#the way he's still speaking to her like a father and has to coax her into this | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

almostfoxglove · 3 months ago

Text

AN END TO DROUGHT

written for @perotovar's offering of Frith

RATING: Explicit (18+) | PAIRING: Javier Peña x f!Reader GOD: Freyr God of fertility, harvests, and peace WORD COUNT: 5.4k CW: Smut (f!oral, m!oral, unprotected piv, creampie).

SUMMARY: The future of your family's homestead hangs in the balance as Javier Peña comes home in the middle of a drought.

read on ao3 | almostfoxglove masterlist

For two fortnights you’ve seen no rainfall. Not a single, silver drop. The orchard, rich with the stunted globes of pale apples not yet fully formed, withers browner every day. Leaves crisp and folded in prayer, the last-ditch desperation of dying fronds. You spend hours hauling well water to the rows of cropland on which your livelihood relies, but it isn’t enough. Each morning you wake to the sun rising phoenix-like on the horizon, hotter and more accusing than the day before.

You speak to the trees, the fledgling stone fruit, apologizing when there is no more water your body can carry, when the well runs dry.

Six generations your family has raised apples like they raised their kin.

Now it will die in this drought with you as its shepherd.

Hopeless in your waking, back throbbing, shoulders sore, you rise from your bed at the crack of a new dawn to the fragrance coaxed every Sunday by your mother’s slender hands. She is fragile now in that child-like way, skin thin and veins sapphire blue, hearing going, but sturdy, still, for you. Doesn’t matter that you’ve been grown for decades now, solely responsible for the farm and her mounting care—your mother bakes a pair of her grain-kissed boules every week without fail.

“There you are,” she says, when you are just two steps away. These days she cannot hear your footsteps on the stairs.

“Sit, now,” you say softly, slipping your hand over hers to take the bread knife, and with a soft tsk your mother surrenders before settling at the breakfast table.

You break bread together: salted butter swept glistening over the delicate crumb and sturdy crust, spoons of preserves canned the year before. Cinnamon and cloves, honey and stewed apples, wild pickled blueberries. It takes so long to notice the change in the air, but when you do it’s obvious—you aren’t sweating in the way you have for weeks. The house, once sweltering, has cooled ever so slightly. When you gaze out the windows into the orchard, the sky is no longer the blue you’ve come to resent, but a wash of cotton batting.

Clouds.

Your mother, thin wire glasses low on her nose, grins at your expression.

“He’s home,” she says.

“Who?”

Her smirk is the same as you remember it being when you were a girl. “The Peña boy,” she says, lifting her bread slice to her mouth. “Weather always fixes itself when he comes ‘round.”

You hum beneath your breath. You can picture him only vaguely—lean and liquid, little more than a silhouette in the distance on the other side of the fence that cages your family’s property from his. His father you know better, see often. Spiced apple cider traded for horse manure or Chucho’s brawn. Twice this past winter he fixed your fence after a furious storm and asked for nothing but a loaf of your mother’s bread in return.

Javier you’ve not glimpsed in a decade give or take, if you’re remembering right. Moved somewhere south for duty’s dauntless call.

In the lullaby of easy silence, you finish your meal, rinse the dishes, and walk out into the fields with the second loaf in hand where overhead the sky is performing a miracle befitting the gods: letting out the first tender, forgiving drops of rain. Your body brightens as you watch it freckle and darken the starving, yellowed earth.

A caw, something of a laugh, shocks loose from your chest—delight, pure in its relief.

Tracing the aisles of death-bed apple trees, you sweep your fingertips along their trunks. Water pools in the green spades turned to spoons for liquid crystal. The precipitation for which you’ve longed and begged and prayed: here, at last, to save the grange.

The rain picks up. Forceful in its abundance, peppering the sandy earth. Soon your boots stick as you walk between trees, dirt becoming mud, so you shield the boule beneath the leaf of your buttoned shirt.

At the end of the orchard, the log fence stands and the grass grows tall and clover-riddled, purple thistles starved yellow in the heat. You stride towards the fence, far beyond which the Peña house stands white and shingled, framed by the umbrellas of old oak trees that border the meadows in which their herd of equines laze back and forth, grateful as you for the merciful change in weather. It is beautiful here, though it’s easy to forget when all the season brings is wilting.

You hear him before you see him: a quiet, clicking tongue.

Then a mare picks up her cantor, spurred forth by Javier—indeed returned, wide in the shoulders and dark hair slicked by rain, out forty feet or so—tanned skin made gold around his eyes by yellow aviators, periwinkle shirt undone a button too low. More handsome than you remember, but it’s been a long time.

Your mother was right: it seems he brought the rain home with him.

As you come to a stop near the fence, tall grass clinging to your calves, his head turns slowly in your direction. Jaw working over something—gum, if you had to guess. You lift your free hand, show him your open palm, and he takes a last look at the horse before sauntering your way.

Like you, he’s undisturbed by the rain. No shelter-seekers here; you’re grateful enough to bathe in any storm. Come hell or high water—isn’t that how the saying goes? You’d swim any flash flood after all this unending dearth, drink any tidal wave.

“Heard you were home,” you call out over the pebbling downpour, watching his broad hand rake through his hair.

Much more handsome than you remember, the nearer he strides. Unhurried, Javier lifts his sunglasses off to slip into his shirt pocket and even from some way off you don’t miss the path of his brown eyes as he takes you in. Against your better judgment, the hungry stripe of his gaze flips something low in your stomach, something needy.

He stops just shy of his side of the fence, no more than an arm’s length away, as the splatter of kind weather kicks up the earth’s perfume.

“This morning,” he admits, his voice all gravel and mead. Low and heady, a little sweet. Not shy—his eyes drop again, this time to your stomach where you’re holding the bread beneath your shirt. Sort of useless now—the rain’s too strong to save it—so you draw it out, flashing him by accident a glimpse of your bare stomach where his gaze stays pinned.

Then, bread rising in your hand, seeded crust glistening as it speckles wet, his eyes at last leave you to follow it. “Ma thinks you brought the rain,” you say, not bothering to hide your smirk.

The corner of his mouth pulls into his cheek. “That so?”

You shrug, loaf held like a waitress’ tray not yet offered. “Accordin’ to her.”

To your surprise you see in his eyes what appears to be timidity—perhaps bashful to be given credit for the sudden end to the wrecking drought he’s no doubt heard about. With a sweep of your arm, you present the bread in your outstretched hand and one dark brow rises high on his head.

“Before it’s drenched,” you insist, and Javier takes it, smile lopsided and pretty.

Above the chuffing sound of a horse grazing on the trampled grass, the sky splits like a seam and sunlight cuts through the cloud’s white cover, throwing down a ribbon of yellow that licks the stables.

Javier tilts the bread in his hands, inspecting the ear, the crust. Flashes those dark eyes back at you, exacting and tender at the same time.

“Our way of saying thanks,” you say, already stepping backward, toward the apple trees. “Neighbor.”

The rain doesn’t stop for three days—just long enough to wash the ash of long-snuffed forest fires from the orchard’s leaves. When the sun returns whole and yolk-gold to the sky, it brings heat of a kinder type. Warm for the growing things but barbless in its licking flame. You swear in just three nights the orchard lifts itself from its stupor—broadens, stretches, unfurls new leaves.

Your mother bakes like she’s got an army to feed and doesn’t wait till Sunday to do it.

“Take them, take them,” she insists, as fragile in stature as she is adamant in tone. Such a small, hunched little thing. “Least we can do.”

“Ma,” you sigh, powerless to her persistence, how she rests the arched handle of a basket in your hand for you to take. “You don’t seriously think he—”

She tuts softly, shoos you with one pallid hand before re-knotting the bow of her apron behind her back. “Just be grateful,” she says. “S’only right.”

Might as well be a girl again because here you are, obedient. Carrying the basket of seeded bread across the grass, between reborn apple trees, the fragrant orchard rows that days ago seemed doomed to die. Your heart thuds, surrendering itself to gratitude. Suppose it doesn’t hurt anything to take the Peñas bread.

Javier’s out in the pasture cleaving a rotten log from a sunken fence panel with an axe. White t-shirt translucent and clinging to the muscle that banks his back, he heaves the blade down with a biting crack and a grunt. Your footsteps give you away—he straightens as you hop the fence between your properties and land on his side, halting his rhythmic swinging.

As he turns, face halved by the shadow of an oak looming overhead, eyes squinting to make you out in the light, Javier cocks an eyebrow, dimple winking in his cheek.

“Neighbor,” he says, unabashed, now, in his lingering gaze. Dark curls cling to his temples and forehead, licked by sweat, across which he wipes the back of his forearm before setting the axe down against the fence.

Growing up on adjoining farms never sowed friendship between you—you’d estimate you’ve exchanged no more than a couple hundred words in damn near four decades—but there is in Javier a certain familiarity. A sense of him fitting into the landscape, reliable as an oak always looming in the distance. As constant as these valleys and hills, as the house beyond his muscled shoulder. Never something to acquaint yourself with, but something to rely upon.

Peculiar to stand before him now—twice in the same week—exchanging words.

You hold out the basket, linen cloth folded neatly over the boules. Javier, eyeing you suspiciously, takes one cautious step toward you with his hands on his narrow hips, peering down at your offering. His eyes flicker beyond you to your house and though you don’t look back you’d bet the whole season’s harvest that your mother is standing on the porch, watching. Guaranteeing you hand off the gift as she’s asked, like you aren’t well past grown.

Amused, he hums low and quiet. “For me?” he muses, knowing the answer, and when you roll your eyes he only smirks. Pleased, maybe teasing you.

You squint at him—glistening, all sinew and bated breath. Your mother’s mind may be failing in that drawn out, terrible way—hearing fading, her logic a little swimmy—but standing this close to Javier you can’t blame the woman for mistaking him for a god.

“Just take it,” you say, betrayed by the curl of your lips. “She won’t let me back in the house ‘till you do.”

This time as he slips the gift from your hand to his, Javier sweeps his fingertips against your open palm, sending a sparkle of heat up the length of your arm. You watch him peel the frond of cloth back, unveiling the golden tithe as you drop your arm at your side. When he inhales slow and deep you can smell it too, that redolent unfurling of warmth. Hypnotic, despite its familiarity. Hypnotic, too, is the breadth of his chest as he takes that long, indulgent breath, thin fabric slick to his damp, lithe form.

“She really think I brought the rain?” he asks, frowning a little. Watching you like he knows you’re watching him. Each of you sizing the other up, scrambling to build opinions of someone who’s only ever been a figure across the lush trees and grass.

Did you once lose a kite to one of their oak trees? You think you might remember a young, rawboned Javier climbing a web of gnarled branches to fish it free, delivering it safely to where you waited on your side of the fence. Yes, you can see it now—that lazy, one-sided smile on his boyish face, the sun-bleached kite, and the relief of its homecoming to your trembling hand.

Three decades older he is no less honest in the way he awaits your reaction.

“Or she’s messing with me,” you admit. “I never know anymore.”

His scoff triggers yours—a brief, quiet chuckle in the remains of a salvaged summer. Javier shrugs and yes, you think he catches the way your eyes skirt briefly to his shoulders because his jaw ticks, cheeks hollowing as he sucks his tongue against his front teeth. He turns his head in the direction of their house, sees no sign of Chucho, same as you. A low hm sound rattles from his chest.

You’d swear the sun flares a little hotter when he returns his gaze to you.

“If it rains again,” Javier says, his voice swooping to a deeper shade. “What will you bring me?”

You cross your arms. “I think you can count on the bread indefinitely.”

“Don’t mean her—I mean you.”

