutes you beyond what is physical, tugs. It’s impossible to ignore—it consumes you. Where your soul longs for him around the edges, like torn and searching for what’s been lost, you feel stuff that is beyond yourself.

Rather than your opposite, you think that Beomgyu is your other half. You think that they’ve gotten it all wrong. 

“How do you do it?” you say, back up against a white, whorling table leg. “How do you not care? I don’t understand.”

Inky eyes shining, he says, “I did. When I was young, I believed everything they told me. It’s hard not to, when it’s all you hear. Them, telling us that our purpose is to surrender ourselves to be something Saint-like. But when you catch one lie, you begin to catch the others, too. I saw their excuses and reasonings peel. Princess, it’s all lies. Everything you know is lies.” He says it with such conviction. Each and every word reaches down into that part of yourself that is missing something. “We’re not their Saints. That’s never been our purpose. I hate that shit; I hate that they’ve made you think that this is all you’re for. Marrying him? Never doing anything, because you’re scared of what it’ll mean for you? It’s not fucking fair.” He pushes himself closer to you. Now, your criss crossed knees are so close that a stray move might mean the world’s end. This time, you don’t panic. There’s no room for that among the swarm of your other thoughts. “So, of course I don’t give a shit about what they tell me to do. I’m going to live this life the way that it’s supposed to be. I wish that you could join me.”

“This life?” you blurt. It’s the one thought that appears clear to you, so it’s what comes out. Frowning, you add, “What lies?”

Deadpanned and as though he’s not delivering something that changes the world’s fabric around you, Beomgyu says, “There is no curse. There’s never been a curse.”

Your room is silent for a few moments, and then you shake your head and laugh. “How would you know that?” you say, nose wrinkling. If you don’t laugh, you’ll begin to actually consider the possibility of that. Just the very surface of the notion makes you nauseous. You couldn’t handle exploring the thought deeper. 

Beomgyu doesn’t laugh along with you. “The curse is a lie, and everything that comes with it. All of it is just excuses or justification for the hate for the other people. The whole reason that they ever decided on it was because of their hate. Maybe to the people alive now, it’s not a lie. But that’s what it started as.” His face, dark and soft as he reads your face, twists up. “Of course, we can touch. We are two halves of a whole. There is you in me, and I in you. Do you not feel it? The tug? That’s it. The black swan and the white swan were never meant to be apart and opposite. We are meant to be together. We’re meant to be the only ones that understand each other. It’s us against the world, princess.”

Your ears ring with the pierce of each word cascading out from his mouth. “Beomgyu, I don’t understand. That doesn’t… Make sense. How?” He can’t just make claims about that. Not something like this. It’s not fair.

“I know it’s hard to believe, princess. It’s all you’re ever made to believe. But you have to trust me. Do you trust me?”

Tongue darting out to wet your lips and your fingers stilling where you fuss at the fabric of your chemise, you take a good look at him. Roaming over his features, the contradiction in them and the strange familiarity that constitutes him no matter the fact that you’ve only just met, you consider it. Everything he says is absurd, and it does go against everything you’ve ever known. You should turn your nose up at him for even suggesting it; should suspect that he only has some sort of plan to coax you into bringing the world’s end.

But, you do. You trust him beyond explanation, as though intrinsically.

You nod slowly, holding his eyes in yours. “But I don’t understand,” you say. “How do you know?”

He smiles ruefully. “I saw something—had a dream when I was young. I saw us, in every last lifetime. We have lived again and again, as we are, in so many different ways. But the one thing that was always there was that they couldn’t keep us away from each other.”

The world does a few spins around you. Lightheaded, you try to stay up under the oppressive gravity of that. You want to stick your head in the ground and shake your head and yell no, but that deep tugging that has plagued you beginning the moment you’d met him, and all the emptiness before it, tells you yes. 

How poetic is that? How tragic? You, two souls born to be one, made to live apart at the interests of the world around you. Made to do it across every lifetime, and yet, in each you meet. In each, the twinkling thread of fate prevails nevertheless. 

“Do they all love?”

That soft smile still playing on his lips, his cheek to his knee as he looks at you with the veneration of somebody who might’ve loved you in a thousand lifetimes before, and perhaps in this one, too. “No. Some of us were secret lovers, but so many of those lived how you do for the entirety of their life. Halved,” he says. “And never did any of them touch.”

Heart fluttering with wings in your chest, you say, “So, how do you know that the curse is a lie? If it’s never been done before?”

“Let me show you,” he says. “That I can touch you.”

All the blood in your body pulls back. You trust him; you do. But is trust enough to risk a touch that could be the end of the world? Is trust enough to be so selfish to do so? 

Seeing you blanch, Beomgyu’s eyes go glassy. “Please,” he says, voice breaking as if to touch you might mean more than just proving something to you. As if the weight of everything he’s ever wanted rests on the back of it working—that if this works, and the world does not fall apart around you, then he can love you how he does, and how he had so many times before. Inevitably. “I would never do anything to hurt you.”

“Beomgyu,” you say, looking between his eyes and the twitch of his hand as it itches to touch you. “I don’t… I’m scared.” Your voice drops to nothing more than a whisper.

“It’s okay,” he says, bringing that longing hand up. Your heart jumps when he raises up by your face. “You can be selfish this once. I want to see you do something because you want to, not because it’s what you think others might want.”

Your throat burns and tightens. Every last sparkling bit of your being longs to lean into his touch—to do what you two have wanted to do so many times before, and finally bring your souls back together. “What if it happens?” you ask, your eyes soft and true like an animal turning its soft underbelly to receive affection.

“Then let it,” he says. “At least we would have touched. Just this once.”

Gritting your teeth and swallowing hard, your belly does itself up into knots. You don’t answer him, but your quiet speaks enough. His hand hovers beside your face with the weight of the world in it.

The first touch of the white swan and the black swan happens in a gentle cupping of your cheek. And, the world does fall down around you. The walls melt, air leaves, and the seams of everything that’s even been good or true are ripped out and sewn with something new and beautiful. It’s as explosive and cosmic as you imagined it, but it is not terrifying. It’s lovely.

Your breaths shudder, your lungs trembling as you look into his eyes and realize what this means.

“Fuck,” is all Beomgyu breathes. It looks as though that it’s all he can manage. His touch grows more solid as the both of you realize that the both of you are still very much here, and so is the world. Thumb pad grazing over the softness of your cheek, his throat bobs with a swallow. You think that if you were to press your hand over his chest, you might feel it thudding there to the same thunderous rhythm that yours beats to.

So, you do. Because you can touch him. His heart sings beneath your palm, even through fabric and flesh. You can’t help the wobbling of your lip and the hot tears that spill out past your eyes and roll down your cheeks.

The second touching is the bringing together of your lips. His mouth is soft and hard against yours, contradictory as the rest of him. He brings his other hand up to hold your face into his kiss. It’s not sweet and slow—it’s as ground-rumbling as the kiss between intertwined souls coming together after an eternity of being away. Each nip and lick and clash of teeth are like the claps of thunder of the storm that will end the world, his hand sliding up the back of your neck to card his fingers through the hair at the back of your head like the claws of a beast sent to ensure its end.

And, maybe Beomgyu is the beast that has come to end the world. You wonder how he’d waited so long to bring the truth to you, or if he was torn about ever telling you. What changed things, after so many years of him watching you from afar? Your engagement? Perhaps that’s what that drink in his hand had been: a thing to forget with.

It hadn’t worked. As he kisses you for all the lifetimes in which you couldn’t, you know that he couldn’t have accepted that and moved on. Of all the black swans that have lived and passed, Beomgyu must be the most stubborn and strong-willed. That’s why, out of every single life, this is the first that you touch. He would take the world on, or play with the existence of it, for this. Just for you. All for you—you’d found somebody who will do something just for you. Curling your fingers into the front of his tunic just over his chest, you pour the fire of that revelation into your kiss.

He roams his hands all over you, mapping your shape. You kiss and kiss, lips tugging and twisting against each other, and still it isn’t enough. Bracing a splayed palm over your lower back, he does not stop kissing you even as he lays you back onto the ground. The flooring is cold against your burning body. He supports his weight on one hand beside your head and straddles your hips to do nothing but run his fingers through your hair and just kiss you. 

Only when your lungs are too hungry to ignore does he free your mouth. His soft black hair dangles over his starry eyes as he looks down at you with them. Lips swollen and smeared with you, his chest heaves. Bringing his free hand up, he wipes your wet cheek.

“Oh my god,” you say, breathless. “Beomgyu.”

Pressing his forehead to yours, he laughs. “I like when you call me that. I think I want to make you scream it—scream it until they come breaking down your doors and see that we are each other's. Until your fiancé hears it.”

Body bursting at the seams at the prospect, you nod frantically and dip your face into his neck to dust starry kisses there, too. He shudders. “I want it so bad. Can you please?”

“Of course I can. I’m going to make love to you, okay?” He pushes off you, crawling back so that he’s sat squatted just before your knees as you pin them together. “Open your legs, princess. Show me how pretty you are—I’ve waited so long for it.” He pats on the outer side of your knee.

Thrill spiraling up from between your thighs like sparks, you oblige slowly. You let your legs fall open for him, and choke on your own heart as he begins to slowly work your dress up the expanse of your legs, and then your thighs, baring to him the plush and unseen skin there. He eats it up wildly, his eyes gone ravenous and even blacker.

“I’ve never done this before,” you say, voice trill and unsure. “I don’t know what to do.”

A wicked grin cracks over his features. “I know, princess.” The fabric bunches at your thighs, now. You tremble with the stifling anticipation. “I’m going to take care of you. It’s going to feel so good—I’m gonna make you feel so good. I have so many things I want to do to you. Lifetimes of things I want to make you feel.”

Doe-eyed and laying your trust in his hands, your thighs twitch and you nod. He reveals your cunt at last, finally catching the glistening sight of it for the very first time. And, he does not disappoint. The look that washes over his face—the twitching of his lips, the tightening of his jaw in a flickering muscle, and the fire razing your cunt in his eyes—is something so dreamlike, but lucid nonetheless.

“You just lay down and let me help you. Treat you how a princess should be treated.” He works on his pants, silver belt clinking and then loosening, and then he’s just as exposed as you when his length pops free. It’s hard already, tall and pretty like the rest of him, but pink and obscene at the tip. He leaks from the little slit at the top. “Look at you. You look like you want to taste it,” he says, laughing while collecting the liquid to pump himself a few times. “Next time, baby. I’d love to see the proper mouth of the world’s princess choking on my cock.”

The air is cold against the mess between your legs. It sends a chill up your spine—or maybe that was the crudeness of his words. You suppose you should’ve expected nothing less from him. When he goes to climb back over you and line himself up with you, your thighs twitch and try to snap shut.

He pins your hip to the floor. “Don’t be shy, baby. I wanna see that pretty pussy. It’s not fair to hide it from me.”

“Sorry,” you say, cheeks burning.

Taking that hand and sliding it up behind the back of one of your knees, pressing that thigh up to your torso, he laughs a teasing laugh down at you. “Don’t say sorry,” he says. He holds his length adjacent to your slit and then begins to slip up and down the length of it. “Just let me fuck you. I need it so bad.” He hisses in tandem with you. The drags of his length, harder than how you thought a cock might feel, is like undiluted liquor. “I can’t believe this… shit, princess. I’m about to fuck you. I thought I was going to have to sit here and watch you by his side.” 

You take your lip into your teeth when he pushes in. It stretches. You bring your hand up to cup the back of his neck and the other to dig into his tunic, mewling softly.

“It’s okay, princess. Hold on to me, you can take it, right? You cunt was built for me. Everything about you was made for me. Your heart, your pretty hands for me to hold, your sex, all of it. Do you feel how I fit right into you? How I was made to?”

You do. When he finally is balls-deep, his cock nestles exactly where it should. Not an inch too deep or an inch too scarce. The two of you were sculpted by something holy, fit just for each other. “Yes,” you breathe.

He can’t even linger sitting still  in you. He begins pulling himself out, all the way until the tip of him threatens to pop out lewdly, before shoving back in right up against that spot. He doesn’t even have to search for it. Head falling into your chest, he licks and bites. “The taste of you,” he says. Then, he presses his tall nose right over that spot in your neck where your heart’s gone wild. “The smell of you.” Wincing, he lays into you with more vigor, hips slapping against your skin. “The feel of you. You drive me up the fucking walls. How was I ever supposed to live without this?” he says. “I refuse.”

Your belly begins to tighten in a way that you’ve never known. Tears prick the corner of your ears, clinging to him as he fucks you into the floor like he’ll never have to opportunity to have you like this again. The wood cradles your back and the back of your hips, receiving each of his thrusts. You curl your toes and will back the lewd cries that threaten to spill over with each.

His voice is taut and wobbly. “Feels good, huh? I know. It feels… so good.” Dropping your thigh to cup your face, he says, “Cry. Cry for me. I said I wanted you to scream.”

Face burning and squirming against the hardwood behind you, you shake your head. “I can’t, gyu…”

“Yes you can,” he says, face twitching. “I want you to start letting it out, or I’m gonna stop. Do you want me to stop?”

Covering your face, with the back of a forearm, you grit your teeth through each punctual and yet sloppy grind up into you. Your bodies sweat and meld, and you’re sure that anybody walking by your quarters would know just by the hollow smacks of skin and grunts that you’re fucking a man. You, an engaged woman, are letting the prince turn your brain inside out.

But, there is nothing you want less than for him to stop. So, you let your mouth drop open and allow the sweet mewls to come with each rut.

“There we go. Louder.” He braces himself, digging his feet into the floor, and then he really starts driving into you. Sparks fly in your belly—each yellow and glowing and scalding. “Do I need to fuck you harder? C’mon, louder, princess.”

Thighs squeezing his hips so tight that they ache, you squirm. You struggle against your sounds—turning from sweet moans and mewls, you groan and gasp and your voice breaks. Each collision of your bodies breaks your sounds.

Curling your fingers into his silken hair, you grit out, “H—hoooh fuck, Beomgyu, Beomgyu, I feel… like…”

Bangs sticky and his eyes growing wilder, he knows something you don’t. The knowing, taunting grin on his mouth says enough. “Let it happen. Don’t fight it.  Just stay—stay right there, and I’ll give it to you. No running from it; it’s gonna feel so good.” His muscles go taut, and he doubles down on his efforts, panting through his nose and his neck sheened. He drops his head into your chest. “Fuck. Fuckkkk, I love you so much, princess. Thank you—thank you, so much.”

You don’t know why he’s thanking you. You don’t have the cognitive function to worry about that. Your mind has gone to two things: the growls and whines that rumble and tear from his chest, and the frightening tightness that only goes more dangerous. Your chest tightens—it feels as though, if he feeds that hungry beast gnawing deep down in your belly with any more of what he’s doing now, it will snap and take you down in its wake. Warbled cries crawling up your throat, you arch your back up into his chest to try and dig your hips into the floor, away from the bliss and the power of it.