Traitorous, your heart: how it speeds, skips a note or two in its once steady pattern. “I don’t think you brought the rain,” you tell him. “Just timing.”

When he narrows his eyes, his crow’s feet swallow them. Mustache quirking, pink tongue darting over his bottom lip. “Call it hypothetical,” he says, and you’re not sure if you were standing quite this close just a moment before, if one of you has moved and if so, which.

Hunger rarely devours you in any of its forms. A life spent in service of harvests leaves little excess to spend. Yet it stirs unmistakably, low and begging, at the sound of Javier’s gruff voice and the graceful way he pins your eyes to his mouth with every tiny movement of his lips. He doesn’t have to smile for you to feel him smirking—a fact alone that feels somehow mythic in its dominion, its quiet, unassuming power. All of him marble-sleek and solid, the image of virile beauty. It almost feels like a shame to think you’ve seldom stood this close before.

You jut your chin to the sky—that blue untouched by a single cloud—and shake your head. “It’s not going to rain,” you say, steadfast in your certainty. “Not anytime soon.”

“And if it does.” He doesn’t say it like a question—rather, an inevitability—which is to say you hear his real meaning: and when it does.

Head shaking, cheeks set aflame, you once more roll your eyes, this time turning back to return to your side of the fence. Over your shoulder you call out, “If it rains this week, I’ll bring whatever you like.”

For six days there’s nothing but sun. You watch the apples blush on their branches, those first pinkish stripes that promise a red and sugared fruit. Autumn will bring spices and cider, days and weeks and months of fermentation, of watching fruit turn liquid and then to gold. This stretch of summer is make or break for the harvest to come: the right weather now can mean perfection or a crying shame.

All week you watch Javier at such a distance he appears as only a tiny, charcoal figure roaming the fields, hauling lumber and picking up the far-off slack.

Yet often when you do, you think his head looks to be already angled in your direction. Impossible to know for sure in the blazing light and with so much land between you, but you’d take that bet. You’re pretty sure he’s watching you too.

You’re sure, also, that you’re right about the weather. At the dawn of the seventh day the skies look no less blemished than they have all week. Doesn’t look at all like it’s going to rain. To your surprise, you’re a little disappointed, but the feeling passes.

You push out into the orchards, tend to the lifelong task of keeping everything verdant and alive. Sweet is the air at this early, fragile hour in which the birds are just now waking, filling the world with their jubilee. Sky pink at the horizon, white overhead, you spend the morning gloating to no one but the trees—you were right, and Javier was wrong. But when midday breaks golden and ripe, he nonetheless appears in the tall grass, hand steadied on the neck of a tobiano as he and the creature walk between gated pastures, and his face turns in your direction, catches you drinking icy cider on the porch while you catch your breath between tasks.

This time when he catches your gaze, he lifts his free hand, forefinger spearing up at the sky. Too far to call out to each other, you have no way of asking what the gesture is for, so you step down from the croaking porch into the crabgrass and look up.

There hang, above you, newborn wisps. Clouds ashy at their bellies.

But clouds are just clouds. They aren’t rain.

The reckoning comes an hour later.

You dismiss the first, shy drop. A fluke, a fleeting blip of your imagination. Then the second: clear and wet on your forearm. Then a third. Soon it’s unavoidable—above you gray has gathered like dust bunnies beneath a couch, the bright summer shaded by the weather’s impossible will—and the rain that falls is not a patter, not a whisper, but a stony fist fight. The kind of rain that comes sweeping and determined, that has something to prove.

It’s like autumn has taken the stage two months too early. Childlike in its eagerness to command your attention—a downpour harsh and giving.

You emerge at the end of an arbored aisle to see Javier cut stoic against the shaded sky just shy of the boundary between your properties, chest wide and proud, just as drenched by the onslaught of rain but not fazed in the slightest. Too cavalier to smile but its essence hangs in the air between you, silver as any raindrop, unmistakable in meaning. He nods in the direction of a stable not far from the first shelter of elder oaks and without a word or invitation lopes off toward it, so fluid in his lazy strides, legs a little bowed and no small bit solid, hugged tight by denim that might as well be painted on.

You are following before your mind can think to.

You are hopping the fence.

You are dashing for the shadowed stable after him.

Breathless, hair kelped to your cheeks, clothes more water than textile, you cannot at first make out the stable’s interior, eyes not yet adjusted to the shift in light, ears booming with its cacophony. “Okay,” you say to the darkness in which Javier must be standing, blinking fast, wiping the rain from your eyes. “You got really fuckin’ lucky. What do you want?”

Embers warm in your chest—the first fronds of new wanting. You know what you hope he’ll say.

A flash of movement as your eyes adapt: Javier’s tanned arms reaching for you. His broad hands frame your face and you are not yet surefooted as he, swept up in his sudden, steady embrace. You hear yourself laugh over the barrage outside, silenced only by the blackness in his eyes—all that warmth and brown swallowed by his pupils. Your hands cuff his wrists, holding him to holding you without hesitation.

It should be awkward, this first real meeting of your bodies. How Javier steps up to press the length of his torso to yours, sly in the subtle turn of his lips as he breathes one quiet word: You. But it isn’t. He slots his lips to yours like kissing you is just another step in his languid stride, graceful and planned, his arms dragging you against his steady frame. The softness of his mouth a welcome surprise. Dizzy on the first swipe of his begging tongue, you’re entirely unaware of Javier walking you backward until your shoulder blades hit the stable wall.

What a gift it is to be kissed and kiss with one’s whole body. Javier licks hotly into your mouth, sucking sweetly on your tongue or bottom lip depending on his whim, hands holding you flush to the fire of him. When he moves to your jaw, the soft flesh of your ear, you are a candle never before lit, touched a thousand times wrongly and made finally right.

Javier mumbles something lost under the bellowing tempest. Every raindrop riots on the sheeted roof.

“What?” you pant, eyelids heavy with lust. Your shirt hangs open, as does his, both unbuttoned though you’d not noticed their undoing. Now visible in the gray light is the bronze of his freckled chest, the dark hair drawn from his navel to the waistband of his jeans.

You’d stare, but Javier then laps at the hollows of your neck, drinks rain from the dip in your collarbone, and you hum softly, entranced by his touch, eyes fluttering closed. He moves his lips closer to your ear. “Perfect,” he repeats, before his mouth is lost once more to the curve of your shoulder, the slope of your chest.

Meanwhile the path of your hands draws a symphony from him: low grunts and breathy huffs and, when your fingertips trace the hair on his stomach to graze his jeans, an earthy moan sweeter than any rainfall after any summer.

Javier cants his hips against yours like he’s making a promise.

How sublime, the wet ask of his tongue down your stomach as he falls to his knees.

Though he—after catching your eye, fingers frozen over the fly of your shorts until you nod—is the one to strip the layers from you first, you aren’t certain which of you is the one who’s praying, only that the reverence hangs heavy as a heatwave in the humid air.

Your head falls back against the stable wall. All but the roar of the storm is lost beyond your panting bodies as Javier kneels at the altar of you, shelves one of your legs on his shoulders, and laps hungrily from your aching heat. The pledge of his mouth sucks the air from you—your hands fly to the laurel of his hair, bathed locks slipping between your fingers as you clench and throb and tug, hardly conscious of the whimpers you let out in the wake of his tending.

Dutiful, he brings you gasping to the brink of some new chasm. Tongue expert in its tracing, circling, slipping, driving. Lifts his face to smirk just before you fall, dark stache glossy with your need and eyes blown black, and perhaps you’d be annoyed if Javier looked arrogant at all, but his confidence appears to you only assured. Resolute in his wanting. As if the world would have to come to a sudden, gasping end for his concentration to falter at all.

“Like that?” Javier asks, perhaps as winded as you. Genuine, you think, in his asking, though he must know.

You’re not sure if you remember how to nod or speak, but your hips buck on their own accord, desperate for him to see this through.

“Yeah,” he rasps, his thick fingers squeezing your hips. “Think you do.”

Then his grin vanishes as he resumes and all at once you are tumbling, swept away in a landslide and earthquake at the same time as he slips two fingers into you, coaxing a rush of pleasure into his mouth. You might cry out his name, but the sound is lost to the din of the deluge.

When next you catch your breath, Javier is standing, denim wet and straining against the swell of his length. Hesitation is no longer a word you know or hold, already greedy for his taste, so you urge your mouth to his and lap the taste of yourself from his tongue, fingers busy with freeing him, the slick peeling of his jeans. You fall without realizing you’re falling, sunken to the ground with Javier’s cock heavy and throbbing in your hand.

He might whine when your tongue flickers sweetly against his weeping head—but there’s no mistaking the desperate groan dug loose from the earth of Javier’s chest as you bring the whole of him into the furnace of your mouth, wet and tight and willing. Your moan sends a shiver through his body, then Javier’s hand shoots out fast as a gunshot, palm slamming into the wall to keep himself from toppling.

“Shit—” he gasps, and you look up at him through dewy lashes to find his eyes have closed, lips swollen and jaw hanging open.

Again, you hum. Make a game of the stroke and slide and swallowing that makes him quiver until it’s too good, too good, too close baby and he pulls you off him, drool slugging down your chin. His cock aching, surely, when you nuzzle your cheek against it, tempted to take it in your throat again. But you smile as he plummets to meet you on the ground, then swoon when he lays you out on the topsoil not yet drenched by the rain.

“Wanna feel you first,” Javier murmurs, petting the hair back from your face, lapping the spit from your chin with his tongue before he unites it with yours. Lips plush, more tender than you expect amidst his fervor, the kind of kissing you can’t help but lose yourself to. You think you’d kiss him the rest of the day, through any night. Brows pinching when he pulls away, cupping the blaze of your burning cheeks with the palm of his hand, thumb swept across your upper lip as he gazes down at you with adoration.

“Need to fill you,” he groans. “Don’t I, hm? Dime, baby.”

Thighs spread to make room for him in the bowl of your hips, you pull him over you by the shoulders until he blankets you, covering all but a sliver of the rain-rich sky visible through the stable’s entrance, and the oak tree’s canopy lashing in the fevered gale.

Is his shirt below you now, somehow? You think it must be—spread carefully to protect your needy flesh.

“Yes,” you breathe, as Javier kneels between your legs, fisting the base of his cock. “Yes, yes.”

A grin, but not of ego—he is only pleased. Pious in his watching the way breath shudders in your chest. Javier nods, brow dented low and serious, curls black with water and plastered to his face, and pumps himself once, then takes your ankles in his hands. Sets them flat on the ground, bending both your knees to frame him. Hands butterflied and wide, tracing the slant of your thighs to the bend of your hips like all of a sudden he has all the time in the world.

Maybe you do. It almost feels like you do.

Like this might not be a spell that breaks with the end of the rain.

“I’ve got you,” he says.

“I know,” you breathe.

With both hands Javier lifts your hips from the ground and pulls you toward him until your core presses against the underside of his cock. He hmphs, transfixed by this silken meeting, and thrusts his hips once, gently, rubbing himself between your folds. You whimper at the friction, cunt fluttering, begging.

Javier clicks his tongue as you claw at his forearms, hips pitching in his hold to ask for more, and this time there is perhaps a drop of pride in his cunning gaze. Glad to be the one you stir for, the one you choose.

“Needs me, hm?” he coos.

You paint the air between you with his name.

“I know,” he murmurs, guiding himself to you now, nudging his tip against your clit once, twice, then notching.

Then rhapsody. The urging in and dragging out, the sweet perfection of Javier inside you, taking space that now seems like it was made for him from the start. “Fuck,” you hear yourself say, more breath than voice, and Javier grits his teeth as he feeds his cock to you slowly, throbbing and whole.