“No,” he says, cursing. “No—don’t run from it. Don’t… Baby, please take what I’m giving you. It’s gonna be alright.”

Pushing back on the dark throes of the tide as it creeps up over your shoulders and sends shocks through your body, the hair on the back of your neck rising with the effort, you choke. Beomgyu takes a hand down the seam of your bodies and rolls your aching clit. They’re succinct and intentional—pressure right on the sensitive underside, sending your belly rippling as he pairs it with a few more sharp, more meaningful thrusts.

You see white. It’s white and hot. You are the sun, beaming and writhing like stardust. You curve off the floor once more, raking nails down the lengths of his back. Are you even making sound? You don’t know; you can’t hear it past the ringing piercing sharp in your ears. You shake beneath him, cunt gripping him frantically with flutters of your walls. 

He grunts, voice strained and shaking as he begins to follow his own release.  “Holy shit—look at you. You’re so f-filthy. So pretty, cumming on me.”

You bare each brush of his cock against your still twisting walls, trembling as he fucks you through your orgasm. Your thighs jump and your toes curl, and it’s all too much, but not enough. He needs to come tumbling over the edge right along with you—if he comes with you, it doesn’t seem so hard. You chant his name, smooth voice gone hoarse.

Stilling inside you, he whines, “Shi—it.” A war wages behind his eyes for a long second before he slips his cock from you with a wet, squelching pop, strings of your release breaking as he lays his cock on your belly. His stomach goes tight, and with one last slide of his length, slick with your mess and staining your belly, his cock jumps. He shoots all over your skin, pretty glistening spurts like ribbons a milky white. 

He sits back on his haunches, slowly rubbing himself off to give you some more and come down. Your room is quiet now, aside from your heaving chests and the buzz of something new in the air. Letting his head fall back, wet strands of spiky black hair dangle around his neck, a bead of sweat catching light as it rolls down it.

“Feel okay?” he says, looking down on you with softened eyes. He pulls cloth from his pocket, unfolding the fine fabric, and he wipes himself off your belly.

“I’m okay,” you tell him, leaning into the palm he cups your cheek with. “I’m okay.”

He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “The world didn’t explode, did it?” he says.

You share a stolen laugh with him, feeling every last honey wave receding from the spot between your thighs. The world hadn’t ended, and yet, in every way, it had. Savoring the abated rises and falls of his chest and the content sagging of his shoulders, your belly tightens anew. 

What happens now, when everything else has been a lie? When you don’t believe that you can survive that lie for any longer?

So many hands work on you. One of your ladies in waiting laces you up in the back, and another works on your hair even while you stand, and one bounces a wintry, snow-kissed rouge over the plush of your cheeks. 

Yesterday, your world changed. And today, you’re expected to go on living in it.

When Beomgyu slipped out from your room last night after hours of holding each other under the covers, indulging in your ability to touch, you let your heart crack in two. You shouldn’t have. Why had you let yourself think that it was going to end up anything other than like this? You, getting prettied up to be sent away with your expecting husband, and the dreams you’d let build up to the clouds in the prince’s arms all shattered on the floor at your feet.

What else can you do? Loving Beomgyu freely is out of the question. Your parents would laugh right in your face, or maybe lock you away and make even more sure that you never get to see him again.

You try to burn the image of his eyes into your memory. Black, big and round and cunning all the while. You commit the broadness of his shoulders, and the pretty straight line of his nose in profile, and the pink plushness of his lips, and the little freckles you’d discovered yesterday, and the sound of his voice in your ear, and the feel of his touch on your skin, too.

“We’ll leave you until it’s time to come collect you,” a Lady says, bowing at the waist to you as the others finish up, tying the fastening of your dress up quick and sprinkling their final touches over you before following her out.

Your room goes utterly quiet. More quiet than it’s ever felt.

Dragging your limbs over to your bed, you let yourself fall onto it despite all the care they’d taken to get your skirts right. Resting your cheek to your palm, you let your eyes fall closed as you memorize the feel of your own bed, too.

When you flutter them open, there’s something peeking out from the pillow across from you. You furrow your brows and reach for it.

The paper is folded up with haste, torn from the edge of somewhere else and scribbled on with a quick hand. How long has that been there, without you noticing? Pushing yourself up from the bed, careful to at least maintain the smoothness of your hair, you unfold it.

ℳ𝑒𝑒𝑡 𝑚𝑒 𝑎𝓉 𝒮𝑤𝑎𝑛 ℒ𝑎𝑘𝑒. 

Your soul comes back to life and seeps through your bloodstream. Sitting there for a few moments, idle at the largeness of what you’re about to do, you loose a breath. 

And then, you curl your hand around it, shove yourself up in a flurry of white, crystalline skirts, and you go.

The curious faces of the palace hands you pass do not stop you, nor does the morning’s bite as you find your way outside, nor does the almost-slip over ice, and absolutely nothing else stops you as you run. Is he still going to be there when you make it?

God, please let him be there. Don’t let this be almost.

Fists full of the abrasive fabric of your skirts and darting by barren bushes and trees, you do not stop until you clear the little tree line and the lake stands vast and frosty ahead of you.

When Beomgyu spots you, and you spot his figure against the background of the lake crisp in the morning, the sweet cooing of the birds and the rest of the bustle falls away. None of it compares.

“You came,” he says, dragging his feet through the snow until he’s right in front of you, his features elegant once more in the clear morning haze. “I didn’t think you would.”

You reach up to dust away snowflakes resting on his hair. It’s an excuse to touch him—that’s all you find yourself wanting to do, now. Brows pinching, you say, “Why?”

“I don’t know. I just… was scared.”

“No, no, I came,” you say, feeling now the bare expanse of your arms. You run your hands up and down them. Heart in atrophy all the while feeling full just being here with him, you add, “Why did you want to meet here?”

The world is serene for a few long moments as he just looks at you, his gaze searching. “Don’t marry him. Don’t leave with him.”

You know where he’s going with this already. Letting your dress fall from your hands, the one they’d fashioned you in to do exactly that, you say, “And do what?”

“Be with me. Marry me. Be my wife,” he says, the lines of his face solemn. “Let’s elope and find a corner of the world that’s just ours, so that we will never have to hear another word from them again. Let’s just… be together. Finally.”

Chest swelling with something so hopeful that it’s painful, reality comes with its pin point and pops it. “Is that really what you want? You’ll take me, even though I’m promised to somebody else?”

His lip curls as though the thought were detestable. “What the fuck is a dowry to this? To the approval of the fates? The world could try snuff that fact out with whatever they’ll try, and a man could offer your parents a dowry of all its money, and still, you’d be mine. No matter what, our souls belong to each other.” His hand is frozen against your cheek. He’s been out here waiting for you for so long. “I’d take you, promised to another man. I’d take you no matter how you are; in a thousand different lives, I’d have you each time.”

That’s all you need to hear: that you are cherished for more than just your nature, but for yourself. That he loves you unendingly and undyingly, and all you have to do is leave by his side. You’ve already left it all behind—thrown any attachment to the wind, because truly, what is that to this? You don’t know where you’ll go, and you think Beomgyu hasn’t a clue either. But you’ll find that somewhere together. 

Together, your half sings. His answers with a thrilling beat.

“This time,” he says, eyes blazing with conviction. You know he feels the tug, too. “We got it right.”

﹙⋞ ﹚... back to the 𝓂asterlist

✎୭ ashlynn's note MY SHAYLAAAAA. MY SHAYLAAAAAAA!

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[girlsworldillusion]

Game Over 🎮

Gamer!Aemond - Fem!Reader

Summary: After putting in the effort to create the perfect romantic night, your plan comes crashing down like a house of cards when your boyfriend dumps you for games.

How far will a girl go before she takes matters into her own hands?

Rated: Explicit (+18)

(Bjob, semi-public sex, praise kink and others)

Word count: 6k

Dividers: @cafekitsune

Enjoy!

English is not my first language, I apologize for any mistakes you may find.

You snort for the tenth time as hear a bored laugh coming from down the hall.

Fingers drum impatiently on the edge of the bed, a fat pout projecting on your lower lip. Having long since given up on the purposefully suggestive pose on top of the soft silk sheets, you now find yourself sitting upright and very sullen amidst the romantic decor of the room.

With each muffled word coming from your boyfriend's office you feel your mood sour further, the irritation in your nerves increasing to worrying levels.

Aemond wasn't the kind of guy who played games regularly; God knows he's too selfish and perfectionist to be a decent team player. And he barely had any free time to indulge in hobbies and vices anyway. Despite having a complete setup in his personal office with everything a gamer could dream of, he spent very little time cultivating such a habit. Usually only indulging when he was feeling too stressed about work or his family, or when he was absolutely bored.

He didn’t usually care for games. And that’s why you feel even more frustrated by the second. Of all the nights he could have had the unexpected urge to play, did it have to be the night you had planned something special for the both of you?

The soft, delicate lace of your new pastel pink lingerie set teases your skin almost mockingly at this point, the long stockings on your thighs rubbing against each other as you swing one leg over the other in exasperation. The high heels were thrown haphazardly into the corner of the room during the little bout of impatience you had a few minutes ago.

The scented candles you had chosen for the night still burn softly in your peripheral vision, illuminating the room with warmth and romance, the delicate scent of vanilla permeating the air like a seductive invitation. On the bedside table was a bottle of his favorite wine, two glasses neatly arranged next to it.

This was supposed to be a romantic night.

As soon as you saw him casually enter the office a few hours ago, presumably to privately answer some video call from a work client, you ran and locked the bedroom door, preparing everything as quickly as you could to surprise him. Excitement ran freely through your veins, heating your skin to moisten the valley between your legs with anticipation. When you finished arranging everything as best you could, you opened the door invitingly and threw yourself on the bed, acting out what you hoped was a sensual and innocent pose at the same time.

But time passed and Aemond didn't show up.

It was only when you heard the first muffled murmurs of 'all right, I'll cover your left' and 'are you stupid or what? How hard can it be to hit that damn target?' that you realized what he was really doing in the office. But despite the small wave of disappointment, you tried to be level-headed about it. Playing games wasn't something that bothered you at all, but tonight you felt a specific need that only Aemond could fulfill.

You decide to be patient, though, after all he wasn't in the habit of playing games - maybe he just needed a single round to de-stress from the day.

But the minutes passed and what was a single round became two, three; each lasting an average of 30-40 minutes. And here you were, almost two hours later, still waiting.

You had enough!

This was absolutely ridiculous. No one in an adult relationship should spend that much time waiting for some attention - especially when they were losing attention to a damn game.

With a frustrated sigh, you rise from your position on the bed and march towards his office, determined to give him a piece of your mind. Your steps are deliberately heavy as you walk through the living room and into the hallway until you reach his door, where you listen for a few seconds, breathing enough to control the worst of your nerves, but after hearing the same regular tapping on the controller and grumpy responses, you slowly push the door open.

Peeking your head into the room, you see him in front of his setup, playing what looks like some kind of first-person shooter.

The room, as always, smells of cigarette smoke and clean leather, the soft hum of the air conditioning welcoming you - the familiarity enveloping your body in a blissful way that you didn't want at the moment. Your eyes try to focus on surroundings, as the only illumination comes from the purple and blue hues emanating from the sophisticated setup. With his back to you, in his big, comfortable chair, your boyfriend was sitting as if nothing else in the world mattered, with the joystick in his hand and his eye glued to the monitor, mumbling lazily here and there to the chaotic chat of the server.

And seeing him there, carefree and oblivious to all the effort and expectation you had put into this night - into him - made you rethink your course of action for a minute. A thought suddenly crossed your mind.

You were still hurt and frustrated, but maybe giving him a piece of your mind wasn't your only option at the moment.

You walked across the room slowly, but stopped before did what you were thinking.

You mean, were you really about to do that? What, were you really going to act like a hormonal teenager now?

Your body suddenly started moving on its own, mind screaming at you to stop.

Your irritation eases slightly as you admire the outline of his toned, bare back (why the hell is he shirtless anyway?) looming in your line of vision, the way his muscles flex as he leans forward in his black gaming chair, pale, smooth skin illuminated by the purple and blue lights of the setup. He’s wearing only a pair of grey sweatpants and black socks on his feet, and the sight of his broad shoulders and long, muscular arms completely exposed makes your mind wander in a sinful direction.

Maybe your night wasn’t wasted.

Your steps are almost catlike as you advance slowly, silent and focused, taking in his furrowed brows, his devastatingly handsome face with that serious, focused expression, silver hair pulled back into a half-bun — smoke curling up from the cigarette resting in the ashtray on the table.

Aemond hums a vague acknowledgement as you enter his line of sight, his bored gaze flicking from the monitor to you for just a second before returning to the game - but quickly returning to you when he actually notices what you’re wearing.

It’s hard not to get a little carried away when that turquoise blue eye slides across the planes of your body like melted butter; greedy over the thin, nearly sheer bralette on your breasts, the curve of your waist, your cute panties and the lace stockings that come up to your mid-thighs.

“Baby, what the—” he breathes hoarsely, lips parted and brows heavy over his gaze - even his thumbs stop twirling over the buttons on his controller. But you’re both interrupted by a sudden stream of complaints and curses coming from his headset, the volume clear and loud enough for you to hear clearly. Aemond growls. “Fuck, shut your mouth - I’m still here.” And just like that his attention slips from you to the game again, his expression returning to those same disinterested, serious lines from before - but you notice a stiffening in his shoulders that wasn't there before, as if he's on alert now.

You hold on tight to it so his lack of attention doesn’t shake you, trying to solidify your plan as you move. Your hands grip the sides of his chair, using the wheels to help you push it back a few inches. He sends you a sharp, narrow look, shifting between you and the screen, as if he knows exactly what’s on your mind. With a mischievous smile and more determination now, you ignore his warning, slipping innocently into the space between the chair and the table, kneeling between his legs.

“No, the shooter’s on your right.” He mumbles into the mic, sounding more sullen now that his attention has been compromised, but still stubbornly trying to stay focused on the game. You lean forward with a naughty smile, gently sniffing the bulge of his cock trapped in his sweatpants, a whimper rising in your throat when you realize he’s already hard — no doubt an instinctive reaction to understanding your intentions. God, how did this man make you so heated with so little effort?

Your teeth tug playfully at the drawstring of his pants. The muscles in his stomach contract beautifully in response and you sigh, turning your head to rub your cheek against his cock, like a kitten begging for attention.

He’s fully hard now and there’s a thrill in your belly, warm and dark, knowing he’s this way for you — just by you being there, breathing near him, barely touching him properly.