“So soft,” he grunts, resolve slipping—his hips snap against yours on the next thrust and you yelp from the bliss of it. Teeth bared above you, Javier yanks you flush against his slender hips, buried to the hilt as he tries to catch his breath. “Shit, baby.”

Thighs clamping around his waist, you writhe, plant your palms on his sternum, desperate for more.

“Javi,” you plea, and in a flash Javier spreads his hands over your hamstrings, pins your thighs to your stomach, and bends over you, fucking you into the ground.

Your teeth bump when he moves to kiss you, then he tilts his head and it’s all saccharine again: his tongue lapping sweetly into your mouth, mustache scraping against your cupid’s bow. Like this, the angle is exquisite. So deep it’s like he’s everywhere, stretching you out and stringing you taut and Javier must feel it too because he starts to grind, the thatch of dark hair at the base of his stomach rubbing against your clit as he grazes his teeth along the underside of your jaw.

“That’s it,” he mumbles. “Damelo, baby, quiero sentirte.”

You shatter, or bloom, you can’t totally decide. Exaltation in a single moment, your whole body electric in its trembling, clenching, gasping. Javier falters only when your body comes down from its high, emboldened to move again. Folded as you are, you can only whine and moan and sparkle as he once more takes up a rhythm. Smooth and hot as cider on a cold night, his cock glistening with your need as he pulls out and presses in, patient again.

“Perfect,” he prays.

It’s possible that this is heaven.

You don’t know when it stopped, but the skies have quieted. A lick of sunlight casts into the stables and falls over the expanse of Javier’s back and shoulders as he rocks into you again and again and again. Hand weaving into the curls at the nape of his neck, you hold him to you as his pace begins to stutter.

Javier licks the column of your throat, purring against your neck, “Lo quieres, baby? Hm?”

“Yes,” you tell him, one arm winding around his shoulders. “Deep.”

He kisses you once, then pulls back just enough to watch your face, his own lust-tense and sneering as his high builds and climbs. You swipe your thumb across his bottom lip, tell him to let go, and he is beautiful—lit copper and gold by summer’s warmth as he drops his forehead to yours.

Perfect in his promise, Javier offers all to you, fills you wholly, his body tense and then unraveling. His weight drops onto you properly as he paints your cunt with his seed. When you grunt he lifts just enough to free your legs without leaving your heat, and you lock your ankles over the small of his back.

Javier nuzzles his nose to yours.

You aren’t sure how long you stay like that, but when you’re standing again, his hands guides your weakened legs back into your shorts. You button each other’s shirts instead of your own.

Outside the stables, the earth sings petrichor, grateful for the fleeting flood. Across the fence beyond the tall grass your orchard sparkles, glittered with rain as you stand beneath the oak tree gazing out in gratitude. Javier’s hand ghosts over your spine and you feel a rash of goosebumps break out as if he’s once more touched your skin.

His breath is warm against your hair, the apple of your cheek. “Don’t wait for rain next time,” he whispers, then slinks off regal and graceful as a wildcat, clicking his tongue to call out the horses to the pastures now marbled with loam.

It doesn’t rain again for weeks, but you go to him anyway, hopping the fence that cradles your homes to seek his arms.

moodboard by @perotovar & dividers by @saradika-graphics

tag list & some mutuals:

@thethirstwivesclub @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @hediondoamor-blog @tuquoquebrute @thundermartini

@littlemisspascal @luxurychristmaspudding @tonysopranosrobe @evolnoomym @jessthebaker

@burntheedges @studioghibelli @la-eterna-enamorada29 @goodgirlwannabe @guiltyasdave

@spacelatinos4life @sweetpascal @biggetywitch @wannab-urs @pedgito

@jolapeno @pastelpinkflowerlife @ak-vintage @rav3n-pascal22 @sixhours

530 notes · View notes

targaryenrealnessdarling · 2 years ago

Note

I love your writing!! Could you do a short 1 or 2 part fiction based on this prompt: a highborn girl is to become Aemond's wife but she is a mute. Her other senses are well even though she isn't able to speak. She is youngest in her family and is extremely shy. No fiery bone in her body. Alicent coaxes her son into being betrothed to her due to Alicent having issues with high-born ladies not wanting to marry the prince due to his eye missing and his tendency to have a temper. They bond over reading and Aemond is enthralled with her beauty. Also Aemond never is a kinslayer in this story lol. Thank you!

Her Voice

Summary: You are introduced with the prince as his second option for a marriage in your family. But how will the Prince react to you own affliction | Mini-Series Masterlist

Links to my Taglists: General Taglist | Aemond Targaryen Taglist

A/N: I changed the request up a little and it's strange that I got this ask because I do actually have a stutter myself that was debilitating growing up, so I tried to shoehorn some feelings that I felt myself into this character, but hopefully I still did it justice (and I made it more about her intelligence cos I think Aemond would find that hot)?

Thank you for the request anon! Also thank you all for your love and comments I really love them! I can’t comment on them since this is a side-blog, but I appreciate you all!

Warnings: none, just fluff, Aegon being Aegon

"Do you think that any highborn woman with a brain between her eyes would desire to spend the rest of her life with a tempestuous prince?"

Alicent was circling the room, hands smoothing over one another to keep herself calm, doing this in exchange of picking at her fingernails, which her father hated. And with Otto sat brooding in the corner of the room, Alicent chose her actions wisely.

Aemond barely resisted the urge to roll his eye, one hand rested on one side of his face, disinterested. Another reprimand for his temper, his behaviour. He didn't realise his mother had it in her to keep on doing this for so long, especially after having a son like Aegon. But even then, her solution had been to marry him to his sister, and it was clear how well that ended. And how Aegon's actions persisted.

"Perhaps if they were not so empty-headed they would know to leave me be"

"Like it or not, you will be wed" Otto butted in, resulting in Aemond sending an annoyed glare, "It has been difficult enough to introduce ladies to you"

"Because they think me a monster" Aemond retorted, one hand gripping the arm of the chair beside him. His mother was still pacing around, a million thoughts banging around in her brain, working endlessly on how to resolve this. In truth, he did not enjoy seeing his mother in such distress and his heart to see her in this way more often than not.

"That is not true, Aemond" Alicent's voice was soft, as if he were still a child.

"True enough that it whispers through the court"

"A marriage and children with her would mean security in the Reach" Otto said simply. His mind forever focussed on matters political and never of the heart. Alicent was proof of this and at this quip, Aemond could see the discomfort it bought her.

"I do not wish to marry that loud-mouthed half-wit"

Every time Aemond protested, he could see his mother begin pacing around the room once more.

"At this rate, half the ladies in Westeros will have met that beast before you"

Aemond extended a hand out with a sigh, "It is no fault of mine that she is scared of Vhagar"

"It nearly landed on top of her, Aemond!" Alicent begged out and Aemond genuinely had to hold back a smile as he imagined Vhagar pinning the girls dress to the ground with her large claw. It had scared the girl stiff and her loud-mouthed was quickly stiffened from the presence of the largest dragon in the world before her. Her face pale as a sheet.

"Vhagar did not like her" he simply responded.

A moment passed in silence and Aemond nearly stood to leave when Alicent crossed her arms, her warm, brown eyes trained at her second son. Half in pride and half in scolding.

"There is of course, another choice" Alicent suggested quietly, taking a side glance at her father.

Now stood before his mother, seeing over her easily, he placed his arms behind his back, a brow was arched in not only question but anxiety at her suggestion.

"She has a younger sister, only half a year younger than you"

Aemond scoffed, "This is desperation"

"It is a suggestion" Alicent corrected. In front of her son, she seemed so small as she took his large hand in both of hers, her rings clicking together to rub her fingers over his skin, "See how you feel"

With a sigh, he took his leave.

There was no harm in trying.

The days seemed to pass the slowest and the Prince busied himself as he usually did, performing his duties. He trained with Ser Criston, he read books on various subjects and he rode on Vhagar in an attempt to tame this temper his mother so wanted gone. One that she thought would be solved by marriage.

But one insufferable thing he could never escape from, was court gossip.

It seemed so rampant and neverending that he wondered if the ladies ever did anything else.

On more than one occasion he heard the ladies talk in hushed whispers when he walked by.

"I heard his dragon almost ate her"

"I do not see what woman would want a man who looks like that"

"I think he looks rather handsome with it"

"Yes, but he has a quarrelsome temper. Blood of the dragon indeed"

"I heard her little sister is to join the court. His dragon may actually swallow her whole with any luck"

"She is a hollow little fool. I heard she has not spoken a word since she was a babe"

He knew better than to listen to any of it. But it seemed to impregnate the walls of the Keep, like a smell that won't go away. Slowly seeping out of the stone to skulk in heavy plunders of smoke across their feet. It smelled of deception and the feeling was so heavy, it was almost liquid.

Like oily blood.

He had barely paid attention to his mother as they all lined up outside the Keep, anticipating the sister's arrival. The older sister had been closest to the dirt road, wanting to see her siblings and father before anyone else. The Royals were all standing shoulder to shoulder at the top of the stone steps, Aemond's eye trained forwards, not focussed on anything in particular. Aegon wishing he were somewhere else, preferably at the end of a barrel of Dornish wine. And Helaena, whose gaze never found anyone's, staring at the ground, watching the ants disappear beneath her slipper.

Alicent almost jumped out of her skin as the lady screamed in delight seeing the familiar colours of her house on the side of the carriage, pulling up to a stop. Aemond's chest inflated and he tightened his grip behind his back, bracing for the undoubtedly emotionally painful exchange he was about to have.

The carriage door flung open and two brothers emerged, clearly a lot older than the sister had been, but nonetheless they scooped her up into a hug. Aemond raised an eyebrow and dared look over at his own brother, who was smiling back at him already, as if suggesting they should hug like that. And at this Aemond did roll his eye.

The three siblings were stuck like this for a moment, talking over and amongst each other like a clutter of turkeys and it was impossible to tell what they were actually saying. The father eventually found his footing outside the carriage, a small figure following small behind him, head lowered. The older sister wrapped her arms around her father's neck but she was quickly pushed away, and not a single one of them seemed to address the youngest, who blindly followed her father.

"Queen Alicent" the father addressed, taking her hand in his to kiss at the ring.

"My Lord, how nice it is to see you and your…family again" she swallowed her words and her roundabout manner made Aegon smile somewhat.

"And you, your Grace. I hope my daughter has been a grateful guest"

There was a faint echo in the background of her horrific laugh, the father closed his eyes slowly, bracing himself for the sound of it.

Alicent merely smiled, "I understand we are to receive your other daughter"

The father stepped aside, but the figure still remained relatively hidden, "Yes, although she is the slowest of my daughters, your Grace. She…finds it difficult to speak"

The father looked behind him again and gripped his other daughter's arm and Aemond noted how hard he held her, so much so that when he tore away the marks remained. And he wondered if he was so rough with his other daughter, the one he thought was the grace of his house.

The girl was presented before Alicent. Yes she shared features with her sister, but hers were much were smoothed out. Her sister, while sharp featured and cheeks plump, her eyes were too close together and her nose seemed unfit for her face. This sister however, her cheekbones were higher and eyes were almond-shaped and she had a faint mole next to her eye on one side.

Her eyes briefly met Alicent's and sent a small smile and a curtsy, doing the same to the Princes and Princess, but never really meeting any of their gazes directly.

"Your Grace, my youngest"

Aemond almost scoffed, he didn't even have the decency to address her by her birth name.

"As I say, your Grace, she is quite slow but her mind is nimble, her other senses remain…unaffected"

All the young woman could do was listen to her father's cruel words about her, her hands were clasped in front of her, one finger fiddling with a golden ring that was on a forefinger. Aemond's gaze raked over her form, the dress she wore just being a bit too tight and he wondered if it might have been in her ownership for a while and had grown too big for it. This made her chest swell against the fabric and her could not help but admire the way she fit into it as she inhaled and exhaled, the golden necklace against her chest moving as well.

It was as if she could feel his burning eye on her and her hand raised to her necklace to turn the pendant over, her gaze briefly meeting the one-eyed Prince's before her cheeks became flushed and averted instantly. In a strange turn of events, it made Aemond smirk, knowing that someone would blush in his presence.

"If you'd like to follow me, I can introduce you to the King" Alicent stepped side to side with her father, "Perhaps your children might amuse themselves"

Her father turned to face his children, a haggard expression on his face, "Make yourselves scarce"

The young woman merely watched as her siblings waltzed away without her, no doubt to drown themselves in drink. And she stood for a moment watching them enjoy themselves before feeling a hand grasp her elbow to find Aegon's face close to hers. She made a surprised sound.

"Extraordinary" he murmured, pulling the poor thing to walk with him, "How much I would give to have a woman who did not speak back"

She attempts to push herself away, but he was much stronger.

"I bet that mouth is as disgusting as those whores on the Street of Silk"

A hand clamped at Aegon's shoulder, shoving him away and the woman looked back to find Aemond parting the two with his body, a hand brushing against her arm to place her behind him.

"Brother, I do not think she desires your company"

With a focussed eye zoned in on his brother, Aemond failed to notice that she had himself wrapped his hand around her wrist. A wave of heat rose to her face s she looked down and saw how his large fingers easily took her, feeling the sheer body heat of the Prince next to her, so much so that she was able to smell the various musks that had attached themselves to him. A faint smell of leather from his clothes, whatever he used for his long, illustrious hair and then something akin to being around an animal. Was this what dragon smelled like? She wondered if he had been riding before meeting her family.

His touch was easily softer than Aegon's grip had been, and for this she was grateful. He had been the first man to lay a hand on her that had not been forceful. The brothers continued to bicker.

"She is not deaf, Aegon. She can hear you"

"Deaf or not, she is a simpleton. If you are to marry her, do yourself a favour and find comfort in others, as I do"

All the blood seemed to rush to your ears in embarrassment and you tore your wrist away from the prince, turning swiftly on your heel in the other direction, away from the harsh words you had unfortunately become accustomed to. Your steps were swift as you heard Aegon cackle with laughter, but you did not see Aemond's saddened stare bore into your back.

With a book clutched longingly to your chest and the echoes of your already drunken siblings echoing down the halls, you pushed a hand to the library door, finding comfort in the quiet of this room in the chaos that was the Red Keep.

It had of course, not been your first time here. You had accompanied your sister on her journey many moons ago, and even then you felt the stares of those at the court boring into you like a flame. The hushed whispers of those were not lost on you, perhaps they also thought you were deaf. But it didn’t matter. You heard the horrible things the ladies said about you and equally, the awful things the men said as well. Although some of those had been about other matters.

Contrary to popular belief, you were not entirely mute. A lot of it was purely by choice. And you had become accustomed to the silence, for simply trying to speak, becoming out of breath and tight about the chest, gave you more anxiety than simply saying nothing at all.

You sighed in relief, finding the library completely empty and almost just how you had left it all those months ago, when you had come here for relief after your sister had accustomed herself to the ladies.

The book, which you had been in the middle of reading last time you were here, was still perched on top of the fireplace in the heart of the room, with a piece of paper sticking out in the spot where you had been rudely torn away. Your hand grazed over the cover, feeling all the intricacies of the people who may have read it before you. The spine was slightly worn away, and the fabric that coated the front page was discoloured. But it was the book smell that enticed you so and you opened where you were to bring to the pages to your face.

It smelled like home. Like a solitary childhood.

It reminded you of who you were.

Someone so disenchanted with life that they would lose themselves in books, fiction or not.

You lifted your skirts, inhaling sharply as the corseted part of the gown dug into you for being too small. Your father refused the request for new dresses, so you had to make do. After all, it was your older sister who was supposed to be enamouring the Prince, not you. So what need was there for fine dresses.

The chair hugged you, its fabric arms tucking you in like a bed and you laid the book before you to pick up where you had left off, the only sound in the room being the flickering of some candles and the uncomfortable sound of your finger tracing the next page.

You had been so interested in your book, the large oak doors opened without a reaction from you.

"I know you are not deaf, my Lady"

The voice startled you, and your head popped round the back of the chair to see the Prince standing closely, smirking and arms tucked behind him. A surprised sound left you as you stood, the book that had been placed on your lap hurtling to the floor as well as a small notebook you had been clutching. Your cursed yourself for the clumsiness but offered him a curtsy all the same before bending to retrieve the books.

He seemed to move too quickly for his stature and had his hand flat on the book before you had even reached out. Turning it over he smiled, bringing the book with him stand,

"Ah, so it was you"

You grasped the small notebook in your hand and stood to meet his gaze, eyes slightly wide with fear. As if he had caught you in his grasp.

He let out a small laugh, which seemed uncharacteristic for him, "Do not worry. I merely found it"

He placed the book down on the table and looked back at her. Even though he had one eye, it seemed to rake over her for an eternity before returning to her face.

"Are you afraid, my Lady?" he asked, still smirking.

Realising that she had been gawking, gripping onto her notebook, she shook her head. He seemed satisfied with the answer, only offering a 'Hm' in response as he began pacing the space around her.

"I may have limited vision, but I can see you are not afraid of me"

His back was facing you now, and with his eye not trained on you, you took the opportunity to study him and his form for a moment.

He was tall and his long silver hair trailed over his back, thick and straight. He certainly had that air of intimidation behind him and seemed to dress as such to scare people. In thick black leather with clasps, he almost looked imprisoned in his own clothes, straining against them. All this study of his form made you look down at yourself, wondering what he thought of you. The small woman without a voice, dressed in the clothes she was made several years ago.

"Your sister says I have a temper" he started, turning slowly to meet your gaze. He studied the way the candles flickered washes of amber and yellowish hues onto the side of your face, bringing the flush of your face out even more. How the flames bounced off the colour of your eyes. He wondered; how could someone be so expressive with simply their gaze.

He could not explain it, but you seemed content in the silence between you.

Slowly, as if movement would trigger the man, you opened the small notebook you carried with you, using the strip of charcoal to scribble something down. Aemond smirked seeing how concentrated you looked staring at the pages, how the line in between your eyebrows popped out slightly as you wrote.

You passed him the notebook, pointing at the page. He handled the book with such care that is astonished you, the way his fingers grasped it, there was a sensitivity to it. You swallowed your breath as his eye ran over the page all too slowly.

I do not know you well, but I have seen no temper.

Without moving an inch, his eye met you again and for a moment you worried you had said something wrong. But he softly handed the notebook back to you, watching your every move.

"Is this how you communicate?" he asked genuinely.

You nodded, as if embarrassed. Thinking of something to write down, you quickly flipped to a new page.

He accepted the notebook again once you had done, looking significantly more nervous this time, the charcoal rubbing black on your fingers.

I hope that the suggestion of our marriage does not embarrass you. If it is to be, I will be an amenable wife.

Aemond read the words on the page a few times, each time saddening him more so than the last. He saw how you fumbled with the charcoal, eyes averted, afraid of his reaction. He sighed so quietly that you did not hear it and only looked up once again when he handed the notebook back to you.

The words seemed to sincere, it bought a pain to his heart to see you think such things.

"Do not reduce yourself to such a thing" he said. But you did not look up.

There was a pregnant pause between you both as he regarded you.

"You are not entirely mute, are you"

You shook your head at his question, he winced at the painful look on your face. Immediately scribbling something down, faster this time.

It is sometimes better not to say anything at all.

Aemond nodded at this, "It is good advice, perhaps it can be bestowed on some within the court"

At this genuinely unexpected quip, you looked up at him letting a laugh escape you, hand immediately coming to your face to hide the smile that bubbled there.

It surprised you how quickly his eyes lit up upon hearing your voice. You could not help but look at him as he smiled before you, your cheeks firing up with embarrassment and you cleared your throat almost immediately, trying to dispel the air.

"You have a lovely voice" he said. It was here that you realised you were still smiling, eyes on his face, trying to find any signs of deception. For a second, you opened your mouth, tempted to say something. But the confidence quickly died as a block constricted your throat and the breath was expelled, but you nodded anyway, in thanks.

Do you read?

He nodded, gesturing to the book you had been reading, now reserved to the side table, all but forgotten.

"I do. I come here often" he said quietly, pacing about again.

You could no longer hide the way you looked at him. Your sister had said he was quick to rise and that she had been scared stiff at the interactions with him, that he had given her no notion of acceptance or equality. She spoke like he thought he was above everyone else.

But this was not the person you saw before you. Before you was some so soft spoken, you could barely hear him most of the time. Someone who enjoyed the serenity of a quiet library with the only sound being the flickering of the candles and the rain hitting the stone walls outside. You envisioned him being the only one to people-watch at parties, not amusing himself with the prospect of dancing. And perhaps not entertaining the thought of speaking to a woman directly.

"I come here when people like your sister remark on my tempestuous nature. Solitude is the only remedy for it" he paused looking over at you, "I imagine it is the same for you"

You scribbled something down, meeting his gaze when you handed it over.

Perhaps it is just that we are misunderstood. Solitude offers comfort.

A smile tugged at his lips once more and he thought that this is the most he had smiled in a long time.

"And books, it seems"

You nod genuinely, your eyes lighting up with an idea. Placing the notebook to one side, you rush past the Prince, giving him an opportune moment to feel the fabric of your skirts pass his thigh and the whips of your hair drag across the leather of his arm, releasing their scent. And with his eyes closed, he relished in these perfumes.

He allowed himself to think about what it would be like to live in that scent. To have it around him.

You placed a book in his hand, looking up at him excitedly. His long fingers grazed over the cover, admiring the gold leaf applied to it.

"Is this your favourite?" he asked, noting how close you remained after placing the book in his hand, though this you had not realised yet. You nodded, smiling as he opened the cover page to inspect the contents. A book he had not read.

He squinted at the pages, confused and looked back at you, barely needing to move his head since he was so tall.

"You can read this?" he asked. Ever humble, you shrugged your shoulders, "This is Valyrian" he sounded almost as if he did not believe you.

But you had read enough books for a lifetime already and you intended to prove to the Prince that what you were implying was truth.

Taking a deep breath, you lean forward and point to a word in Valyrian, inspecting the swirling text upside down. It had been a page right in the middle, telling the history of Aegon the Conqueror's mission to the Riverlands.

"…i-istan…hae…" you took another breath, not meeting the Prince's eye, nervous that if you did all confidence would surely die, "…darys…"

"…dārys" Aemond softly corrected. You could not help but look up at him now, the eye that had been filled with mischief and confidence, now had something else there. You licked your lips and motioned for him to repeat what he has said so you might copy, "dārys…"

"…dārys…h-he….he…" you struggled on the 'h' sounds of the next words, so paused to gather your breath and push past the newly developing blocks. But the Prince waited patiently, more enamoured at the fact that you were attempting to speak before him and that this was possibly the most you had said to anyone in months, perhaps years.

The mere sound of your own voice surprised you, but concentrated on finishing the sentence, you licked your lips once again in concentration. Aemond almost laughed as the line between your eyebrows returned, "…hen ry…vest, vesteros…o-o…" you sighed at yourself, frustrated. The words beginning with vowels were always the hardest.