Your lashes flutter heavy over your eyes as you stare without qualms; the soft seam of his sweatpants over a bulge that makes your body tremble with anticipation, burn so much that you’re not sure if you’re breathing anymore.

His cock is thick and hard beneath the gray fabric, big and — stupidly big — so big — over his hip.

“Don’t do that,” he warns in a low tone.

You smile innocently. “Do what, love?”

He growls in his throat, your attitude clearly coiling inside him, making his cock throb beneath your touch. “You won’t be able to walk properly for a week, girl.”

You hum softly, pretending you didn’t hear his threat as untie the laces of his sweatpants to pull the waistband down. Aemond makes no move to help you, stubborn as he's, but you don’t need it. Your grin deepens, glad to be able to lower the elastic enough to free his cock.

“Does it look like I spoke to any of you idiots?” He’s actually more impatient now, dishing out rudeness in the server chat when they question his latest suspicious statement.

You sigh, salivating for him more every time you see his cock — all long and thick, outlined with prominent veins and a shiny flushed head, dripping with precum. Your eyes meet for a moment of distraction from the game, you sugary and full of malicious intent and he suspicious and grumpy - but the anxious twitch in his cock deflates any possible claim that this isn't turning him on in some way.

Let him pretend all he wants, you think with an innocent smile and a slow bat of your eyelashes, sliding your fingers down the hard, pulsing length, slick with the arousal dripping from the tip; a small fist clenched, down and then up, twisting over the head - and then your mouth comes close, spitting a glob of saliva right over it. Pre-come, sweet, warm, sticky saliva as you drag your fist down the tip to the base before repeating. More pre-come.

He shifts in his chair, teeth biting into his lower lip, large, beautiful hands gripping the controller so tightly that the stupid thing squeaks between his fingers. And then you come close; the heated puff of your breath against the base of his cock, your eyes watery and lazy, face flushed and teasing.

And the first swipe of your tongue over him has his abs clenching like a vise, a sharp growl from his chest as you suck him, a little unsteady from the position but so fucking eager that he’s physically incapable of not noticing your effort.

You chase the head of his cock with your mouth as he tries to tilt his hips, your knees shaking as you sink a little to reach him, to close your mouth around him and suck him. One hand instinctively relinquishes its grip to tangle in a fistful of your hair, hips bucking upward as he huffs a ‘fuck baby’; your eyes fluttering and your chest shuddering with a little groan of own, like it’s as good for you as it is for him.

And it is.

'Shit, what's going on man?! I can't believe you missed that one!' Someone complains loudly in the chat.

He just grunts in response, realizing he can't play with just one hand, so he reluctantly puts it back in control. You let out a small chuckle at the length between your lips, happy to see him struggle so much, your right hand resuming the slide of his shaft that your mouth can't reach.

You pull out until only the head of his cock is in your mouth, tongue sliding over it; hand sliding your fist over the spit sheen on his shaft, slick and slow, pushing your lips back until he's nudging the back of your throat and you're breathing hard as keep thrusting and swallowing, keep trying so hard to relax more.

You've never particularly enjoyed giving blowjobs in your previous relationships, but Aemond has elevated the act to something almost sacred; you loved having this kind of power over him, feeling him get harder and harder on your tongue, making him go crazy with desire until he couldn’t control himself anymore. Your pussy clenches in response, the cute panties absolutely ruined by now.

“Can you guys just shut the fuck up for a second? Like I haven’t been carrying this team on my back since the beginning anyway. Fuck all of you.” He growls into the chat, breathing hard between words, undulating his hips discreetly into your mouth - pushing his cock an inch deeper and deeper into your mouth. His gaze is icy and electric as he looks down at you, a dangerous warning shining there, an implicit threat that you’ll regret pushing him this way.

The server chat erupts with denial and curses, but you barely listen, too focused on continuing teasing him; especially now, feeling how his restraint begins to crack and tremble. You pull away with a sticky strand of saliva still connecting you to the head of his cock, using his knees as support to stand up and sneakily settle yourself on top of his legs.

"You're acting like a spoiled brat." He breathes at the corner of your lips as you bring your face closer, anxious and trembling body falling into his lap.

"I don't know what you're talking about." You mumble back, heart racing at the darkness in his turquoise gaze, the other half of his face torn and eternally marked by the jagged scar only adding danger to that warning bite in his expression. With almost too eager fingers you smooth the muscles in his abdomen, moving up to feel the hard ridge of each one until you reach his shoulders.

He breathes heavily, but keeps his eye on the monitor as he violently presses the poor buttons on the joystick, waging a proud war to keep himself away - but you are nothing if not determined.

It takes just a second to admire the milky, soft expanse of his neck, the Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, and then your warm, wet lips are there; covering his skin with soft kisses and bites, sucking slowly between your teeth and licking it afterwards, making him gasp softly and bite his lip, reluctantly tilting his head to offer you more of him. 

You breathe out a smile before leaning back on his knees, letting his gaze slide greedily down your body. To the soft peaks of your breasts half-visible in that thin bralette, the valley of your belly to the dip of your little belly button, and finally to your hips beginning to undulate sensually over his. His cock, as hard and wet as it is, leaves a trail of arousal and sticky saliva on his lower belly and you blush at the sight of the mess he’s making.

You shiver as you feel that same thick wetness of his cock drag against your pussy through your lacy panties, pushing and pushing the swollen tip against your clit until you let out a series of short, sharp gasps. With eyelashes flutter and your eyebrows furrow at the sensation, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you continue to grind your clit against his throbbing cock.

'Wait, wait, what’s that?' you hear someone ask through his headset, but your mind is too far gone to stop now. Little fingers hook into the soft crotch of your pantie for just a moment before you pulls it aside, letting your scalding, drooling pussy rub directly against his hard shaft. Your moan is louder this time, more brazen too. 'What the fuck—are you watching porn while you play, your fucking pervert?' A player in the chat asks with a mocking, mischievous laugh, and in the middle of pushing your needy folds onto his cock, you watch Aemond smile back - sharp, icy, dangerous.

“Much better than that, fucker.” His voice changes to something rougher, something demanding and wicked, and you push yourself against him a little harder, your temperature rising, and you moan. “My girl is needy tonight.”

The chat becomes chaotic again, bursting with dirty laughter and snide comments that would offend you any other time — and maybe Aemond thinks the same, because you see his jaw clench once, his eye cold and his lips pressed together in that way he does when he’s not satisfied with something.

But something keeps him going, keeps him pushing harder.

Quietly he drops the controller to the table, relinquishing his participation in the game, sliding his headset down to hang loosely around his neck. And you can’t breathe. Your heart is pounding, so hard you’re surprised you can’t see it when look down at your chest.

“You wanted my attention, baby. Well, now you have it. And theirs too.” He smiles teasingly at you, his gaze dark and intent on yours, even though the game is still going on the monitor right behind you. "How about we put on a little show for these fucking losers?"

The chat seems to fall into a deliberate silence as he speaks, as if everyone is waiting to hear the outcome of this bizarre and absolutely wild situation.

"I can smell your pussy," he continues when you don't respond, his voice a growl. "I can smell how wet you are." He leans down to nibble on your earlobe, sucking on the lobe before nuzzling into the soft hollow just below it. You think he's exaggerating, he couldn't really smell you, could he? But the room is filled with colored lights, smelling of cigarette smoke and leather, and his cock is brushing against your clit and you really don't know what to think. "Hm, what do you say...want to give these horny nerds something interesting to jerk off to, princess?"

You shouldn’t agree, but you’re moaning before you know it, nodding as your cheeks explode with heat.

“That’s my babygirl - take this cock then,” he whispers to you, filthy and shameless, picking up the cigarette resting on the ashtray to draw slowly. Aemond slides his other hand up your thigh, stroking the soft lace of your stockings. “Fuck yourself on it until you cum,” he tells you, and only the sharp gaze locked on yours keeps you from rolling your eyes back in, not even the acrid puff of smoke near your face distracting you at this point. “Make me open you up, brat. Make my cock all sticky and heated with your pussy.”

He sounds so honest when he says it and yet so rough around the edges, like he’s punishing you somehow — though you don’t quite understand how yet.

Your fingers are shaking as you grip him by the base, lifting your hips to start thrusting him inside.

You keep it slow and steady, the first few inches aching and too tight as always; staring down between your bodies, his thick, glistening cock stretching you open as you suck him inside. He continues to smoke his cigarette leisurely, watching you from beneath one half-lidded eyelid, leaning back in the chair like a king as you work your pussy into him, inch by tight inch. Feeling the tremble of your thighs, the shiver in your body; those first few inches that always feel like he don’t fit, like you’re stretched too much, like you’re too small—

He runs his other hand down your side, down over the tightness of your stomach, hearing you gasp, moan at the stretch, the ache, the way he sinks deeper and deeper. Watching the heave of your breasts, the exasperated, rising intake of breath that turns into something else when your hips finally press against his. Buried so deep and thick inside your walls that he can’t hold back his own noise; hoarse and broken, escaping his lips along with a swirling hiss of cigarette smoke.

You exhale his name, the softest, shakiest Aemond — as your body inevitably begins to relax, as if it doesn’t matter the stretch, the pain, the depth…because just having him inside you, embedded so deeply, is exactly what it needs.

Your delicate palms rest on the broad planes of his chest and he sighs — his hips pulse inside you, just a small push upward, a small movement and you tense, a sharper noise falling from your lips. He tilts his head to the side with lazy interest, grinding his hips against yours again, enjoying the sounds that come from your mouth, the way it opens to suck in a garbled breath.

“You know, I never knew you had it in you, baby…an exhibitionist streak like that,” his heated murmur is dark and full of depraved promise. “I’ll give you that, though, you really know how to get a man’s attention.”

Your breathing is rapid despite your best efforts. He presses his palm to your throat, curling his fingers slowly, squeezing just enough to hear a small hiccup of inspiration, your toes curling against the sides of his thighs...

“Where’s that smart mouth now? My pretty baby girl’s gone so quiet all of a sudden.” He murmurs with a mischievous grin, clamping the cigarette between his teeth to grip your hips, pulling your body to his in obnoxiously slow undulations.

Even though it’s draped around his neck, the voices coming from the headset are still loud enough for both of you to hear; a cacophony of whistles and disbelieving laughter.

“Come on,” he says, picking up the cigarette again to toss it into the ashtray. He pulls you closer and wraps both hands around your hips, staring into your glassy eyes. “Go ahead and ride me.”

You bite your bottom lip, leaning more firmly against his chest as you begin to grind against his cock, little mewls escaping your lips, ass slapping rhythmically against his hips.

'Holy shit, are they really doing this?' Someone ask shrilly in the chat, your cheeks heating up in embarrassment — your movements stuttering for a moment. This — this wasn’t right, was it? You couldn’t just fuck while these strangers listened. This wasn’t right.

“Don’t stop,” Aemond growled, pulling your chin up so you could look him in the eye and see that he meant business. “Keep riding my cock like a good girl. Let them hear you. Let them fuck their own pathetic dicks while they listen to me fuck your pussy until you cry. Let them be so fucking envy of me, because I have the cutest and naughty girl in the world. Can you do this?”

You look up at him with beautiful doe eyes, lashes fluttering as you nod yes, leaning in to kiss him. Aemond takes you in immediately; soft, warm lips on yours, wet tongue sliding across yours and you taste cigarettes and mint gum. You moan louder as he plants his feet on the floor, thrusting up into you roughly, tangling his hand in your hair to keep you pressed against him even as the impact makes you bounce on his lap. It’s so damn hot in the room, the two of you electric and heated. Your whimpers and sobs grow louder and louder, matching the rhythm of your hips undulating more and more into his.

‘Oh shit, she sounds so fucking good…’ you barely hear the comment through his headset, eyes rolling back in pleasure with each deep thrust of his thick cock into your pussy.

"Yes, she does." Aemond hums, gripping your hips tighter, guiding you easily, and you feel yourself getting closer, but there’s something missing — an incentive to push you over the edge.

You rest a hand on his thigh, fisting the soft sweats of his pants, tilting your body and head back as the pleasure becomes almost too much to handle. He watches you hungrily, leaning back in his chair — though he looks like he wants to jump on top of you. The purple and blue lights illuminate you both in a flattering, almost artistic way; highlighting his silver hair in that messy half-bun, the soft planes of your breasts, the definition of the muscles in his arms and abs — your pussy swallowing his cock with wet, greedy sounds…

Your hips roll at a feverish pace, the head of his cock slamming perfectly into your soft walls and you moan as the hand on your left hip moves slightly until he’s flicking his thumb over your clit.

Fuck yes. He knows you so well. 

“Oh f— fuck. You feel so good, you feel so good...” You mumble, hips moving faster, the chair audibly creaking with the force of your thrusts.

“Yeah? It must be really fucking good if you can barely wait a few hours before acting like a brat for that cock, huh?” Aemond runs his tongue over his teeth, taking his time to tease your clit as you bounce up and down, sending you a hooded, hungry look as he continues, “But I can’t deny that you look so cute when act like a little slut for me, when you let me use you however I want, drunk on my cock and hungry for cum like the good whore you are. I fucking love it. Come on, take me, fuck me, show me how much you want this.”

Moaning loudly, your widened knees nipping at his hips, you nearly come at those words alone — eyes rolling back with an open mouth.

“Greedy brat…”

“Y-your greedy brat—” 

“My brat.” He growls approvingly, thrusting his hips deep into yours, steadily building that tension in you again, knotting your belly.

Your head falls forward and you watch him smile and bite his lip as thrusts into you again and again and again. Your own hips struggle to keep up with his punishing pace, even though you’re the one on top. His thumb moves as ruthlessly as his cock — a quick, easy rhythm at times, a drastic shift into a languid thrust at others; a torturous pace that somehow wipes all thought from your eternally thoughtful brain.

By now, your mind is so clouded and focused on the pleasure he’s giving you that you no longer understand anything the other players are saying over the server chat. But you know they’re still there. A staticky blur of what sounds like compliments to you, declarations of envy to Aemond, and even a few muffled sounds of pleasure. None of it matters, though. Nothing but the man beneath you.

“That’s it, beautiful. Are you going to cum on my cock, baby?” He whispers, his voice thick with lust as you grind against him relentlessly, head thrown to the side and mouth open, letting sweet sounds fall from your lips.

You can feel the heat emanating from him, the intensity growing by the second.

“Aemond…so close…” You gasp, body shaking uncontrollably.

“Cum for me, baby…scream my name, let them know who’s fucking you, who’s the only one who can fuck you.” He demands, his cock and thumb never stopping their relentless assault on your most sensitive spots. Every inch up drags his cock against those nerves inside your walls. Every inch down keeps you full and exploding with him, there’s no release, no edge to be found, it’s just pleasure, cigarette smoke and the heat of his body.

"Aemond!"

You build so stellarly, so intensely, it almost feels like you’re building up in your mouth, that sticky, warm sweetness. The sensation burns behind your belly button, sinks between your hips, tingles in your pussy, pulses in your clit against your stomach, until your fingers are shaking, white and slick on his shoulders and his mouth is on your neck as you fall forward, writhing and moaning.

And still, he keeps working you, well past that limit, keeping you so full of him, so focused on him, that there’s nothing else in the world but his skin, his cock, his voice in your ear.

“That’s it, that’s it. Come on, pretty girl.”

And you do. Choked sobs into his skin. A toe-curling, thigh-trembling release, clenching around the thickness of his cock.

As he promised, tears flash in your eyes at the sheer intensity of this orgasm, and you sniff pathetically into his neck.

“Mmm, such a crybaby…” he scoffs, but still wraps his arms around your body, hugging you tightly as he pounds his hips into yours, panting wetly into your shoulder and neck. “You’re gonna make me cum so fucking hard with that cute little cry and that pussy squeezing my cock over and over…”

A strangled moan escapes your throat.

“Y-yes, please—inside Aem, cum inside me, please, I need it!” You can feel him shudder in response, his tip buried against your cervix.

“That’s my greedy girl.” There’s a ghost of a kiss on your neck. “I fucking love this, baby. I fucking love you.”

You sob and he thrusts into you again, his hips slamming into your thighs with so much impact you’re sure you’ll bruise. He grips you flush against his body, stopping inside you with one deep thrust, slowly spilling hot streams of thick cum into your pussy as he pants harshly in your ear. Your body feels like it’s vibrating, wracked and claimed.

You’re panting, chest rising and falling against his, bites and hickeys beginning to bloom across your exposed skin. You’re pleasantly gorged on his seed, high on the rush of endorphins and satisfaction that washes over you.

“Hey losers,” Aemond mumbles into the mic after a while, a ghost of a smile on his lips and a wicked glint in his eye, “try not to jerk off too much to the memory of this in the next few days.”

And before the chat can explode into a flurry of dirty comments and sharp retorts, he reaches over to end the call and close the game window.

You sigh wearily, distantly aware that he’s rising from his chair with you in his arms. You hold him tighter, face in the crook of his neck, breathing in his comforting scent, and he nuzzles you back. And for a moment, you think he’s taking you to the bed or the bathroom, to clean you up. Your face scrunches up in sleepy confusion when he sets you down on his desk instead.

He runs the pad of his thumb over your swollen lips, smirking at you before he lowers himself. His tongue suddenly slides into your mouth and you accept it obediently, one of his hands running through your hair, pulling your head back, changing the angle of the kiss. Your mind is confused by the smell of him suffocating you in the best way, but before you can get too deep into it you feel him pulling away a few inches, enough to slide his cock out of your pussy.

You grunt a sound at this, but Aemond ignores, positioning himself better in front of you with a suspiciously amused glint in his eye - even though his other, mutilated and missing, lends him a look of constant danger.

“Spread your legs wide for me, baby.”

Even though you were suspicious about the meaning of that look, you did as he said, parting your legs slowly for his view.

“Why do you want to — oh ,” you close your mouth the moment you understand why he asked for it. Your cheeks burn as feel his hot cum slowly spurt from your pussy, dripping down between your thighs and onto his desk.

His gaze darkens until there’s nothing blue left in him, just that animalistic darkness and desire that makes your core throb with anticipation once more. You blink down at his hard cock - even after so much time together you’re still genuinely surprised at how long he could last.

You could have sworn he growled when you tried to close your legs, sending you a sharp, narrowed look before reaching his fingers down to your pussy, gathering the cum that was already on your thighs and pushing it back into your quivering entrance.

“A-Aemond, I don’t know if I can...if I can keep going with this—”

“Hmm...really?” He hums, lewdly watching his fingers sink into your pussy with an absolutely embarrassing squirting sound, his other hand casually stimulating his hardening cock with languid pumps. “But you tried so hard to get my attention before — a needy little slut on a mission...”

His voice is dangerously low, purring as he closes the distance between the two of you, a few strands of ice-blonde hair slick with sweat around his face.

“I really hope this bratty behavior of yours was worth it. Because you’re only leaving this fuckin room when I’m completely satisfied.”

And with that he pushes himself lazily to the hilt inside you once more, so slowly that you feel every veiny inch of his thick cock stretching you — pushing his cum into you again until your eyes roll back in your head.

Smooth and easy and relentless as he draws back to the tip and thrusts to the root, and then again, and then one broad hand is smoothing down your side and curling under one thigh to flick you up and open and the angle is so much better.

Aemond shivers with a guttural groan, nuzzling into the shell of your ear, and you sob again, so heated and so turned on by how completely your boyfriend has you wrapped around his fingers.

And oh yes. That was a phenomenal idea that certainly worth for you. And you can’t be humble about it — the credit is all yours.

Heat blooms in the center between your legs. You turn your head to the side, resting your sweaty temple against his. Your breath is shared between you, slow pumps of his cock into your sticky pussy.

“You bet it was worth.” You murmur, with a sugary little smile that is equal parts mischievous and shy.

Aemond snorts in amusement, though his brows are heavily slanted over his gaze, and he’s blinking at you hungrily, the way he weaves just a trace of fear into the lust that curls inside you, heavy as smoke.

“Greedy brat.”

And as you stand there; panting wetly against his lips, feeling the hard planes of his body against yours, his thick cock inside your walls, his hands on your skin like an amalgam of possessiveness — welcoming his dark hunger like it’s your sole mission in life…

Yes, as you can already feel the slow burn of your orgasm building, tingling and warming you from the inside out, you think he might be right. You are a greedy brat.

But only for him.

Always for him.

[nunununuy]

Part 1

Part 2

Main Character Prince x NPC Fem Reader

Tittle: "Awakening in a World of Survival: The Prince's Fate"

In the midst of the bustling traffic, a man was crossing the street, his eyes glued to his phone. Without a glance to his left or right, he continued walking, oblivious to the world around him. On the phone screen, an RPG survival otome game, currently popular, displayed a scene where his character was conversing with a female NPC. Every now and then, a faint smile crossed his face, satisfied with the progress he was making in the game.

People around him began to panic. A large truck was speeding toward him, far too fast to stop in time. Some bystanders started shouting, trying to get his attention. "Watch out!" "Get out of the way!" "There's a truck!" But the man heard nothing. His earphones blasted music, drowning out all the warnings. Still focused on his phone, he moved his character to give a gift to the NPC. Unfortunately, the gift was rejected because it could only be given to one of the available love interests.

Finally, he looked up. His eyes met the truck's grille barreling toward him at full speed. Time seemed to slow down. The man froze, shocked, his mouth slightly open. The truck was too close, and there was no time to react. The inevitable collision occurred. His body was flung into the air, while the truck sped away, leaving the scene.

The world around him went silent. The man felt no pain, only emptiness. His body felt weightless, but he couldn’t move. People gathered around, some trying to help, but their voices sounded distant, like they belonged to another world. His eyes grew heavy. He was so tired, unbearably tired. As the darkness began to swallow him, he surrendered to the exhaustion, slowly closing his eyes for what he thought would be the last time.

But when he opened his eyes again, the scene before him was entirely different. Gone were the crowded streets and panicked people. Instead, he found himself in an unfamiliar bedroom. The room had a vintage, aristocratic feel, with tall windows draped in golden curtains. The bed he lay on was adorned with luxurious silk sheets, and a grand chandelier hung from the ceiling.

Confusion clouded his mind. Wasn't he just dying? Hadn't he already died? Before he could make sense of it, the door to the room swung open, and a maid entered. Upon seeing him awake, she gasped, then quickly bolted out of the room, calling for a doctor.

The man was left stunned. What was happening? Slowly, he rose from the bed and walked towards the large mirror in the corner of the room. What he saw stopped him in his tracks. The reflection staring back at him wasn’t his own. Long, silver hair cascaded down his shoulders, his eyes were a sharp blue, his skin flawless and pale, and his body was taller and more athletic than it had ever been.

“This… isn’t me,” he whispered.

The aristocratic face in the mirror seemed hauntingly familiar. "Damn it! I’ve been isekai’d into the game I was playing?!" he exclaimed in panic. It didn’t seem possible, but the reality before him was undeniable.

He had been transported into the body of a prince from a small, prosperous kingdom, the main character in the RPG survival otome game he had been playing. In the game, the prince would embark on a grand adventure to expand his kingdom’s power and search for legendary artifacts to battle the demons that would rise again after being sealed away for a hundred years.

With a deep breath, the man—now a prince—realized that his life was no longer just a game. Great challenges lay ahead, and he would have to find a way to survive in this new world.

___

The prince, or the main character, was named "Leonhart Valerian," the crown prince of a small yet prosperous kingdom, destined to become a powerful leader. At 15 years old, Leonhart was on the path to grow into a strong prince who would lead a great battle against the rising demons that had been sealed away for a hundred years.

___

Leonhart sat on his bed, his body still weary from the recent events. Around him, the royal doctor carefully examined him, while the king and queen stood by his bedside, their expressions filled with concern. The queen’s eyes brimmed with tears of relief, overjoyed that her only son had woken up after the terrifying accident. Leonhart remained silent, feeling awkward under their watchful eyes, especially because he wasn’t truly the "Leonhart" they knew. He felt like a stranger in the body of the prince.

The doctor eventually finished the examination and declared that Prince Leonhart had no serious injuries. His brief coma had been caused by shock from falling into the river, but aside from that, he was perfectly fine. Hearing this, the king and queen sighed in relief. The queen immediately approached Leonhart, gently holding his hand with motherly tenderness. "I was so afraid you wouldn’t wake up," she said, her voice trembling with emotion.

Leonhart felt guilty but tried to soothe her. "I’m fine, really. There’s nothing to worry about," he reassured her, his voice calm yet firm. The king also expressed his concerns, and once again, Leonhart did his best to reassure both parents, whom he had only just met in this world.

Thankfully, the game had a feature that allowed Leonhart to view the character’s memories, so he had already studied the history and relationships of the prince. After the king and queen returned to their royal duties, Leonhart was left alone in his chamber.

Sitting there, he began to recall the game’s storyline. Currently, Prince Leonhart was 15 years old, and the main storyline wouldn’t begin until he turned 20. The demon seals would start to break when he turned 22, which meant he had seven years to prepare for the impending catastrophe.

One of the first things Leonhart noticed was the absence of any system interface or quests appearing before him. It seemed like he was free to do as he pleased, without the constraints of the game’s rules. This was a great relief. Now, he could start collecting vital artifacts much earlier than the main plot intended.

Beyond that, there was a personal goal that Leonhart felt strongly about. He wanted to meet (name), an NPC character in the game who had been unavailable as a love interest, but whom Leonhart had always admired. Previously, he was frustrated because he couldn’t give (name) the special gift, but now, with full freedom, he was determined to approach her and present the gift when the time came.

Leonhart smiled to himself. (name), the girl he considered the love of his life, was now within reach. In his heart, despite how excessive it may sound, he always had deep feelings for her, more so than any of the game’s designated love interests. Now, he was eager to begin his journey—not only to save the world but also to win the heart of the girl he had always dreamed of.

"One day, I will give you the Azure Eternis, (name)," Leonhart whispered to himself with determination.

___

The ring was named "Azure Eternis," a simple blue ring imbued with extraordinary power. Not only was it a symbol of engagement, but it also possessed magical abilities for self-defense, including teleportation, offensive magic, and the ability to track the wearer’s location. Only a true love interest in the game could accept this special ring.

___

[sonolynn]

Blood and Cheese

request: Aemond x ( Rhaenyra x Criston daughter ) niece were married and having a son. instead kill aegon son b&c kill Aemond son. How Rhaenyra daughter try to save her son from b&c and what people react after find out about Aemond son being kill. I need this fic so bad…

summary | Daemon took Rhaenyra's words literally. "A son for a son" he said. Who knew that it would be your son?

pairing | Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Wife!Reader

tags | mentions of BLOOD, extreme grief, talk of child murdering, knifes, MORE BLOOD, infanticide, DEATH, extreme grief. mentions of murder

w.c | 3.8k

TW!!!!!!!!! | I personally have a very gruesome writing style when it comes to things like this, so if anything relating to infanticide or violence will trigger or bother you please don't read!!

____________________________________________

You loved your son. You named your son Baelon, after your mothers lost brother. Aemond knew how much you love Baelon, and he would be a fool if he said he did not love his son as well. 

Aemond tried to pride himself with being stoic and emotionally unavailable. But the minute they put his squirming son's body in his arms he felt his whole world resolve. The boy was the most beautiful thing to him, and he couldn’t believe that half of this being came from him. 

Ever since that night, Aemond became softer. When you weren’t breastfeeding, or when you got tired from taking care of the crying infant, Aemond would immediately offer to take the boy. When Bealon would cry in the middle of the night, Aemond would be up almost immediately, rushing to be at the babe's side. It took you almost forty minutes to convince him that it would be better if he slept with you and not in the nursery. 

And everything was fine until the night he killed Luke. 

Aemond would come back to the Keep late at night, still shaken from what he had involuntarily done. When he got back to his chambers, he saw his wife, his sweet, innocent wife holding his son. 

You had a smile on your face, Baelon coo’ing in your arms as he giggled and reached up to play with your braided, black hair. When you looked up, and noticed Aemond, your smile faltered. 

Aemond stared at you, and for a second his face was his normal and stoic, but the minute his son, his little Baelon, reached for him with a smile he broke down. 

That night he told you everything; He apologized profusely, and for the first time in all of Baelon’s four months of living, he refused to hold him. 

“I’ll only hurt him.” Is what Aemond told you. Your heart broke a little when you heard this, and you tried to reassure him but he wouldn’t have any of it. 

____________________________________________

“Aemond?” Aemond stopped, looking at you with a soft sigh.

“Darling, what have I told you about sleeping on the couch?” His voice was tired, full of weariness from having to deal with Aegon’s antics. You smiled softly as you sat up, holding out your hands out for him. He sighed as he sat down with you. He immediately cuddled against you, letting out a long, heavy breath as his head come into contact with your chest. 

This was how you two spent most of your time now. At night, Aemond would come to you and he would cuddle against you, yearning for that love and affection only you could seemingly give him. You two sat like this for a while, you stroking his head, and him stroking your stomach. 

“...I do regret that business with Luke, you know.” 

“I know.” 

There was more silence. It seemed that between you and Baelon, the only time Aemond’s mind was quiet now was when he was with you, in your embrace, being held by you. Not being treated as a monster, or a ruthless warrior, but rather just a man. Just your husband. 

In the distance, you heard the sound of your son’s wails. You sighed heavily, and you looked down at Aemond. 

“Perhaps he wishes for his father’s arms.” You spoke softly, watching as Aemond slowly sat up. 