"…ondoso…" you managed, pushing past the breath quickly and it was the loudest word you spoke in the whole sentence. It felt clumsy and wrong, but if you had looked ahead, you would have seen the hooded look of Aemond looking down at you, mouthing along with you in silent appreciation.

"…rhaenys…" you finished, looking up at the prince. He closed the book and repeated the word back at you but with the trilled 'r' that was difficult for many to pronounce. You smiled, fiddling with your hair, only now realising how close you were to him so you were able to read the book.

You stepped back, suddenly feeling embarrassed and hot. As if you'd been caught doing something you shouldn’t.

"Very good" he said. The smile on your face was difficult to keep at bay and he placed the book to one side, "It is not an easy language to learn. From books?" he asked, to which you nodded.

You were grateful he did not mention anything about your slowness, about the stumbling over the words. He simply complimented your ability to even read and speak any Valyrian and that was all you wanted from him.

You scribbled down.

Perhaps you could teach me how to pronounce it properly.

"I would enjoy that, my Lady" he stepped forward to give you the notebook back, only to keep a hold on it when you tried to take it. His other hand laid on top of hers and all of a sudden, it all felt so real.

You could feel his fingers rub over yours with a strangely soft touch and all the heat rose to your face again.

"It is a brave thing, to show yourself to someone" he said, looking down at you, "Someday, I hope to do the same for you" he said quietly.

You flicked from one of his eyes to his eyepatch, knowing that this was the source of his own pain. All the things the ladies and your sister had said about this man. Saying he was monstrous, tempestuous and someone to fear. It was clear that these people just did not know him.

"Being with you is like being alone" he said quietly, almost to say it to himself.

Your other hand came to his arm, hand smoothing over the soft leather, reaching out to touch him to see if he was real. Your smaller hands barely came around his arm but you squeezed it, offering whatever comfort you could.

At his words, you nodded in agreement, and he could see the sincerity in your eyes. Perhaps he merely wanted to be understood, like everyone would like, but something that people like yourselves was difficult to find.

Dropping the notebook, the charcoal fell to the ground and snapped in two and before Aemond could open his mouth to question, you laid your head against his chest, hearing and feeling his heartbeat through the thick leathers.

He stood stock still for a moment, hands suspended in the warm air around you until he carefully laid them on your shoulders, pulling the hair over your shoulder. And for a moment he could not tell if he was greatly confused, shocked, horrified or comforted by the feeling.

A shudder rattled down your back as you felt his chin rest on top of your head.

"Kirimvose" he whispered, making a burst of air leave you with a laugh. It sounded mildly forced, and it warmed your chest in a way that bloomed across your whole body, knowing now that despite his discomfort, he had said it.

Thank you.

5K notes · View notes

miss-oranje-disco-dancer · 10 months ago

Text

you know i like my [boys] a little bit older

pairing: reader x leon x chris

cw: smut, 3sum, older men x younger woman, two men kissing (gay sex thursday!!), p in v, oral sex

summary: reader's parents have a little party and invite two old friends from out of town (leon and chris). threesome ensues.

a/n: i should've actually made chris and leon fuck in this for gay sex thursday :( and yeah, this is not beta read and it's sorta proofread, but it's still me writing, so it's a real collage of different stream of consciousness paragraphs imo ... anyway, title comes from 'your love' by the outfield (except a lil change in lyrics)

wc: 3.2k

Your parent’s house is filled with friends, old and new; the crowd spills over into the backyard on this gorgeous summer evening. Your mother and father had both worked for the government, occasionally collaborating with anti-bioterrorism agencies while they lived in D.C. They’d long since moved to a quiet suburb states away, so you hadn’t met their friends, Leon and Chris, but you’d heard countless stories of heroism and shenanigans over the years.

You expect them to be average-looking middle-aged men, but when you open the door to greet them, you have to stop yourself from gawking. Drool would be dripping from your lips if you let your fantasies run wild.

They introduced themselves with firm handshakes. You could drown in Leon’s eyes. You have to scramble for your own name. Luckily, Chris’ voice could coax anything from your mouth. You’d tell him your name, credit card number, and darkest secrets.

You wouldn’t dare confess your thoughts to your mother, who you cross paths with in the kitchen. You inform her of Leon and Chris’ arrival, and the minute she turns to leave, you grab a water bottle from the fridge and start chugging. Your mouth is drier than ever, and you’re sweating already.

You hadn’t planned on mingling with your parents’ friends, but your new guests have piqued your interest. You walk outside and go straight to the cooler to grab some liquid courage. You don’t want to look desperate, so you pretend to be disinterested. Unbeknownst to you, Leon and Chris are talking about you across the yard.

“I called dibs on her first,” Chris reminds Leon when he claims that he should be the one to ask you out.

“Aren’t you too old for ‘calling dibs’?” Leon mocks him.

“If I’m so old, I should get to ask her first.” Chris and Leon bicker for the sake of it. It’s the dynamic they’ve cultivated over the years.

“That makes no sense. That just means you’re going to die first, statistically speaking.” Chris would think it was a dumb thing to say if he wasn’t watching you saunter across the yard to grab a beer from the cooler. You’re wearing shorts that fit are too tight in your mother’s opinion - not in Chris’.

“Not with the way you’ve been drinking.” Chris nods to the beer bottle in Leon’s hand, identical to the one you’re holding.

“Says the man with the cigarette hanging out his mouth.”

Chris blows smoke in Leon’s face. Passing by the two men on your way into the house, you accidentally let a giggle slip.

“Speak of the devil,” Leon says loud enough for you to hear, wafting smoke away with his hand.

Chris turns his head in your direction, gives you a small smile and nods. Leon’s gaze says he’s sifting through his one-liners for a way to pick you up or to take a jab at Chris.

Leon’s flirtatious. He has a boyish charm even though he’s in his forties. Chris is quieter, but it’s not shyness; it’s nonchalance.

Before you know it, the sun is going down. Everyone is preoccupied with their own conversations and no one has noticed that you’re practically sitting on Chris’ lap because there aren’t enough chairs. Tension is rising in the air, and sitting across from you, Leon’s eyes narrow when they look into yours conspiratorially.

“A toast?” Leon holds up his beer.

“To what?” Chris sounds amused, anticipating Leon’s toast.

“To a good time.” It’s simple and innocuous, but mischief sparkles behind his eyes, and what he means is obvious.

“Amen,” you say with a voice so tiny it’s barely audible over the clink sound of glass on glass, but your red cheeks and shy smile convey your feelings better than words can.

It’s your lucky day when they stay late enough for your mom to ask them if they’d like to sleep over. Not with you, of course; that’s not what she means, and she’d never assume she’d have to specify. Her daughter would never fuck her friends. They’re middle-aged men.

But the house is cramped, so Leon and Chris end up on the basement couch and an air mattress, respectively. Technically, the basement is yours in its entirety, but you have a closed-off section that’s akin to a closet where you keep your bed. Your family has never lived large.

You have to walk past the men to brush your teeth, and you do so in your skimpy pajamas. The ones you bought when you were in high school, and now, so many years later, your ass more than peeks out the bottoms, and your tits threaten to spill out of your tank top.

Leon is more obvious in the way that he watches your tits bounce when you walk without a bra on. Either he’s truly shameless, or he knows you like it because he’s being obvious in his glances. Again, Chris is more subtle, or so you think, because you don’t have eyes in the back of your head and can’t see the way Chris’ eyes are locked onto your hips, the sway of your hips when you walk, the way it makes the fabric ride up and shows more skin.

You almost walk straight into Leon when you leave the bathroom. His hands catch your biceps, stopping the impending collision.

“Whoops,” you say with a giggle, “Sorry, I got distracted.”

He’s still holding onto you because he knows you’ll try to skirt around the question if he lets you go. “What’s on your mind that’s got you all distracted?”

“I’m not gonna say it,” you say.

“C’mon, say it.”

“You already know what I’m thinking.”

“Do I?” he asks, tipping your chin up, so you’ll have to meet his eyes.

You look up and get on your tiptoes when you see the way he’s looking down at you. You know he wants to kiss you, so you make it easier for him. His hands move to your waist when he leans in to kiss you. It’s hard for you to stand like that without toppling over especially when Leon’s lips make you feel dizzy in the head. Leon picks you up and drops you on the air mattress. All thoughts have left your head by the time Leon is on top of you.

You snap back to reality when you hear Chris’ voice. He’d be outside having a last cigarette before bed. “Are you two planning on making out all night or can I get in bed?”

“There’s room for three,” you break away from the kiss to offer up the idea, as if it wasn’t already on everyone’s mind.

“Care to share, Leon?”

Leon shares reluctantly, letting Chris into the bed.

“You smell like beer, Kennedy. I thought you were going to brush your teeth.”

“I got distracted on the way.”

You pat him gently, “Go brush your teeth. I promise we’ll wait for you.”

Leon rolls his eyes and gets up with a dramatic groan. You gesture for Chris to come closer until his face is inches from yours.

“I thought you wanted to wait,” he whispers, tauntingly.

“I lied. Kiss me?”

“Normally, I don’t kiss liars, but you’re cute, so you get a pass.”

Chris kisses you, gladly taking Leon’s place. You smile into the kiss, knowing that you’ve already won. They think they have to vie for your attention, but they never did. You always wanted both of them.

When Leon comes back, he pretends to be surprised that you’d lie to him. Inevitably, Chris has to brush his teeth, too, and when he does, Leon scoops you up so that you end up in his lap.

“I’m sorry I lied about waiting,” you say, still lying.

“Sure you are,” he says, unconvinced, sliding his hands under the hem of your tank top.

“Kiss me?” you ask with a hopeful smile.

“And what if I don’t?”

“Please,” you whine, and grab Leon’s hands to force them to your tits. You could continue to flirt with him if you had more thoughts left in your head, but all the blood in your brain had been drained, and your body had succumbed to desire. Lust isn’t the most clever interlocutor.

It’s a good thing that men are used to thinking with their dicks, so you let them take the lead. You’re not sure whether you feel more like a princess or a barbie doll, but it seems like you’re their new favorite toy. Your clothes get torn off like wrapping paper and they move you around like raggedy ann while you just go with the flow.

You can feel Leon’s breath through the thin fabric of your panties and you’re about to tell him that he doesn’t have to do that. You’re not fully-shaved and you didn’t prepare for this, so you don’t expect either of them to go down on you. You don’t get a word in, though, because Chris’ mouth finds yours and by the time Leon’s tongue is touching your clothed cunt, your mouth is occupied. Chris pulls away to breathe - (Leon has learned how to breathe while eating pussy)- and you moan loudly enough that you get a hand clamped over your mouth. You can’t be trusted not to make noise when your mouth isn’t busy - luckily, Chris and Leon figure out what to do with your mouth.

It all happens in a whirlwind. There was never any sense in your little charade because the tension had been building since that afternoon, the slow boil of a pot on the stove, one that would inevitably bubble over. You could exchange playful kisses and dry hump each other like horny teenagers, but if you’re a big girl who’s old enough to take two grown men, then you shouldn’t need such hand-holding. Especially when you’re already soaking through your panties. It’d be cruel to tease you. There’s a silent agreement to discard the preamble along with your clothes.

Despite their bickering, they work well as a team when it comes to giving you the best fucking of your life. You knew you were in for a bit of manhandling hard-and-fast fucking, not some sappy sweet love-making. Each of them gave you a unique type of roughness - both equally good.

Chris’ touch is steadfast with firm, calloused hands. He grips your hips tightly enough to leave marks. It’s not completely intentional, you’re just small and squirmy due to Leon’s touch.