“He does not.” He shook his head, leaning against the back of the couch. He avoided your gaze, knowing the somber look you were giving him. 

“Are you sure you do not wish to join me?” Aemond sat still, a look on his face that held some sort of thought before he shook his head softly. 

“I’ll see him first thing in the morning, my love.” You smiled at the thought, and you held his hand as you walked away. He watched you leave, a sad smile on his face. The wails from Baelon stopped moments later, and Aemond sighed heavily. 

Tomorrow, he thought, i’ll see him tomorrow. 

The worst part about this sentiment is that Aemond would see his son tomorrow. However, Baelon would be on a pyre. 

____________________________________________

The night started off peaceful. You sat in your rocking chair, rocking back and forth with Baelon in your arms. You smiled to yourself, holding the-now-sleeping babe in your arms. You hadn’t even registered the two men behind you. 

When one of them accidently knocked something over, you immediately jumped. 

“Aemond?” You whispered, quickly turning around. However, you were met with the face of two, unruly men you didn’t recognize. You saw the bag they held, along with the rat traps. “Who-Who are you?” You tried to stay strong, but you knew your voice gave away your fear. 

One of the men, the taller, bigger one looked you up and down. He turned to the other man and spoke softly. “Who is she?” 

“This…Is the one eyed prince’s wife.” Your breath hitched as the shorter man spoke. They both looked reasonably dirty, like rat catchers, but you knew something was wrong. 

“There are no rats in here.” The two men started to walk towards you, murmuring something about your husband underneath their breath. You had half a mind to turn and run, but they seemed to have the same idea. 

The shorter man came to you, and put a knife to your throat. You gasped, and clutched Baelon closer to you. The boy whined softly at the pressure. 

“Give us the boy, and we won’t hurt you.” The taller man spoke. You looked at him and held Baelon tighter.

“You have no business with my son-”

“Give us the boy!” The taller men yelled. You flinched, and at the sudden noise, Baelon started to cry. You looked between the men, and you felt tears in your eyes as the anxiety started to build up in your chest. 

“I-I have uhm..I have many valuable items. I have gold! I have lots of gold that I have no need for-” 

The taller man kicked the edge of Baelon’s crib and you held back a scream. The taller men started to speak to the shorter man, but the words they spoke didn’t process fully in your brain. All you saw was an open door. 

“AEM-” You started to scream your husband's name, but the man with the knife to your throat pushed the knife further and grabbed your hair roughly. You cried, and Baelon wailed in your arms. The taller man put his hand on Baelon’s head and tried to pry him from you grip. 

“NO!” You cried out, trying to pull him back, but it didn’t work. With a quick snap your boy was pried from you. The shorter man threw you back, causing you to hit your head against the chair you were previously rocking in. 

Your head was fuzzy, and all you heard was the wails of your son, painful wails that slowly died down. When you sat up, you saw the men putting the tiny head of your son in a bag. Your whole world stopped, and just as the men escaped down the hall, you screamed. 

Your chest ached, and your throat burned. You stare down at the body, slowly crawling to it as you shake your head and mutter small, inconsistent prayers to yourself. You reached out a hand, placing it on the body’s belly, rubbing it softly as if that would relieve some of the pain that was given to your innocent baby boy. 

You choked on your own tears, wishing for nothing more than your own death in that moment. Screams erupted from your throat; Horrid, painful screams followed by sobs. This pain, this all consuming immeasurable pain you wished on no one. The feeling of your own blood on your hands as you stared at the decapitated body was sickening, but you couldn’t look away. 

How could something so small hold so much blood? You thought to yourself, watching as the blood spilled from the clumsy cut. 

Alicent was the first to arrive, followed by Aemond soon after. Alicent stared at the scene in front of her, and while she resented you (seeing you as a constant reminder of Rhaenyra’s blatant lie to her), the pain she felt for you was disgusting. She backed out of the room slowly and placed a hand on her stomach to ground herself.

Aemond couldn’t step into the room. He just stared down at you, his son's body. The thought that this headless, infants body was his own son’s, his baby boy’s-

He couldn’t move. The pain for him was nothing short of paralyzing. But what broke him the most was you. 

You sobbed, violently sobbed as you placed your hands in your son's blood and tried to pull it back. As if that would fix everything. Aemond felt nauseous, seeing you so desperately cling to the idea that you could fix this. Once the realization started to settle that this was not helping, your body seemed to shut down. You laid down, holding your hands on your son's body as you sobbed. 

No words were exchanged, not knowing what to say. Aemond leaned against the door frame, mind numb as he slowly slid down the frame. He stared at nothing, his mind replaying all the times he held the boy, watched him smile.

____________________________________________

Aemond stood next to you the following day, watching as your baby boy's body was burned on a pillar. He was numb, his face pale and full of so much grief that it sobered anyone up. You were a mess. Tears and incoherent sobs escaped your throat, and you clung to Aemond. Aemond stayed still, gently holding you as if any small movement would cause the last shred of resolve to leave your body. 

As the fire burned, you buried your face into Aemond’s chest, refusing to watch. Aemond let you, holding your head softly. 

But Aemond stared. He watched as the wrapped body was consumed by the flames. He forced himself to watch as the flames consumed his son, his own retribution for not being there, for not helping you, for not holding his son one last time. 

As he watched the ashes of the pyre falter, Aemond made a promise to himself. 

He would kill Daemon Targaryen with his own hands.

____________________________________________

a/n: guys im sorry.

[realmsofdreams]

broken

pairing: aemond targaryen x fem!reader

summary: you are aemond targaryen’s wife, married for love in a union that defied the cold traditions of westeros. just days after giving birth to your first child, a son named daeron, a raven arrives bearing a letter from alys rivers.

warnings: angst, themes of betrayal, postpartum vulnerability and exhaustion, heartbreak and doubt in a romantic relationship, no physical violence, but intense emotional conflict.

author notes: do you guys want a part 2? also… would you forgive him? personally, i wouldn’t, i’d take my babe and leave. but what do you think?

your body still ached from the birth, a quiet soreness that lingered beneath your skin, but there was a warmth too, a fierce love for the babe you’d brought into the world, little daeron slept in his cradle beside you, his tiny chest rising and falling with soft, shallow breaths. he was only four days old, a perfect blend of you and aemond with your gentle features and his sharp targaryen silver hair. aemond had been there, holding your hand through the long hours, whispering promises of a future for the three of you. his love had always felt like a steady flame, unyielding and true.

you were propped against the pillows, tracing daeron’s little fingers with your own, when the door opened. aemond stepped in, his long stride quieter than usual, as if he feared waking the babe.

his eyepatch was off, something he only did with you and the sapphire in its place glinted faintly.

“you should be resting,”

he said, warm voice, crossing to sit beside you on the bed. he brushed a strand of hair from your face, his touch tender.

“i will,”

you murmured, offering a tired smile.

“he’s been fussy. i think he misses you.”

aemond’s lips quirked upward, and he leaned down to press a kiss to daeron’s forehead, then yours.

“i’ve missed you both,”

he said, settling beside you. for a moment, it was perfect, the quiet, the closeness, the family you’d dreamed of.

then came the knock. a servant entered, bowing low, a small scroll clutched in her hand.

“my prince, my lady, a raven came for you,”

she said, placing it on the table before slipping out.

you frowned, a letters for you were rare, especially now, when all of westeros knew you’d just given birth.

aemond’s brow furrowed.

“who’s it from?”

he asked, but there was a tightness in his voice, a shadow you didn’t catch at first.

“i don’t know,”

you said, reaching for it.

the wax seal was plain, unmarked, and your fingers hesitated as you broke it. the parchment unrolled, and as your eyes skimmed the words, the warmth in the room slowly drained away. your breath caught, sharp and painful, and you read it again, silently, to be sure. then, with a voice that shook despite your efforts, you read it aloud.

“to the lady targaryen, wife of aemond,

i am alys rivers, a woman of the riverlands. i write with a heavy heart, for i know the joy you must feel with your newborn child. yet i cannot keep silent. your husband and i shared a night together, months past, when he rode through my lands. he spoke of you even then, of his love for you, but the gods saw fit to leave me with a piece of him. i carry his child, soon to be born. i seek no claim on his heart, only acknowledgment of what is true. i leave my fate to you, trusting in the kindness your house is known for. may the old gods and the new watch over you and your babe.

in humility,

alys rivers”

the words heavy as a storm cloud. the parchment slipped from your hands, fluttering to the floor, and you stared at it, numb. aemond didn’t move, didn’t speak, his silence louder than any confession. you turned to him, searching his face the face you’d loved, trusted, clung to through every trial. his eye was fixed on the floor, his jaw tight, and that alone cracked something inside you.

“when?”

your voice was a whisper, fragile and raw.

“when did this happen?”

he swallowed hard, still not meeting your gaze.

“before daeron,” he said, barely audible.

“during the campaign in the riverlands. it was once. a mistake.”

a mistake. you pressed a hand to your chest, as if you could stop the ache spreading there.

“you never told me,”

you said, louder now, though your throat burned.

“i gave you everything, aemond, my heart, my trust, this child and you kept this from me?”

aemond finally looked at you, and the guilt in his eye was a blade twisting deeper.

“i didn’t want to hurt you,”

he said, reaching for your hand. you jerked it away, the motion instinctive, and his face fell.

“it was nothing, i swear it. i love you. i’ve only ever loved you.”

“then why does she write to me?”

your voice broke, tears stinging your eyes.

“why does she carry your child, aemond? how am i supposed to believe you when i’m lying here, still bleeding from giving you a son, and she’s out there with another?”

he flinched, as if your words had struck him, and maybe they had.

“i don’t know what she wants,”

he said, desperation creeping in.

“i didn’t ask for this. i didn’t—”

the room spun, the exhaustion of childbirth and the weight of this betrayal crashing over you like a wave. your family was known for kindness, for strength and you’d borne pain with grace, faced every challenge with a steady heart.

but this? this felt like a wound you couldn’t mend.

daeron stirred in his cradle, a soft whimper breaking the silence, and you moved to him instinctively, lifting him into your arms. you held him close, tears slipping down your cheeks as you looked at aemond.

“i thought we were different,” you whispered.

“i thought your love was mine alone.”

“it is,”

he said, standing now, his voice rough with emotion.

“gods, it is. i’ll write to her, send her away, anything you want.”

“what i want?” you laughed, bitter and broken.

“i wanted a husband who didn’t lie to me. i wanted to believe you when you said i was enough.”

you rocked daeron gently, his cries quieting, but your own storm raged on.

“she’s asking for my kindness, aemond. my mercy. how do i give that when i feel like i’m falling apart?”

he stepped closer, hesitant, his hand hovering near your shoulder.

“i’ll spend my life making this right,”

he said, voice cracking.

“i swear it on daeron, on you, on everything i am.”

you didn’t answer.

you couldn’t.

the letter lay on the floor, a cruel reminder of the crack in the life you’d built. your heart, so full of love for him just hours ago, now ached with doubt. you looked down at daeron, then at aemond, and the question burned in your chest.

could you forgive this? could you still believe in him?

again?

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Rage Becomes Her

Aemond x bastardTargaryen!female

Summary: of all the Targaryen bastards he could have underestimated, it should not have been her | Word Count: 3.8k~ | Warnings: smut, Aemond being a fat douche, mentions of sex work, angst, oc described as having Targaryen features

No day was as cursed as the day her mother looked between her bloodied thighs, glancing up at the faces of her friends and common women, with shame and fright. The babe between her legs was pink and crying, their skin glistening with afterbirth, and a tuft of silver hair atop their tiny head.

What was survival, when the Gods had bestowed a Targaryen bastard into her belly.

Her own daughter lived as her mother did, learning the ways of the body and pleasure. She could recall the first time a man leered at her. Only two and ten and barely formed into the shape of a woman. Somehow the silver sheen to her hair made men think they could have her before her ripening. Plucked from the tree too early.

If only her mother could have resisted the irresistible pull of greed. Purses of gold coins lined her pockets, paid to her with the virtue of her only daughter.

An income. Nothing more.

It was only when she died, that she formed her own protection. Madame Sylvi gave her more freedoms than the usual whores. Bestowed upon as her ‘choice’. Something she had known little.

The brothel was tucked away in one of the narrow, winding alleys of King's Landing, a hidden enclave where nobles and commoners alike sought the pleasures denied to them in the light of day. The air was thick with the scent of incense and the low murmur of whispered promises. Sweet ones, from between the lips of whores.

The men who paid for the service or fucking a young woman with silver hair were usually all the same. Drunken fools with egos far bigger than their cocks, eager to stick whatever they pleased between her legs to make themselves feel like men.

She rarely spared it much thought. She moaned sweetly and whispered hushed mutterings to inflate their already fragile masculinity. Did what she had to do to survive, like so many around her.

But she would be remiss not to think about her most recent patron. One whom she had stolen from Madame Sylvi, who did not seem particularly precious about the loss, seeing as the One Eyed Prince simply crossed the threshold to her room instead. As long as business was within her four walls, she was content.

He was, at first, quiet and required work and effort to calm his fraught and tense muscles. But like most men, the second he sheathed himself inside her, he was a man driven by the inescapable warmth of not only her cunt, but by the comfort of what it provided. However false.

The night is seared firmly into her memory. His body heavy with Milk of the Poppy, he staggered as he pulled his clothes off, and for some time he was unable to become hard due to its calming effects. And she saw the familiar pang of annoyance most men got when their fleshy counterparts would not do as the mind commanded. 

She will never forget the look upon his face as she knelt in front of him, took his heavy manhood in her palm and pressed her lips to the shaft, stroking upwards with her touch and tongue. Beneath him like this, his face angled and sharp, one could be mistaken he was a statue. His skin resembled such porcelain. Made smooth by the hands of the Gods themselves. 

He had looked upon her as if she were an entity of the Seven Heavens. And when she took him into her mouth, his breath hitched, and his hands instinctively tangled in her hair. The sensation was overwhelming, a blend of pleasure and relief that washed over him in waves.

She moved with an expert's grace, her rhythm steady and unhurried, drawing soft moans from his lips. For a moment, the world outside ceased to exist; there was only the warm, wet heat of her mouth and the exquisite torture of her tongue. He closed his eye, surrendering to the pleasure, feeling the tension in his body slowly melt away. Aemond's grip tightened as he guided her movements, lost in the sensation and the raw intimacy of the act.

He fucked in very much the same way. With urgency. As if someone were to take her away.

Was it some necessity this great man needed, away from the bustling court and the duties of his birth?

Or she reasoned he fucked her because he was simply bored of Sylvi.

But as it became more and more regular, she began to realise that her forbidden parentage played a more significant role than she had first thought. He wanted someone who looked so like his ideal, but someone who ultimately was destined to remain, steadfastly, inferior.

Aemond Targaryen pushed open the heavy wooden door, its creak swallowed by the hum of conversation and laughter inside. He pulled his hood lower, shielding his face from prying eyes. Though he was a prince, here he was just another man seeking escape. Several women crowded him, offering wine, their bodies and services with doe eyes and lips framed with rouge.

The back of the brothel was shrouded with silken curtains, providing no real privacy but rather giving one the security of feeling it. Pale pinks, lilacs, warm amber glows bounced off the stone walls, a warm emanating through the space as if walking through honey, and willing to be drowned in it. It was a dangerous feeling indeed. The warm, sticky call of a woman’s body.

The first time he saw her he did not like her. The whore with silver, golden hair. She had a bastard’s taint on her bloodline despite its noble sheen. There was a part of him that refused to admit that despite the muddied nature of her birth, that she was beautiful. He was still willing to be held by Sylvi back then, cuddled against the woman’s breasts like a babe.

It was different now.

Sylvi regarded him, using her body as somewhat of a shield, to part him and the heavenly depravity that lay across the threshold. She said nothing, and simply extended her hand, to show her palm. Aemond noted the surprised look in her knowing eyes when she felt the weight of the purse, the familiar tune of coins ringing true and greedily.

She fetched a hefty price compared to the others. One Aemond was willing to pay for her company.

When he pulled the silks aside and stepped within her lair, she was seated as usual, upon a chaise draped with rich fabrics, her posture relaxed and yet alert. Her hair, so much like his own, caught the flickering candlelight, like looking up to the stars when one was too deep in their cups, only to find the silver light stretching across their vision.

Only the muffled music was heard, and the rapid thud of his heart.

The fabrics lay like water on her skin, cinched at her waist. The translucent material had her rosy buds perk beneath it, the glimmering and blushing shade of pink almost alike to her own flesh in the low and intimate amber light. She did not need to show herself to entice, he thought.

“My Prince.”

She greeted with a soft, warm melody of enchanting, in a manner that eased his shoulders but not his soul. He regarded her face the same way Sylvi did to him. One eye glazing over her familiar features. 

His motions were easy to memorise. He would do no more than was necessary, as most patrons did. He would strip from his clothing, lay between her thighs and take her roughly. Preparation for someone as lowborn as her, and getting paid for it, was no necessity for a customer, nevermind a prince.

There were glimpses where it was enjoyable. But Prince Aemond was guarded, sometimes so much so she hardly thought him capable of the act. But he would surprise her. And once he was done, he would lay beside her, and he would talk, with only their flesh as comfort.

Sometimes, like right at this moment, he would just lay beside her, running her bright locks, ruffled from their salacious acts, through his long and slender fingers. She often thought he looked like a lost soul, eyepatch discarded and bared in this wretched place for her to lay her eyes upon. And then another thought lay under that still. The thought that this man before her had such hate in his heart for his half sister’s children, and yet visited her every other evening to sink into the haven that her own existence offered.

An existence she was sure he internally loathed.

But it seemed he loathed himself more than anything else.

“Do you dream of being more than you are.” Not a question. An inquisition shaped as a demand.

She hesitated, knowing that her answer must please him. "My dreams are inconsequential, my prince. My only desire is to serve you and to bring you comfort."

He smirked, satisfied with her response. "It is the natural order of things. Your role here suits you, providing solace to those of us born to higher stations."

She felt her brows furrow in annoyance, but tried to soften her features, his keen blue eye boring into her face. Your role here suits you. And what was that exactly? A whore who merely existed to be a sheath for men’s blades whenever it suited them. A vessel, nothing more.

"I would never forget, my prince," she said softly, her eyes downcast. "Your presence is the only thing that gives my life meaning."

Aemond reached out, his hand cupping her cheek. "Sometimes, I wonder if there is more to you than just your services to me."

Her heart quickened, but she kept her voice calm and composed. "I am whatever you need me to be, my prince."

Often, that was all it took to sate him. 

He would always come back, in varying moods, and she felt the reins on her white-hot temper begin to slip, the flames rearing to the roof of her insides the more delicate insults came out of his mouth. Those among her argued that he cared for her deeply. But how can a man care for a woman and say such hurtful words in exchange?

A bastard, indeed she was. But her existence strayed the line between demanding some semblance of respect, drawn to her by the milky skin and pale hair that he recognised in himself. She pondered this contradiction endlessly. Why did he come to her, night after night, seeking her presence, only to remind her of her inferiority? What was it about her that captivated him, despite his disdain?

Her thoughts often wandered as she prepared for his visits, trying to unravel the mystery of Aemond Targaryen. Did he see something in her that he could not find elsewhere? Was it the shared blood, tainted as it was by her illegitimacy? Or was it simply the thrill of asserting his power over someone who mirrored his own visage?

“You seem troubled.”

“It is nothing,” his response was cool, followed by the discarding of his hood, only turning when she urged a decently full glass of wine into his hand.

“You forget, my prince, that I am well-versed in the art of reading men. Tell me, what burdens you tonight?”

Stealing the wine from his lips, he cannot help the wandering of his fingers, tracing the golden spun locks of her hair that glow moonlit as he touches them. “Your features betray you,” he muses, “do you ever wonder what it would have been like, had you been born legitimate?" he asked, his tone laced with condescension.

She hesitated, searching his eyes for any hint of sincerity, but found only the cold amusement that so often accompanied his words. "It is not my place to wonder such things," she replied, her voice steady. "My fate was decided long before I drew my first breath."

He tilted his head, studying her. "And yet, you bear the mark of our blood so clearly. It must gnaw at you, knowing you could never rise above your station, no matter how much you resemble the dragonlords of old."

"Perhaps," she admitted softly, "but we all have our roles to play, my prince. Even those born amongst lust and lechery."

Aemond's fingers continued their path through her hair, his touch both gentle and possessive. "You speak wisely for one of your birth," he said, a faint smile playing on his lips. "It is a pity you were not born to a higher station. You might have made an interesting rival."

"Or an ally," she suggested, daring to meet his gaze.

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "Or an ally," he conceded. "But as it stands, you are here, and I am there. The order of things remains unchanged."

"And you come here to see me," she retorted, her gaze unwavering. "What does that say about you, my prince?"

“I enjoy you.”

"Or perhaps the dragon seeks something he cannot find elsewhere."

Aemond’s expression hardened, his pride pricked by her words. "Do not presume to understand me. You are here because I allow it."

"And you are here because you need it," she countered, her voice a seductive whisper. "What drives you to seek solace in the arms of a bastard? A whore?"

He pulled back, his eyes narrowing. "You speak too boldly-"

"I speak truth," she said, her gaze unflinching. "Something even a prince cannot escape."

Aemond regarded her for a long moment, a mixture of contempt and fascination warring within him. She was a puzzle, a riddle wrapped in the enigma of her bloodline. He hated and desired her in equal measure, drawn to the mystery of her existence.

She let out a breath, surprised when his fingers wrenched around her face, tugging her towards him. But her expression never faltered. “I wonder who is the depraved cunt who sired you,” Aemond murmured, deep and low against her face.

“Prince Daemon or the late King Viserys, it does not matter. Half of the whores on the Street of Silk knew the shape of their cocks-”

Aemond's grip tightened, his eyes blazing with fury. "Watch your tongue," he hissed, his breath hot against her skin. "You may have Targaryen blood, but you are still a whore. Do not forget your place."

She winced but refused to look away. "And yet here you are”. Her voice was steady, defiant, challenging him despite the pain.

His eyes narrowed, the fury in them warring with something deeper, something he could not name. "I am a man who indulges in his whims," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Nothing more."

"Is that all it is?" she whispered, her voice softening, searching his gaze. "An indulgence? Because if that's true, you wouldn't keep coming back."

Aemond's grip loosened slightly, his fingers trailing down her cheek. "You know nothing of my reasons," he said, a trace of vulnerability slipping through his hardened exterior.

He looked at her for a long moment, the conflict within him evident in his eyes. "You remind me of what I am and what I can never escape," he said finally, his voice a raw whisper. "The blood we share, the legacy that binds us. You are a mirror, showing me my weakness. The weakness of my House."

"And you, my prince, are the reminder of what I could have been. The life I was denied, the nobility I can never claim."

Aemond's hand twitched, a sudden urge to pull her close, to feel the warmth of her body against his, but he forced himself to remain still. He could not afford to show that side of himself, not to her, not to anyone. In another world, she might have been born legitimate, a sister to him, one he could wed, bed and breed at his leisure.

And yet.

"You speak of nobility as if it is something you could ever grasp," he said, his voice softer, yet still laced with condescension. "You will never be more than what you are now. A whore, a bastard, a mere footnote in the history of my House."

Her eyes flashed with quiet anger, a smouldering fire that burned beneath her calm exterior. How dare he speak to her this way? He knew nothing of the struggles, the pain, the countless indignities that had shaped her life.

"How fortunate you are, my prince," she said, her voice measured but tinged with bitterness, "to never have known the struggles of those who are less fortunate. To speak so easily of things you can never truly understand."

Aemond's gaze hardened, but he did not interrupt her.

"You may see me as nothing more than a whore and a bastard," she continued, her words steady, each one a dagger aimed at his pride. "But you know nothing of the world outside your gilded cage. You have no idea what it means to fight for every scrap of dignity, to claw your way through a life that was decided for you before you even drew breath."

Aemond's jaw clenched, his eyes burning with a mix of anger and something he couldn't quite name. "You forget yourself," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You forget to whom you speak."

"And you forget, my prince," she shot back, her voice unyielding, "that respect is earned, not given by birthright alone. And certainly not because you have a dragon."

A silence fell between them, heavy with unspoken truths and simmering tension. They stood there, locked in a battle of wills, neither willing to back down, both caught in the web of their shared blood and conflicting worlds. There was a strange respect in his gaze. As if he had seen the same flames that captivated him.

Slowly, she reached into the folds of her dress and pulled out the purse Aemond had paid her that night. She held it out to him, her hand steady. "Take it back," she said quietly, but firmly. "I don't want your coin."

He stared at her for a long moment, the purse heavy with silver between them. Slowly, he reached out and took it from her hand, his fingers brushing against hers. The touch was brief, but electric, a spark that neither could ignore. He could not help the smile that rose to his face, testing the weight of his coin in his palm. Looking down upon the woman in front of him with a cold but unyielding respect.

The events of that night lingered in Aemond's mind, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. The war was intensifying, and the tension within the Red Keep was palpable. It was during one of these tense small council meetings, that Aemond found his thoughts straying.

“Prince Daeron’s dragon, Tessarion, has at last taken to wing. Your brother expects to join the fight soon.” 

He half listened to Lord Wylde, his head half turned, eyes darting to listen to the cries of the smallfolk so loud it was as if they were in the room. Screams. Cries of terror.

“Dragon!”

“Get inside!”

“And when he does…the Hightower host will be unstoppable.”

He acted on instinct, feeling the hot whips of something he would not admit was panic at the back of his neck. The doors gave way to a bright, sunny afternoon. His one eye squinted to peer into the blue abyss, narrowed to the appearance of a great beast.

A dragon, its silver scales gleaming in the sunlight, descended from the sky.

Silverwing.

And there, riding atop the great beast, was her. Her silver hair flowed behind her like a banner for war, and her eyes, filled with determination, met his with an intensity that took his breath away. Aemond's mind raced, understanding dawning on him as he realised the implications.

Rhaenyra's recruitment of Dragonseeds had borne unexpected fruit.

She guided Silverwing to soar over King's Landing, her movements graceful and confident. She made several passes, almost as if she were flouting. The dragon's powerful wings created gusts of wind that rippled over Kings Landing, sending leaves and dust swirling, with smallfolk and merchants knocked off balance.

Aemond stood there, watching in a mix of awe and resentment. There was a part of him that couldn't help but admire the sight, the sheer power and majesty of the dragon, her commanding presence. But another part of him burned with anger. The idea of a bastard riding a dragon, flaunting her newfound status above the city, challenged everything he believed in.

What did that make him? How was he special if bastards could claim dragons? The exclusivity of his birthright felt tarnished, the unique status of House Targaryen diluted.

She seemed to sense his gaze, turning Silverwing to circle back and hover momentarily over the Keep. Her eyes locked onto his, a silent challenge in her gaze. She was revelling in her newfound power, asserting her place in a world that had tried to deny her.

Aemond's grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, his knuckles turning white. He liked her, there was no denying that. She fascinated and infuriated him in equal measure. But the sight of her riding Silverwing, basking in her defiance, stoked the flames of his inner conflict.

As Silverwing ascended higher, leaving King's Landing behind, Aemond's eyes followed them until they were mere specks against the sky. He stood there long after they had disappeared, wrestling with the tumultuous emotions swirling within him. Admiration, anger, attraction, and resentment collided in a storm that he couldn't quell.

The sun was setting by the time Aemond reached Vhagar. The great dragon stirred, sensing her rider's agitation. Aemond's resolve hardened as he climbed onto her back. With a command, Vhagar spread her immense wings and launched into the sky, the force of her takeoff shaking the ground below.

The flight to Dragonstone was swift. The wind whipped through Aemond's hair, his mind racing as fast as the dragon beneath him. He couldn't let this challenge go unanswered. 

As Dragonstone came into view, the outline of Silverwing against the darkening sky confirmed his target. He urged Vhagar to increase her speed, but the older dragon's pace couldn't match Silverwing's agility. Aemond's frustration grew with every beat of Vhagar's wings, the gap between them refusing to close.

She watched him, the man who had insulted her, bedded her, wronged her, as he turned his great beast mid-air, her own dragon purring against her touch atop the peak of a tower of Dragonstone. Even from afar, she could sense his frustration, the simmering anger that radiated from him, and she revelled in this unique reaction, savouring the way it felt.

For a moment, their eyes met, and in that silence, a thousand emotions passed between them. He glanced back over his shoulder, watching as she sat firm atop her beast, the wind whipping her hair around her face. The tension in the air was palpable, but there was also a sense of resolution, a quiet acknowledgment of the lines they had drawn.

That this was no surrender.

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@hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @justbelljust @minholy223 @mochi-rose

@natty2017 @nenelysian @nixiefics @primonizzutto @qyburnsghost

[gawkgokgok]

Silence of the lambs

Aemond Targaryen x Daemons daughter!reader

summary: You and Aemond married for the peace of the realm even though you disliked each other. Peace is the last thing you would find in your chambers...

warnings: MDNI, subtle violence, reluctant kissing, choking, attempted rape, a bit of a praise, tiddies!, all this but its suppose to be hurt/comfort😭😭 almost 2.3k

a/n: this is the first and probably the last thing I'll ever write. just had some fun and decided to share it here.🩵 English ain't my shit, sorry for the mistakes. hope this won't be a waste of your time divider credit @cafekitsune (hope that's okay) :P

Cold.

Cold and distant.