Leon sinks his teeth into your neck, he nips at your breast and sucks on the nipple until you’re straddling the line between tantalizing pleasure and sharp pain. Something is ablaze inside you, but is it a flickering of warmth or does the fire burn? He blows cold air onto your sensitive skin and when you shiver out a whine, he whispers into your ear, “You look so pretty like this.”

Your body shudders again when Chris’ facial hair grazes your inner thighs and you feel his hot breath fanning over your cunt. One languid passing of his tongue flat against your folds has you writhing. His hands are on your ass now, guiding your hips to his mouth. The way he squeezes your flesh feels like praise - tough love, they call it.

Leon gets impatient. Watching you unravel has his cock straining against the fabric of his underwear, so he slides them off. His length is within your reach, so you take it in your dainty hand. Leon keeps his hand around yours, guiding you through each stroke even though you don’t need his help to do it. “Good girl,” he says, proud of you for multitasking - jerking him off while holding back moans is no easy task. Chris mumbles something, but it gets lost between your legs. It sounded like an affirmative.

You take initiative and flick your tongue over the tip of Leon’s cock, which thanks you by releasing a bead of precum onto your tongue. You plan to wrap your lips around him when your orgasm rolls through you like a shockwave. You have to bite your lip to muffle any noises. You end up with your hand clasped to your mouth because the experience is euphoric, best not waste it by getting caught.

Chris comes up for air once your legs give out, finally releasing him from their hold. His lips are puffy and pink - much like your lips, the ones below the waist - from ravishing you. Instead of wiping your arousal from his mouth, he kisses you, sloppily, so that you can taste yourself. You pull away, your mouths attached by a string of saliva until Chris speaks, “You taste good, huh?”

He’s not really looking for an answer, though. He’s thinking about whether or not to go grab a condom from his wallet. His face keeps composure in a way that his dick doesn't - you can see how hard he is through his sweats.

“How are you feeling?” Chris asks, trying to ease into the impending conversation about whether or not you want him - or Leon - to fuck you.

“Amazing,” you say, the post-orgasm pink glow painting your face as evidence.

“Is that so?” Leon asks, playing coy with you. “Do you mind if I find out for myself how good you’re feeling?”

He doesn’t wait for a reply before tracing your folds with his fingertips. When a whimper escapes you, he dares to dip one digit inside you.

“Too sensitive,” you protest.

“Done for the night?” Leon asks.

“No. Just give me a couple minutes.”

Chris and Leon meet eyes, both with the same grin appearing on their faces, conspiratorial and juvenile, somehow. It’s like young boys who know they’re about to do something that would send their mother into a tizzy if she found out. This whole rendezvous would give your mother - who’s sleeping upstairs, blissfully unaware - a heart attack if she caught the three of you in flagrante delicto.

Chris goes hunting for condoms in his luggage.

In the meanwhile, you spend your time doting on Leon, lazily playing with his dick, which looks painfully hard. You don’t want to risk him cumming too soon, so you opt for running your tongue along the shaft, stopping at the head to swirl your tongue around it. Leon’s breath is heavy, and when your hand finds its way to his balls, cradling them gently, his breath hitches. There’s a flash of something akin to panic in his eyes. It’s a paradoxical urgency - he needs to cum, but he needs to last.

You pull away when you glance at Chris, who finds what he’s looking for tucked into Leon’s suitcase.

“Did you think this was going to happen?” You ask Leon.

“No, I just like to be prepared.”

“Whore,” Chris scoffs under his breath.

“Pissed ‘cause you don’t get laid?” Leon taunts.

“Seems like I’m about to,” Chris says with a smile that’s directed at you.

Leon and Chris work out the logistics as they go. It starts with Leon’s fingers pumping in and out of you. He curls them and hits your g-spot, making your back arch. Chris is quick - as quick as possible with the circumstances - to put a condom on. The show you’re getting is its own kind of foreplay. You find that the imprint of Chris’ dick, the one his sweatpants teased you with, did not do his size justice. Excitement, coupled with a more anxious anticipation, flowed through you.

You’re transfixed by the sight. “I don’t think it’s gonna fit,” you say, truly doubting it. Your voice is candy-coated sweet despite the sincerity.

“We’ll try our best,” Chris says, encouraging Leon to stretch you out a bit more in preparation.

You end up on your hands and knees with Chris behind you and Leon cock-to-face with you. Chris has one hand kneading your ass while the other is wrapped around his dick, lining it up at your entrance. Leon’s movement is synchronized, except one hand cups your cheek and the other holds his dick, teasing your lips, coaxing you to open.

Your lips part naturally when you feel the stretch of Chris’ initial thrust, slow, steady, inch-by-inch and you moan. Leon shuts you up the best way he knows how. Enthusiastically, you take him as far as you can. Tears prick in your eyes when he nears the back of your throat.

Once he’s fully inside you, Chris gets into a comfortable rhythm. You try to replicate the cadence with your mouth working on Leon, who’s already beginning to babble.

“You look so - fuck - perfect like this,” and “It’s like you were made for it,” and “Fuck, you’re doing so - fuck, just like that.

Leon’s mouthy, won’t shut up until Chris tells him to. “Make me,” Leon says without thinking. He’s running on autopilot anyway. Chris grabs his face and kisses him hard on the lips, and Leon’s a whore, not just for women, so he gets sloppy with his kisses. It’s hair-pulling, tongue-heavy, the kind that leaves your lips raw.

Chris fucks you harder and Leon’s hands remain on Chris’ face to keep himself from taking you by the ponytail and forcing himself down your throat. You do end up where he wants you - with your nose touching his abdomen. It’s by your own determination, desperate to please him, please them both, please yourself.

Leon pulls away from Chris and his breath catches in his throat. He runs his fingers through his hair. You know he’s desperate, teetering on edge, and the force of Chris’ hips, the sound of skin slapping against skin, along with the sight of Leon’s self-restraint crumbling, leads you to your peak. The pressure builds rapidly and you are consumed by your climax.

Chris’ voice is an echo in the background, mirroring your moans - which reverberate through Leon’s body. You hear from behind you, “Oh fuck - you’re so tight, gonna make me cum.” It’s barely a warning before you feel the throbbing of his orgasm, his rhythm faltering. Leon follows close behind. His attempt to warn you is futile. His head tips back and his release fills your mouth in spurts. He has to bite his knuckles to stop the pornographic moan that threatens to escape him.

The roll of Chris’ hips slows to a stop and he pulls out, discarding the condom in the trashcan while Leon catches his breath.

He’s still panting when he says, “Sorry, I came without a warning.”

“S’okay. I could tell you were about to, anyway,” you say with a smile that draws Leon’s lips to yours.

Chris picks you up without a word.

“Where are we going?” you ask.

“Bathroom,” he says.

You cling to him with your tired arms.

“Don’t worry. I’m not gonna drop you.” His voice holds a certain tenderness that you didn’t expect.

He drops you off and closes the door, giving you privacy. When you return, you’re greeted by both men who have re-dressed themselves, preparing to dress you too. This level of attention makes your cheeks flush.

“I feel like a princess,” you say as Leon helps you into your pajamas.

“You are,” he says as if he believes it to be unequivocally true.

Chris carries you to bed and Leon pulls back the covers so you can be properly tucked in. You get a kiss on each cheek and two on the forehead before they leave.

You ask, somewhat embarrassed if either of them will sleep in your bed with you. Your bed isn’t big enough for three, so they take turns. One of them keeps watch because, knowing that if you’re caught, they’ll never be allowed back, while the other embraces you.

#leon s kennedy #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy smut #chris redfield #leon s kennedy x reader #chris redfield x reader #chris redfield smut #fics #miss oranje fics

687 notes · View notes

jaimeslanisters · 4 months ago

Text

the pawn in every lover's game (part fifteen)

Aemond Targaryen x Lannister!Reader

When you’re ten, your father sends you to King’s Landing to befriend a princess and woo a prince. A lioness growing up amongst dragons is a dangerous thing indeed.

crossposted on ao3 masterlist word count: 10k notes: spite is genuinely the greatest motivator. i had plans to make this longer but i genuinely felt i would die if i didn't post right now so! enjoy (:

The dance ends all too soon. You wish it had lasted longer. You wish it had never started to begin with. You hate every passing second and you can’t pull yourself away. There’s an ache, deep in your chest, as you watch Aegon and Helaena finish. There’s a final note that the bards play, one final mournful strum of the harp, and the two of them unfurl from one another, the space growing between the two of them as they pull away. At the last moment, Aegon captures Helaena’s hand, bowing his head as he brings it to his lips. Helaena closes her eyes, her free hand coming up to clutch at her chest, and, in the multicolor glow of the candles, it looks like a hazy memory, like something you’ve dreamed of and have only just remembered.

It looks like a song.

Next to you, Floris sucks in air sharply, completely enraptured by the show in front of her, and you’re struck with the memory of your cousins whispering and giggling about their dance during the opening feast. The Targaryens are beautiful - you know this as surely as you know that you are a Lannister with all that that entails - but their allure goes beyond that. It’s intoxicating. It’s overwhelming.

There’s almost a sense of relief in knowing that you aren’t the only one to be pulled in by them.

Aegon releases Helaena from his hold and, together, the two of them walk back to the royal table, a careful space between the two of them. As they pass, all the nobles rise to their feet and you join them, your hand shooting out to support Floris as she stumbles slightly on her way up. She tilts into you, seemingly content with you supporting her weight, but you don’t pay her any mind, your gaze locked onto the newlyweds.

Aegon looks straight ahead, fixated, but Helaena spares you a glance and she smiles, her whole visage melting into something softer and sweeter. You smile back even though it feels wrong on your face, your smile stretched out too thin, but she doesn’t begrudge you for it. You wish she would. You wish she would push back at you for your inability to swallow this pain easily because that would mean that she was pushing back on something. You could bear that burden - you could bear anything for her - but she would never. She doesn’t need it regardless. You need it. You crave her anger at you like you crave absolution.

The two of them walk together to the dais at the front and, once they reach the shadow of the Iron Throne, they turn to each other. Aegon bows low at the waist while Helaena curtseys, nearly brushing the stone floor with her knees, officially signaling the end of the first dance and opening the floor for everyone else. A cheer breaks from the waiting nobles and, when the pair of them rise again, the waiting crowd breaks and moves to a dance floor, a moving wave that’s unstoppable. At your side, the silent Baela breaks away from you, pushing through the crowd toward where you last saw one of her Valeryon cousins. A part of you wants to follow behind her, see if you can’t coax her into speaking again, but the rest of you just wants to find Helaena and Aemond.

You turn to look up at the dais, in time to see Aemond rise from his seat, his eyes locked on you and you heave a sigh of relief as he nods when he notices his gaze, motioning for you to stay still so he can come find you.

Floris teeters closer to you, reaching up on her tiptoes to speak in your ear, stumbling closer by mistake so that her lips brush your earlobe in a move that has you shivering. She wobbles dangerously and your arm shoots out to gently grab her around the waist so she has some semblance of support. You belatedly realize that this is the closest you’ve ever been with someone who wasn’t a member of your family or Helaena and Aemond. “Is your prince coming to dance?” She aims to whisper but instead she practically yells in your ear, oblivious to your open wince.

You pull away from her, smiling in spite of your discomfort. “Are your sisters nearby?” You ask in lieu of responding, hoping that you could dump her on one of the other Four Storms and make her someone else’s problem. You’d feel bad about pushing her away except it’s hard to even conjure up the desire to. You want to spend the night in the company of Aemond and Helaena, not minding a girl you’ve just met - a girl who is seemingly completely uninterested in detaching herself from you.