Two moons passed since your wedding day. Even though you shared chambers, you limped to get used to each other. Stiff. Not present. If you talked, it would be the smallest, briefest conversations only about necessary. Usually it was silence. That’s all you knew. And perhaps it was for the best...

Silence in the morns. Silence in the day. Silence in the nights. Most familiar whisper of your rooms was crunchy fire. The only thing that kept this place from turning into a dungeon.

Dungeon with chains lost on the eyes.

You returned tired to your shared coffins. Spending your evening with pregnant Helaena and her twins. Playing until little offsprings got tired and ready for their cribs. You seeked change. Anything, just to get the obese hours pass quicker.

Hands of wind grabbed your ankles and planted shivers across your skin. Balcony door was wide open. He stood there. Face in his palms. Or so you thought. His back was covering any chance of view. You pursed your lips. Should you worry? Should you talk to him? Would it make things worse?

The slouching of his shoulders made you sigh and slowly approach. You ideated running your palm across his broad form to soothe him. But you feared of overstepping.

"Did something happen?" It was quiet. Not particularly soft, but quiet.

Your eye caught his arms tensing up. You hated that your presence and voice made him like this. You didn’t care at first, but it was becoming frustrating.

He didn't look at you. He was quiet for a long moment before he put you back in your place. "...nothing happened."

You stared at his nape, covered by waves of moonshine. He was being difficult, and you just wanted to go to sleep and close the damn doors. Curling your tongue in your mouth, you gathered strength to stay calm.

"Are you alright?"

You felt his anger grow. The last thing he wanted was your concern and your worry. "I’m fine." He cut the air with his teeth.

Your heart stilled at his harsh tone. Overstepping. You nodded even though he couldn’t see it and warily stepped back into your chambers. You didn’t wish to argue. Deep down you preferred silence over arguments. If he doesn’t wish to speak of what’s troubling him, who are you to press matters?

You left him to his thoughts. Retreating with tail between your legs as you started getting yourself ready for the bed.

You were used to him hiding his feelings away, but whenever you would show concern (as rare as it was) or try to ask about anything, the storm would just take over his mind. He had no interest to trust you and you respected that. Not like you shared many of your thoughts to him either. To anyone, really. Being the daughter of the man he hated, you understood... to certain extents.

You heard the balcony door close just as you moved the covers under which you planned to hide and let your body and mind rest. He strode over to you, his hand grasping around your upper arm as he turned you around to face him. You gasped in shock and before you could wince from his iron grip, your mouth was muffled by his. Pushing your lips apart with his restless tongue, forcing cold shivers down your spine as he tried to drown you in his control.

You didn’t know what scared you more, his assault or his sudden behavior. You couldn’t tear your arm away. You couldn’t arch your head away. You couldn’t even welcome air in your system. Liquid in your veins was gaining adrenalin. You were almost trembling from fear. You started expecting the worst...

He scoffed at your whines of protest and pushed you on your back, slamming you on the soft mattress. You winced slightly when you hit the bed. Short-term pain quickly overshadowed by terror. His body savaged over yours in an instant.

"Ae- Aemond, what are you- what’s gotten into you!?"

He was deaf as he started pulling your night shift up. And you looked up at him with wide and terrified eyes, unable to fight back his strength. Whatever was dancing in his sharp violet one... it smelled rotten.

"What's gotten into me?" His voice was strained as he fought to keep your limbs in place. A low, mocking laugh rang as he focused his gaze on your heaving chest. "Lets find out."

Your eyelids strained even more. Throat drying up. Breath hitching out of control along with your shaking body.

The only time you consummated was on your wedding night. It wasn’t pleasant. It didn’t hurt, but you weren’t enjoying it. And you knew he didn’t either. This was completely out of the blue and his rage was blood-freezing.

You were scared, yes, but you were more scared of the idea what would happen if you started actually resisting... He never hit you, but the tales of his temper rolled around the corridors like plague.

Dark pleasure filled his stare. He could see the hesitation in you, the tremble and fear. But he didn't care. He knew he had you right where he wanted. His bruising touch on your skin felt ten times heightened now that you fell completely out of control. Getting hunted down...

"Good. That's good..."

Aemond praised with a twisted smile. His hand moved from your wrists to your neck, his large hand wrapping around you and holding you down. You shivered when his palm had more control over your breathing than you. His other hand passed along your body, feeling every curve and angle of your frame. Your breath couldn’t even hitch every time his fingers grazed over your plush stomach and waist. Your fists bagged the sheets firmly and you shut your eyes as you let him do what he wanted.

He was lost in his own desire, in his own lust. Ignoring your discomfort. He just needed to satisfy his needs. He needed to let out his frustration somehow. Or on someone... He continued roaming his hands across your body, touching you like you were a toy.

"You're so beautiful..."

Your eyes shot opened as you heard his mumbles. Seeing how he was fixated on your body, you took the chance before the damage could be done. Marital rape was not on your list tonight. You bit your tongue and dared to touch him, cupping his cheek. "...Can-... can you at least tell me what's wrong?...Please."

His jaw clenched. Your touch was so soft, so gentle and so different from the grip he had on you. It took him by surprise. His eyes locked with yours. He was quiet for a moment, the darkness in his gaze fading for a quickly-lost moment.

"It's nothing. There's nothing wrong." He muttered through gritted teeth, moving his head to the side to avoid your warm hand. His brows twitched into a frown and his hands hooked in your smallclothes.

Your fingers curled into a fist before you let your hand drop. You didn’t know what you were doing. You didn’t know how to calm him. How to reason him. How to talk to him.... You were his wife and you had no clue how to handle him. Bitterness stashed your mouth. You sighed heavily. He already had your mound bare.

"..this won’t solve whatever’s bothering you." You tried to sound calm. Tried to appear like you weren’t fighting for the right over your body right now.

He huffed, becoming more and more irritated with you. Pushing your nightgown over your chest. His voice was low and ragged as he saw how cool air affected your nipples.

"It would. It can. At least for a moment.."

"Please, let me help you.." ..somehow, you hoped. Carding your hand through his silver locks, pulling the strands back so they weren’t falling over your faces as he loomed over you.

"....I’ll listen. I promise." And you meant it. You’d do anything to avoid this situation. If it meant behaving like a proper loving wife who listens and cares, you would do it. Despite the resentment you hold for each other.

Your gazes locked as he listened to your pointless rambles. There was a flicker of hesitation, but he flashed it away with a mutter as he cupped your breasts. "It's nothing. I just had a bad day."

"Then let me hear about your day."

You covered his big hands with yours and you felt him twitch. Surprise washed over his face as he looked back up your eyes once again. You noticed his observing eye roam over your features and you softened your whole demeanor. You meant it. You were fucking tired of this. The silence. The distance. The feeling of constant unwelcomeness. You just wanted to enter your chambers ONCE and be relaxed in his presence...

Looking at you, seeking sincerity and curiosity in your eyes, he closed his own and sighed. "It was tiresome, lots of meeting, training, planning for the future... everything that’s expected of me."

You nodded slowly, listening to every word that rolled off his tongue. And you noticed it. A silver of honesty, perhaps even trust. Your nails skied up his arm, gently scratching his nape. You wanted to make him as calm as possible. "...you’re tired..?"

Aemond let out a low purr, his eye fluttering shut. "Hm."

You pulled his shoulders so he would lay down on you, wrapping arms around his neck. You felt tension all over his body, but you didn’t care. If he thinks he can do whatever he wanted with you, so could you with him. You tucked his head under your chin.

You were trying to value his emotions. As hard as it was... you understood what he meant. You didn’t know every detail of his training nor his council meetings, but you knew what it meant to be drained. Exhausted. And that was enough to make you empathic.

He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his breathing ragged and heavy. You held him tighter, your arms getting a rush of protectiveness. Letting him find shelter in your embrace. Solace in your arms. Peace in your scent and warmth. You wanted to make him feel heard and seen. He held onto you, his arms wrapping around your waist as if he was holding onto for dear life. You felt it. You sensed the shift. He was allowing you to see him. To see his vulnerability. To dive below the surface of his thick skin.

"It's just too much sometimes. I don't know if I can do it anymore." You felt his lips brush along your skin as he mumbled quietly.

"I know. I know it is, but draining yourself to the last drop isn’t doing you any good. And satisfying everyone’s expectations is impossible."

You tried to comfort him. And seeing this softer side of him. This... lost, broken boy. It made you desire gentleness towards him.

"...I know you don’t like being told what to do, but I’m advising you... let that dumb old cunt go. Otto is not worth your time or energy. He never was. Ungrateful people don’t deserve the effort you’re putting up, Aemond."

From your FAR point of view you knew enough. You knew why Aemond was the way he was. Even though you struggled to understand his dark motives most of the time, you understood where he was coming from. And being a child loved only under conditions does that to a person. You secretly admired that he’s still standing and isn’t reaching for cups like Aegon.

"I know. It’s hard to see it and let go, especially when that someone is your family..."

You sighed, plucking the right words...

"...but I’m your family now."

Even though your marriage has been distant and cold, you still had time to change that... right?

His silence made you chew your lips nervously. You really had no idea what you were doing nor saying... He shifted slightly to look at you, his eye overflowing with emotions. He didn't say anything, just looked at you, searching your face for something.

"I know you didn’t choose me. I know I didn’t choose you. I know we agreed only for the greater good, but... I’m tired sometimes as well. I wish we didn’t resent each other."

You whispered honestly while taking in his pained expression. It broke your heart knowing even you, his wife, struggled to give him the care and affection.

He took a deep breath and gently touched your cheek, his fingertips lightly caressing your skin. "I'm sorry for the way I've been... towards you." He whispered and pulled the nightgown down, covering your body.

You leaned into his touch. Wanting him to know that he’s welcome to you from now on. Your smiled even though you were terrified when he jumped you. "...it’s our first time being married, right?"

Aemonds eye wrinkled, a small, barely-there smile tugged the corners of his lips.

It was nice to see him smile, even if the situation was far from funny, but he was calm. And that’s all that mattered to you.

Warm.

Warm and close.

Silence. That’s all you knew. And yet... it felt good. It felt right.

You helped him with the buttons of his leather doublet. Changing him in his night clothes as you both exchanged soft looks and amused smiles. You hid under the sheets and cuddled until you let lambs bounce your minds away. You let him sleep in your chest.. cling to you.. seek your comfort. And you didn’t even wish to think about denying him. For the first time, you felt truly at peace in his presence. You will be the wife he needs.

[sena-seastar]

Burning Desire

Aemond x Older!sister Reader

Summary: You rush off to confront your brother Aemond after discovering he hurt your sister, only to find him crying. You are angry at him for what he has done, but you cannot stand to see your little brother suffer.

Warnings:  Angst, Smut, Sibling incest

A/N: This was supposed to be an angsty comfort fic, but it very quickly got out of hand. All dialogue in italics means that the characters are speaking in High Valyrian. I was just too lazy to attempt to translate it. No beta, so I apologize for any grammar and spelling mistakes. (Gif is not mine!)

You stormed through the castle halls, ignoring the maids and knights who quickly stepped out of your way. Usually, you would give them some sign of acknowledgment, but tonight, you couldn’t— not when your anger was boiling over. Your hands trembled with repressed rage, and your fingers curled into fists as you tried desperately to refrain from lashing out. There was only one person who was deserving of your wrath, and you were headed to find him now. 

When you arrived at his door, you entered the room, not bothering to knock. The loud sound of the wooden door slamming close behind you echoed in the air. The room was dark; only a few candles were lit, though they were burning dangerously low. You squint your eyes, searching until you find the silver-haired man hunched over in his chair. Your robe made a slight whooshing sound as you stormed over to his side. 

“How dare you!” Your voice cut through the air like a sharpened blade, every word dripping with venom and contempt.

Aemond says nothing. His head is lowered, and his long silver tresses conceal his face.

“You dare to lay a hand on our sister?! Has she not suffered enough?! And now you wish to send her into battle?!” Your chest is heaving wildly as you lose what little composure remains to you.

Once again, you are met with a deafening silence that angers you even more.

“Have you nothing to say?!” you yell, each word cracking like a whip. Your brows furrow and your lips curl into a snarl.

Yet once again, your words go unanswered. You open your lips, prepared to berate him even more until quiet sobs reach your ears. Your blood runs cold, and you freeze. Aemond’s body jerked with every gasp that escaped his throat. 

“I am alone,” he whispers . “As I always have been.”

His words move you to tears. 

“Aemond,” you whisper, stepping closer.

You reach out a hand to touch his shoulder but pull it away just before reaching him. Your mind is suddenly conflicted. Your rage is quickly converting into sadness with every second that passes. The two of you rarely saw eye to eye these past few weeks. His actions above Shipbreaker Bay had left you horrified. The abhorrent murder of your nephew, Jaehaerys, happened not long after. You blamed Aemond for that and did not bother trying to hide it from him.

Then, Aegon returned from Rook’s Rest, burned and broken beyond repair. Your mother came to you shortly after, sharing her thoughts about what had happened. She believed Aemond to be responsible, but you could not bring yourself to believe it at the time. But as the days passed, you found yourself becoming increasingly unsure. Especially after today, when the horrific details of his actions at Sharp Point reached you. Most days, you could hardly even recognize him—this strange man who shares the face of your sweet little brother.

You take a deep breath before reaching out. Your hand trembles as you place it on his shoulder, but he does not flinch from your touch. He leans into it. Aemond raises his head just enough to look you in the eyes. His face is stained with tears, and his eye is red and gleaming with tears, ready to fall. His silver hair is unusually messy and unkempt. The leather eyepatch is gone, exposing the beautiful sapphire embedded into his eyesocket. It is a sight he has entrusted very few to see.

“I am sorry,” he cried. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

“I know,” you whisper, pulling him close.

He buries his face into your stomach. His large hands gripped tightly at your sides, and you did your best not to wince. You lift a hand, brushing down his unkempt hair. You were angry at him. You had come here to yell at him, maybe even hit him, but you couldn’t. Not when it filled your heart with great sorrow to see your brother in so much pain. Your little brother. The boy you had always tried so hard to shield from the cruelty of this world. The boy who had always run to you for comfort after being humiliated by Aegon time and time again.

Aemond continued to sob. His tears made the thin fabric of your nightdress stick to your skin, and the cold wetness sent a chill down your spine. You gasp as you feel him pull you down, sitting you on his lap. He held you close, burying his face into the curve of your neck. Your hands rested against the warm, bare skin of his back as you held him. He must have been preparing for bed not long before you arrived as he was only dressed in a pair of black lambswool breeches.

“You are not alone,” you reassure him, gently kissing the scar that marred his brow. “I am here, as I always have been.”