She straightens up, craning her neck to try and scan the audience. She suddenly points in excitement, shouting “Maris!” in absolute glee, and you follow her pointing finger only to teeter back in shock.

Maris Baratheon is a tall, skinny girl with pale skin and a sea of freckles across her face. Her pitch-black hair is pulled tight against her scalp and, where Floris is soft and sweet, she is severe and sharp. She looks like a storm personified, thunderous and bold, a Baratheon through and through.

And she’s standing right in front of you, frowning at her youngest sister wagging her finger just in front of her nose.

“My lady,” you rush out, your curtsey coming out more like a short bob with the way that Floris leans her entire weight on you. “My apologies for not noticing you. I wa-”

“Have you no shame?” Maris hisses, plainly ignoring you in favor of narrowing her stormy blue eyes at her younger sister. “Mother didn’t let you come just for you to embarrass yourself in front of the royal family.”

Floris frowns tempestuously and it slowly dawns on you that, in spite of appearances, she may be just as stormy as her sisters. “I don’t see the princes or the princesses around.”

“Aye and what is she?” Maris shoots back and you startle to realize that she’s turned her dark gaze on you. You open your mouth to insist that you are no princess or anything resembling royalty but the elder Baratheon girl doesn’t even offer you the chance to. “You should have minded yourself. Controlled yourself.”

Floris turns her nose up, rolling her eyes. “Lady Lannister wasn’t bothered.”

Maris huffs. “You idiot. You essentially held her hostage. She couldn’t escape you!”

“Maybe it’s hard for you but I can manage to befriend people without offending them at every step!”

“This isn’t about me! This is about yo-”

“Oh is it? Are you s-”

“Yes! For Gods’ sake, you always d-”

The two Baratheons start screeching at each other, their words overlapping until you’re sure they’re speaking as one, leaning closer and closer in until you’re trapped between the two of them, pressed tight in the middle, and you start to wonder if storm is too small of a word to describe the pair of them. They’re hissing and vicious and you know they must be seconds away from throwing punches and trying to land blows and you start to pray that you’ll be able to slip away in the chaos when an all too familiar voice cuts through the din.

“If I could,” Aemond starts, hands tucked behind his back as he stares down at the trio of you with barely concealed amusement. “I’d like to steal away Lady Lannister if she’s available.”

There’s a beat of silence where you try to express your gratitude with your eyes and Floris begins making a sound like a captured mouse before Maris snorts, distinctly unladylike even as she bows her head in greeting. “I’m surprised you’re asking, my prince. I doubt you offered Victor Florent the same choice.”

You laugh, startled and too caught off guard to keep it in, while Floris’s squeaks take a particularly high pitch. Aemond’s smile turns sharp and he hums noncommittally, tilting his head as he peers down at Maris Baratheon. To her credit, the lady doesn’t quail or shrink away, merely turning her nose up.

“This is why Mother wants to send her to the Silent Sisters,” Floris hisses to you, her voice, again, far too loud to be counted as a whisper.

At that, Maris visibly flinches and her face flashes with annoyance - whether it’s at herself, her mother, or Floris you’re not sure - but she backs down, bowing her head once more. It’s unfitting for her, you think. Self-pity doesn’t suit her - it sits wrong on her features - and you feel a quick flash of pity. The Silent Sisters was a harsh punishment - only the Night’s Watch could compare and even then, at least those men were permitted to talk and had more than enough freedom to break their other vows up in the frigid North, far from even the Starks’ eyes.

You glance at Aemond and, when he notices your watchful gaze, he flicks his eyes upward in exasperation before fixing his stare back on Maris. “The Lady Lannister was offered no choice when Victor Florent presented her with his crown. I simply returned the favor.”

Maris doesn’t respond, simply nodding her head in agreement, her expression the same smooth mask, but Floris lets out a soft ‘oh!’, sounding as delighted as if Aemond had just personally handed her a bouquet of the prettiest flowers. You flick your gaze up towards her and she’s gazing at him, starry-eyed and flushed, and you feel a sharp lance of annoyance shoot through you.

Has she forgotten you’re the one thing keeping her standing?

“Well,” you trill as pleasantly as you can, straightening up and tightening your hold on her waist to hoist her up with you. She moves readily enough, making no complaint when you squeeze her, and you find with no small degree of displeasure that she’s taller than you, tall enough that she’s level with Aemond’s eye. “I really must accompany the prince. I-”

“Oh,” Floris chirps, grinning widely when you look up at her. “I’m sure you’re eagerly awaiting the first dance!”

You’re most definitely not. Aemond has not danced since before Driftmark, back when he and Aegon had been your and Helaena’s partners in your dancing lessons. He’d never been fond of it though he had never complained - not like Aegon who seemingly could not whine enough about being forced into lessons even if he had enjoyed more than Helaena and nearly more than you. You’re not planning on telling the Baratheon girls that but, before you get the chance to come up with some excuse for not joining in on the imminent first dance, Aemond steps forward, grabbing hold of your elbow and gently pulling you from Floris’s grasp. Maris moves up to steady her, swearing at her sister as she does, utterly immune to the way Floris flops on her affectionately like a dog cuddling up to its master.

“The first dance is starting soon,” Aemond says in lieu of explaining and you hide a smile as you tuck his hand close to you, curling your arm around his.

Maris hums, clearly disinterested in your reasons for leaving and also clearly pinching her sister with one of her hands hidden from view if the way Floris twists away from her is any indicator. “I thank you for watching my wayward sister, my lady.”

You nod, flashing her a pleasant smile. “It was no problem.” It had been. “It was a pleasure to meet your sister.” It hadn’t been. Not towards the end, at least. Not with the annoyance and jealousy coiling in your chest like a snake preparing to strike out and bite.

Floris leans out of her sister’s grasp, beaming up at you and Aemond. She hasn’t even approached sobering up - the longer she’s been without her drink, the more her last drink seems to sink into her. “I hope to speak to you soon, Lady Lannister. It’s been so lovely speaking with you,” she grins toothily, looking more girly than ever, and you force a smile, bowing your head in gratitude.

She turns her pretty smile on Aemond, her flushed cheeks turning even more pink to your watching eyes. “Prince Aemond,” she breathes out, her big gray eyes wide. She looks starstruck and sweet, a perfect gentle lady. “If you’re not too tired after your dance… No one has claimed any dances from me…” Her hand reaches up, hesitantly and slowly, as if she’s going to reach over and grab his sleeve and your vision flashes red.

You sharply exhale, all eyes snapping to you. “My lady,” you say, letting concern seep into your voice. “Would you be alright on the dance floor? I would hate for your sister to have to hold you up during a dance with the prince.”

Floris blinks at you, her cheeks burning an even brighter red.

Aemond hums next to you and you can feel the rumble of his chest against your arm, his amusement nearly radiating off of him.

You reach out to her, keeping your arm looped around Aemond’s but using your free hand to brush her own arm that’s wrapped around her sister’s. “Perhaps some water would suit you well, my lady, rather than a dance.”

Maris laughs, the sound more like a bark than anything, and she eyes you, defensiveness sharpening her gaze. “You’re rather bold in your assessment, my lady.”

You smile, squeezing Floris’s bicep before letting go. “If I am in the presence of storms, I must be bold to weather it. It’s just friendly advice, Lady Maris. I’d hate for your sister to shame herself.” More than she already has, at least.

The elder Baratheon girl gives you a tight smile. She knows you’re right and that she can’t refute it. Be it Storm’s End or King’s Landing, the rules are all the same. Ladies do not ask for dances from Targaryen princes. Ladies do not cling to strangers they’ve just met, let alone hang on them through a royal feast. Ladies do not drink themselves to the point of being unable to stand unassisted.

A harsher person would point this out in front of a bigger crowd than just her sister. A cruel person would spread it. You’re being helpful. You’re being generous.

Even Floris’s wounded deer performance can’t sway you to more than mild pity.

You glance over your shoulder, eyes scanning the crowd until you find your target. Your cousin, predictably, is surrounded by fawning ladies and laughing lords, his grin wide and endlessly charming. “Once you’ve found your legs, I’ll see if I can’t persuade my cousin, Ser Tygett, to come and offer you your first dance. He would be honored to be dancing on the arm of a beautiful maiden such as yourself.” You smile at her as gently as possible.

“He won the archery event,” Floris says after a moment, her voice soft. She doesn’t look at you, eyes glued to her feet. She wobbles damningly and Maris makes an annoyed noise. “I-I… You’re right, my lady. Thank you for… for saving me from embarrassment.”

You nod. “Of course. The capital can be hazardous for young ladies unused to such a large court. I only aim to help you, Lady Floris.”

Floris nods again and Maris scoffs lightly. Your eyes snap to her and you half expect her to be glaring at you. You’ve embarrassed her sister - in front of royalty nonetheless. You’d be fuming if anyone had mocked your sisters in front of you like you had her. But she’s not looking at you at all.

“Seems I’ll have company with me when mother ships me off to the Silent Sisters,” Maris says, not even bothering to drop her voice to a whisper as she stares down at her sister. Floris flinches and looks up, her gray eyes blazing, and you know you’re seconds away from witnessing another row.

Aemond, once again, saves you from that particular indignity. “Enjoy the feast, my ladies.”

He pulls you away and you give them a final smile, one that you’re sure they won’t see - not with the way they’re glaring at each other.

Aemond leads you around the edges of the floor, carefully skirting the groups of noblemen cloistered together, all of them eagerly gossiping and debating each other about the merits of the ladies. Most of the floor is already occupied by couples standing across from each other in two neat rows, ladies separated from the lords, all in preparation for the first dance. Aemond stops just short of entering the actual floor and he looks down at you, a question plain on his face.

“First the tourney and now dancing,” you muse out loud, smiling when he looks skyward. “Please don’t tell me you’re about to ask Ser Criston to knight you as well. I’m not sure I’d be prepared for your family’s reaction.”

Aemond hums in agreement. “I had planned to have this first dance with you, my lady, but it is a mixer dance. I’m not sure I can guarantee the safety of any partners I’d have after you.”

You sniff. “I’m perfectly civil. Your partners would remain untouched.”

He laughs out loud, quick and sharp, and you huff. “I must admit, I’m rather tempted to walk right back and ask Lady Floris for a dance if only to see how you’d tear into her.”

“I’m afraid Floris Baratheon would not be my only victim if you did that,” you say, frowning up at him.

His eye flashes, a distinct hunger sneaking into his features. “Would you sink your teeth into me, my lady? Would you dig your nails in and tear me apart?”

You want to, consequences damned. You imagine biting him, scratching him, burrowing as deep into him as he had into you. You want it all. You want to possess him completely. You are his and he is yours. He had torn his mangled scar up and put your sapphire in it, had filled it with you. What else would he let you take? What else would he let you claim?

You wonder how people can bear this desire - surely you’re not the only one. It’s more than carnal. It’s all-consuming. It’s absolution. It creeps around constantly, haunting every thought. Surely you can’t be the only one who has ever felt this complete burning.

“Perhaps I will, my prince,” you murmur, meeting his eye, wishing he didn’t have the eyepatch on so you could see him completely. “I may not be a dragon but a lion still has claws.”

He smiles, a sharp edge to his expression. He’s hungry. He’s starving. “I’ve known that truth about you since I first met you. Only being a Targaryen saved me from your wrath when you spilled that water over yourself.

The memory flashes in your mind and you think you can almost feel the phantom pain of the needle going through your finger, feel the cool water soaking the front of your gown. You had snarled at him. Briefly but it had been there. The moment had passed so fast that even you had barely registered it. Anyone else would have let the moment pass, counted it as a quick flash of emotion that meant nothing else.

Not Aemond.