There is a slight chill in the air, but the heat radiating from his skin keeps you warm. Aemond sniffles but says nothing. You can feel his tears sliding down your neck. You move a hand up to his head, toying with his hair. He nuzzles his nose into your neck, seemingly inhaling your scent. Aemond shifts in his seat, spreading his legs a little wider, making the position more comfortable for you. A quiet gasp escapes your throat as you feel the taut muscle of his thigh pressing into the most intimate part of your body.

The feeling sends a rush of heat through your veins. Your breath quickens as you try to push the sensation aside. Your face burns as shame begins to overwhelm you. He just wanted to be close to you, searching for comfort in your arms as he had done many times before. But your body is turning it into something perverse.

Aemond bounced his knee ever so slightly, almost like a tremble. You squirmed, trying to press your thighs closer together in hopes of stopping the heat growing in your stomach. One of Aemond’s large hands rests firmly against the small of your back. The other moves to grip the outside of your thigh.

“Aemond,” you gasp as you feel his lips grazing against our collarbones.

“What?” He asks, his voice so nonchalant.

“I think I should go,” you replied, trying to stand up.

But his hands hold onto you tight, refusing to let you go. 

“Please stay,” he begged, burying his face into the curve of your neck once more.

“Alright,” you whisper, trying to calm him.

His hair tickles your nose. You lift your head a bit, resting your chin on the top of his head. You trail the tips of your fingers against the muscles of his back. Aemond nuzzles his face against your neck. He bounces his knee a bit harder. You wonder if he is doing this on purpose.

“Aemond, stop it,” you mumble, trying to ignore the fire sparking in the pit of your stomach.

“Stop what?” He asked, ghosting his lips over your jaw. 

“You know what,” you whine.

He ignores you; his lips press soft kisses against your jaw. Aemond bunches the skirt of your dress into the hand that grips your thigh. He steadily inches it up higher. The cold air touching your now bare legs makes the hair on your body stand up. Suddenly coming to your senses, you gasp, slapping a hand over his as the skirt of your dress reaches just above your knees. He tries to continue, but you use all the strength you can muster to keep his hand still. 

“We must stop,” you command, trying to stop yourself from giving in to him completely.

This was wrong. You were both betrothed to other people—him to some Baratheon girl and you to the Lord of the Arbor. They were political matches, as most marriages are. You held no love for Lord Redwyne, but you would do your duty as was expected of you.

Aemond easily pushed past your hand, slipping his hand between your thighs. You gasped, trying to squeeze them together to keep him at bay. Your stomach flutters as his thumb rubs across the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Your fingernails dig into his forearm. You pull back, and he lifts his head to look you in the eyes. 

He removes his hand from between your thighs, moving it up to your face. You find yourself melting into the warmth of his palm. The pad of his thumb ghosts over your lips, but his eye never leaves yours.

“You were supposed to be mine,”   he says in the gentlest tone.

“Aemond,” you whine, trying to push him away.

But he refuses to let you go. The hand on your back kept you from standing. His fingertips trail down the side of your neck down to the neckline of your nightdress. His touch on your skin leaves you feeling almost delirious. The fire in your stomach is fully ablaze now. You squirm in his lap as his fingers graze over the tops of your breasts. You cursed yourself for this, as the feeling of his tense muscles sends waves of heat straight to your cunt. The hairs on the back of your neck raise. Your eyes close, and you bite your lip to stop crying out. 

“Look at me.”  

It is a command that you are unable to ignore. Aemond is the prince regent. In this moment, he speaks with the king’s voice. His absolute authority leaves you fearful and painfully aroused. Once again, your eyes meet his. He says nothing, simply watching you like a predator stalking its prey as his hand moves over your nightdress, cupping your breast. You gasp, slapping a hand over his. You know you should push him away, but you don’t. 

A chill runs down your spine. Under his gaze, you feel completely exposed, almost powerless—a feeling you usually dislike greatly. You were a princess of the realm and a dragon rider. You were anything but helpless. Yet you find yourself wanting nothing more than to surrender yourself to him, to escape from your worries and sorrows, to be free from all the tiring expectations that have been placed upon you since your birth.

“Am I so hard to love?” 

His voice trembled, as he struggled to hold back tears. The authority is gone, replaced with something much more vulnerable. The sight broke your heart in two. You had always worried about Aemond, your sweet, sensitive little brother. Since he had come of age, he had changed. He was colder and more distant, not just from you but from everyone, even your mother, whom you know he cared for greatly. It was like he believed he had to be this... pillar of strength, or all would crumble.

You remove your hand from his, moving it up to cup the scarred side of his face. You lean down, pressing a gentle kiss on his brow. You have done this so many times over the years, yet it has never felt as intimate as it did now. Aemond closed his eye, leaning into your touch. A sharp pain stabs at your heart as you watch how desperate he is for your comfort.

The hand on your breast slid back down to your thigh. Aemond’s fingers toyed with the hem of your skirt. Your thumb traced down the deep scar that marked his cheek. You lean down, peppering kisses from his cheek to his jaw, where the scar stops. He turns his head slightly, so that your lips hover above his, almost touching. You rest your head against his. His violet eye stared into your own.

“What of Floris? She is to be your wife.” You say, hoping he may come to his senses, as yours have fled from you completely.

“You will be my wife... for tonight.” A single tear drops from his eye as the words leave his lips.

It is such a beautiful, harrowing sight. One that leads you to shedding tears of your own. Aemond’s hands grip you by the waist, hoisting you up just enough for you to straddle him. Your knees rest on both sides of his legs, trapping him between your thighs. A wave of heat runs through your veins as your bare cunt presses against his clothed bulge. He leans forward, capturing your gasp with his mouth. One of your hands cups his face while the other pushes his hair away from his face. 

The two of you shared passionate, frantic kisses. You had not been prepared from when Aemond’s tongue slid into your mouth. You whine, caught off guard, but do your best to follow along with him. You had no experience with such things. The only kisses you had ever experienced came from tall, handsome knights in your dreams. But even then, those kisses were nothing like this. They were short and sweet. A quick peck on the cheek or lips, but this was much different. Aemond kissed you with such urgency, such deep burning desire.

Aemond lifts his hips, pressing himself against you. The feeling of his hard cock pressing against your aching cunt makes you cry out, though your noises are muffled against his lips. The feeling is so foreign, yet exciting, that you can’t stop yourself from reaching down to palm him through his trousers. His hardened cock is thick and throbbing beneath your touch. A newfound confidence blooms in your chest.

A sound rumbled in his chest; his large hands gripped your ample hips. Your hands moved to grip his shoulders as you rocked yourself back and forth, your bare cunt grinding against his clothed bulge. He hissed, knitting his brows together. You watch as his face contorts into one of pleasure. Your own burning desire is growing too much. Your desperate, heavy breaths fill the air as you grind yourself against him even faster, desperate to reach your peak. He looked up at you; his mouth hung open slightly as he watched you use him for your own selfish gratification.

It’s exhilarating- him watching you- seeing you in a way no other ever has, touching you in a way no other ever has.

“You’re doing so good,” he praises.

His praise sends another wave of pleasure coursing through your veins. The room suddenly feels unbearably hot. You’re so close; you can feel it. The pressure building up in your stomach is eager to be released. You roll your hips even faster, harder. But it is not enough. The throbbing in your cunt is almost painful. You are nearly sobbing at this point.

“I want more,” you whine. “I need more. Please, brother.”

“I am at your mercy, sister,” he smirks. “Take what you want.”

You reach down, huffing as you struggle to untie the laces of his trousers. You can feel his chest vibrate against you as he chuckles.

“Don’t laugh at me,” you grumble.

“My apologizes-” he shudders as your hand wraps around his thick cock. Finally freeing him from the confines of his trousers.

A triumphant smile crosses your face. You give his cock a few strokes, admiring the way it stands so prettily for you, so thick and full. Suddenly, you begin to fear the thought of having to fit it inside of you. Aemond seems to sense your worry. His hand cups the back of your neck, making you look at him.

“Take it slow,” he warns.

You nod, lifting yourself on your knees a bit. Your wetness coats your fingers and his cock as you press the tip into your aching cunt. You whine as the head breaches your walls, and you clamp tightly around him. The stretch is a bit uncomfortable but not painful. You may be a maiden, but you still had desires. Many nights, you have had to satiate your hunger with your fingers.

You lower yourself on him slowly. Thankfully, your wetness makes it easier to take him. You take a deep breath as you take him to the hilt. It takes you a moment to adjust to his size. 

“Are you okay?” Aemond asked, his voice filled with genuine concern.

“Yes, I just ... need a moment,” you breathlessly laugh as he lifts a hand to trail his fingers against your jaw.

He nods, raising his chin to kiss gently against the corner of your mouth. You turn your head, pressing your lips to his. A soft tongue gently licks at the swell of your bottom lip, and you grant him entry. The gentleness comes to an end. He licks into you with a fervor that steals your breath away. Your thoughts fade, and you melt into his arms. 

Aemond kisses you like he wants to devour you, and you want nothing more. You lift your hips before lowering yourself. Aemond finally breaks the kiss, and his hands move to your waist.

“Ah-h,” he whines against the corner of your lips.

You begin to move slowly, easing yourself into up and down on his cock. Your eyes never leave him, watching as he presses his head to the back of the chair. His chest moves with his deep breaths, his eye is closed, and his mouth is partially open. He shudders, and a desperate, eager moan emits from his throat. It is a sight to behold.

He lifts his hips, pressing deeper into you, making you cry out.

“Aemond!” You whimper, fingernails digging into his shoulder blades.

His eye fluttered open as he watched you struggle to find the right pace. He gripped your waist tighter, his fingers digging into your fleshy sides. He guided you, raising you up and down on him. The newfound pace made you mewl pathetically, but you were too desperate to reach your peak to care. He called out your name. It sounded almost sinful coming from his lips. 

You drop your head, resting it against his. Your mouth hangs open as you gasp and moan. The faint scent of pine and smoke fills your nose. It’s him, his scent. The smell is almost intoxicating. Your mind is swimming, dizzy from the pleasure of him bucking up into you.

You feel one of his palms cup the back of your neck, pulling you closer. He lifts his chin, closing the small distance between you pressing his lips to yours. You try your best to follow the frantic rhythm he sets. He swallows every sound you make as he holds the back of your neck, refusing to let you pull away—not that you want to. 

Aemond plants his feet on the ground for leverage as he pumps into you. His thrusts are more erratic now as he approaches his end. The air in your lungs is incinerated, and a shameful, high-pitched moan escapes from your lips. You move your hips, rocking against him, dangerously close to finally reaching your peak. 

He doesn’t stop, bucking into you with a force that would be strong enough to toss you off of him if not for the hand holding onto your waist. Your hot cunt clenched around him, the muscles in your legs burned from remaining in this position for so long. 

It’s not fair- how good he is at this- how good he is making you feel. It’s all too much. Your poor wet cunt is overwhelmed with pleasure. The hand on your neck moves down, and the pad of his thumb rubs circles around that sensitive button between your legs. 

“That's it,” he coaxed, his hot breath fans on your mouth. “Let go, give it to me.”

You don’t stand a chance. Not when his cock makes you feel so full, reaching that one spot that makes you throw your head back. One of your hands tangles in his hair, tugging. Your chests’ are flushed against each other as you both rock against each other. You clench around his cock as you finally reach your release, hard and blinding. The world around you seems to disappear. It’s only you and him who matter.

“Ha-ah ... ah,” he sputtered, becoming more desperate.

You cry out as you fill his hot mouth, which latches into one of your breasts. He suckles at your breast like a starving babe. His tongue lashes back and forth around your hardened nipple. The sensation is strange but has you clenching around him even tighter. 

His teeth graze against your nipple. Every grunt and moan that leaves him vibrates against your breast. You can feel his thrusts becoming sloppy and uncoordinated. His cock pulses inside of you, it feels too good. Aemond releases your nipple, resting his forehead on your breast. Choked gasps and grunts slip past his lips as he reaches his peak, releasing inside of you, filling you with his seed.

The two of you stay pressed against each other as you come down for your highs. Aemond’s hips relax, his body melting into the chair. Your body sinks into him, boneless and spent. You lay your head on his shoulder, resting your chin on his collarbone. His fingertips trail over the curve of your back. Your eyes feel heavy as you struggle to keep them open.

“I am sorry for what I’ve done,” he apologized.

“I know,” you reply weakly.

You can feel his warm breath against your ear. His scent, mixed with his sweat, fills your nose, bringing you comfort.

“Our sister has too much of our mother in her. I see that now.”

You frown but say nothing, letting him continue. His lips press against your ear. He nudges your face with his shoulder, making you pull away. He grasps your chin between his thumb and index fingers. Your eyes flicker between the sapphire and his violet iris. You lift a hand to trail your fingers along his sharp jaw.

“But you and I,” he says, rubbing his thumb over your bottom lip. “We are two flames kindled from the same fire. We were always meant to burn as one.”

“Aemond,” you sigh.

“I am afraid,” he admits, rendering you speechless. “I cannot fight this war alone, sister.”

“You are not alone,” you argued. “You have Daeron.”

“Tsk,” he turns his head. “He is still young, as is his dragon.”

“Young or not, Tessarion is still a dragon.”

Aemond says nothing. His eye stared at the plain stone wall of his bedchamber. You watch him silently, trying to read him.

“Come with me,” he asked, turning his head back to you. 

“What?” You gasp.

“Mount your dragon and go with me to Harrenhal.”

“Mother would never allow it,” you shake your head.

“Our mother has made it clear that she does not hold our best interest at heart.”

“She means well,” you protested, trying to defend your mother, no matter how true his words seemed.

“If we do not fight, we will die. Rhaenyra may spare you and Helaena, but she will not be so merciful to the rest of us. She will have to take Aegon’s head, mine, and Daerons's as well. So long as our father has a living son, she will never be able to rule in peace.”

“You don’t know that-”

“I do,” he insisted. “Is that not what our mother has told us our entire lives?”

You blink, and memories of your childhood flood your mind. He was right. Over the years, your mother had repeatedly stressed the dangers that would follow should your sister ascend to the throne.

“Come with me,” he whispered.

Your eyes flickered from his trembling lips to his tear-filled eye. It was not an order but a plea. He was afraid and desperate for aid. You were afraid as well—you had been since Ser Criston placed that crown upon Aegon’s head. It has only been a few weeks, and already, your life has been turned completely upside down. 

You had no desire to fight this war. Many times, you have had to stop yourself from climbing on your dragon and leaving. But you could not abandon your family, just as you could not abandon Aemond now.

You nod your head. He smiled, a look of relief crossing his face. One of his hands finds yours, lacing your fingers together before bringing his lips to yours, giving you one last sweet and adoring kiss. Once he pulls away, you lay your head back down on his shoulder.

“Can I go to sleep now?” You mumble against his skin.

“Yes,” he lets out a breathy laugh. “You can sleep now.”