He had seen the truth of it. Try as you might, pretend all you will, but there’s no hiding the truth of it - you’re a Lannister. You’re a Lannister to your bones with all the ambition, all the cunning, all the greed that it entails. You’re a lady, yes. Gods know that you’ve dedicated yourself to your etiquettes, to your embroidery and your songs. You did it not just because you had to but because you wanted to. You were a lady but it did not mean that that blunted your edges. It did not make you soft or gentle.

You had told him that truth in his bedroom in Driftmart, in a whispered promise over a gift, but he had already known. He had known from the very first moment he had seen you.

A slow grin spreads on your face. “It saved you the initial moment,” you reply. “Then it was because it was you. Do you remember when you snapped at me after the Dragonpit? I asked you a silly question about the Baratheons and you had just come back from the Dragonpit, from Prince Aegon and the Str… and your nephews.”

Not even your treasonous near mishap stops the downward curling of Aemond’s mouth. “I wasn’t at my… best after the Dragonpit in those days.”

You laugh, more cheery about it now than you had been back then. “I can recall, my prince. You called me a nosy bitch. I wanted to strike you across the face for it. I nearly did too.”

“I apologized,” Aemond grouses, sounding like a little boy again in his annoyance and embarrassment. It’s a far cry from the starved man he had just been and you laugh for the sheer ridiculousness of it.

“I know,” you reply, smiling. “That’s what I was trying to say; I was prepared to apologize to you. Not because you were a Targaryen but because you were Aemond. I didn’t care that you were a prince in that moment. I just cared that you were my friend and I didn’t want to hurt you like you had me.”

Aemond stays silent for a moment, studying you closely. His eye trails across your face, searching deep into you. He’s looking for any sign of deception, any tiny crack in your honesty, but he won’t find it. Not with you. Not with him.

Eventually, he sighs, looking away. “I was terrified I had pushed you away that day,” he murmurs, softly as if he doesn’t mean for you to hear. “I was convinced you were about to demand your return to Casterly Rock and it would have been all my fault. Helaena would hate me for losing her her closest companion. My mother would skin me for losing Lannister support.”

“Were alliances the only thing that kept you in check?” You ask, tilting your head at him, exaggerating a confused expression.

He scoffs lightly, more out of exasperation than annoyance. “No. I didn’t care that you were a lady of House Lannister in that moment. I cared that you were you. My… My friend.”

Distantly, you register the first dance beginning and a small part of you regrets that the two of you hadn’t gotten to join, even if it had meant that you would have had to watch him with other ladies of the court. The rest of you, however, is focused on Aemond, on his words.

You laugh after a second, softly. “So we both spent that night thinking the same thing. Capable of hurting most everyone except each other.”

Aemond hums. “You were the first person I had ever apologized to - outside of the apologies my mother would drag out of me whenever my brothers and I fought or on the rare occasions Helaena and I would argue. The only person I ever apologized to because I wanted to.”

“Don’t worry, it came out very naturally. Not practiced or rehearsed at all,” you reply, grinning when he shoots you a droll look, only the tiniest of movements at the corner of his mouth letting you know he’s amused by your teasing. “Come. I’m sure Floris is beyond herself now that she’s realized we didn’t leave her to go dance the first dance. Let’s find Helaena before she can come to demand her turn.”

“You’ll have to find your cousin as well,” he reminds, following easily enough when you tug on his arm to lead him up to the raised dais where his sister stands, pressed up arm to arm with Aegon, as their mother speaks to the pair of them. “I may have escaped a turn with that particular storm but you did sacrifice Ser Tygett in my place.”

You wince. “He’s not going to want her to be his first dance in case she thinks this is a show of his interest. I’ll have to dance with him for that particular favor,” you say, slightly wishing you hadn’t made that promise. You enjoy dancing but you find you have little interest in it if your partner isn’t the man you’re leading through the crowd right now.

He glances down at you. “I’d ask to have your first dance then, my lady, before you ask him.”

A surprised smile breaks through as you look up at him. “You meant it then? You do mean to dance tonight?”

He nods, looking as serious as he had when he entered the tourney grounds, as if he hasn’t spent this week turning all the expectations you had of him on his head. “Perhaps not a mixer dance so we can ensure that every lady wakes up in the capital tomorrow with their hands still attached but I do intend to have your first dance if you mean to take a turn with other partners.”

“Other partners?” You ask, blinking, realizing belatedly that dancing with him would open you up to dancing requests from men who weren’t him. “So the ladies of King’s Landing can keep their hands but the lords will get to have breakfast with Victor Florent tomorrow?”

He snorts softly. “More that the men of King’s Landing are at least aware of what could happen and will endeavor to make sure the same does not happen to them. I’m afraid the ladies are, as of now at least, ignorant of the true danger.”

“The true danger?” You ask, laughingly, as the two of you reach the foot of the throne, right before the steps of the dais. “I can’t swing a sword, my prince, nor do I have a dragon to send after my enemies.”

“Don’t you?” He tilts his head, smiling when your cheeks flare with heat, as you join the small circle of his family.

Helaena notices you first, always attuned to you, and she smiles at you brightly when she sees that you’re still arm-in-arm with Aemond. Aegon, predictably, already has a goblet of wine in his hand and, judging from the way that he’s downing it as quickly as possible, deaf to his mother’s scolding, he’s not planning on leaving this wedding feast close to anything resembling sobriety.

“I’ve done my part Mother,” Aegon grumbles, his lips stained a deep red from his drink. “You can’t ask for more from me. Not tonight.”

Alicent sighs, wringing her hands together. She seems blind to you, completely oblivious to your presence. She’s focused on Aegon for now. “I just ask you don’t shame yourself. Please just control your habits for this feast at least.”

“I’ve already done what you asked,” he grumbles before he spots you. His eyes brighten and he gets that all too familiar grin on his face, the one that promises trouble. “Here’s your true crowning achievement in your matchmaking skills. Perhaps you should concern yourself about Aemond’s marriage bed instead of mine.”

You don’t react, simply meeting his gaze steadily, but Aemond tenses next to you.

“Enough,” Aemond rumbles and Aegon barks out a laugh.

“Enough? Enough?” He hisses. “It isn’t enough. It’ll never be enough for Mother.”

“Aegon,” Alicent hisses, her eyes flashing with an anger you’re unused to seeing on the Queen. It makes her look so much younger. A sister arguing with her brother than a mother of four. “Finish your drink then. Drink your heart out. Do as you always have for tonight then. But you will do what you must tomorrow. For the rest of your life, you will do your duty.”

“And what is that Mother?” Aegon says, his voice soft.

She looks at him, disappointment warring with grief on her face. “What is necessary, Aegon.”

There is a moment suspended, where they stare at each other, blind to the rest of the room. The music fades, the chatter of the room ceases. All that matters is the two of them.

You think Alicent wants to say more. You think Aegon wants to fight. They’re both hurting for it. They both want to make the other bend to their will, make the other understand, but there’s an insurmountable chasm separating the two of them. Nothing could bridge it - not unless one of them caves to the other and that could never happen. You think neither of them would even want it.

Alicent breaks first, sighing as she looks down at her hands, her fingers clasped tightly, her thumb digging into the cuticle of her other thumb. “Enjoy the feast. All of you.” Her voice fades slightly, cracking on the final word.

You bow your head, murmuring your thanks, but your voice is the only one that answers. When you straighten up, Helaena is looking down at the floor, looking lost in her own mind, while Aemond watches his mother. She gives him a wan smile before she brushes past, her perfumed scent lingering in the air as she moves into the crowd, melting into it.

There’s silence. Even in the loud, busy room, there’s silence in the shadow of the Iron Throne.

Then Aegon scoffs. “Of course. Of course.”

He sounds angry and you look up, your hackles rising as you want to snap back in defense of Alicent.

But he has tears in his eyes. He’s angry. He’s spitting. If you spoke, he’d find a target for his rage, someone to pin all of this anger and rage on. He’d say unspeakably cruel things.

But he has tears in his eyes.

Your fury dies in your throat.

It feels pointless.

He doesn’t linger. He leaves quickly, pushing through the crowd, the crowd parting around like a ship through water. All of you watch him go, the air thick with unspoken grief.

Helaena breaks the quiet first. “The broken emerald ring,” she murmurs. “The ruby shattered.”

You look over at her but she’s already shaking her head, knocking her head clear of the words she had just said. She meets your gaze and smiles. “The feast went well.”

You pause for a moment, registering her words, before nodding, trying your best to smile. “Your announcement went perfectly. I’m sure there’s already smallfolk singing your praises outside the keep.”

She makes a face and your smile turns more genuine. “I mean it Helaena.” You slip from Aemond’s grasp to get closer to her, wishing that you could reach out to her to pull her close. “How are you feeling?”

Helaena doesn’t say anything for a while, looking down at her fidgeting hands before looking up and meeting your eyes. She doesn’t smile but she nods her head. “I feel the same. Things have changed but… Not everything has.”

You nod. “You’ll remain here at least. With your brothers and your mother.”

“With you too,” She reminds, a smile finally flickering on her face.

You nod again, stronger, confident. “With me too.”

She gives you a final fond look before she turns her attention to Aemond. She looks at him, her eyes openly roving over his face and body. She’s looking for something, you think, but you don’t know what. You know Helaena as well as you know yourself. She’s so tied up into your own sense of self that you don’t think that, if you ever felt even the slightest desire to, you could ever cut her away from you. Her roots are deep in you, curling tight around your heart and soul.

But her mind can be as secretive as her prophecies.

“The iron crown,” Helaena says as she looks at her brother, her eyes bright. “The throneless king.”

Aemond doesn’t say anything but when you look over at him, he’s tilted his head up, gazing down at his sister with satisfaction glowing in his eyes.

He covets the crown. How could he not? He could have listened to his father and gone to Dragonstone to try for one of Syrax’s hatchlings or taken one of her eggs. Instead, he had claimed the largest dragon in the world - the Queen of All Dragons. He had lost his eye for that prize, had forever damaged his standing in the view of his father. His ambition knew no bounds and could not be satisfied in remaining as only a second son. Only his love for his family, the loyalty to his brother, kept his fanged desire caged behind his teeth. But he couldn’t keep it down. Not forever. Not in moments like this. It would always bubble to the surface, always threaten to break free.

You watch him, tracing the proud jut of his chin, the tilt of his head, and his overconfident pride.

He should wear a crown. He suits one - far more than Aegon.

You suit a crown. If you were born less than two centuries earlier, you would have had one. If Aemond had been born first, perhaps you would have still gotten one.

You quash the desire as soon as it rises up in you. If Aemond had been born first, he would have married Helaena more likely than not. Even now, if something were to happen to Aegon, the question of what to do with Helaena’s marriage would arise. If they were to have children, the matter would only complicate.

You were willing to do a lot of things. You were willing to bloody your hands, willing to burn bridges and move your family about like they were nothing more than pawns in this game you were playing. You were willing to do much.

But you’re not willing to sacrifice Helaena. You’re not willing to risk anything that would bring her harm.

There’s no use wishing and longing for a crown that just wasn’t your’s. That could never be yours. Perhaps if you played your cards right, a daughter of yours could one day grow to wear one on her head. Your grandson could one day sit the Iron Throne.

But not you. Not if there was Helaena and if you had it your way, you’d rip your plans to absolute shreds if you could ensure that she would remain safe through it all.

You swallow thickly, looking down at your hands. Even the thought feels treasonous, feels like a betrayal.

The soft call of your name pulls you out of your thoughts and when you look up, both Targaryen siblings are looking at you, their eyes both gleaming in the same way underneath the multicolored candlelight. An apology bubbles up in your throat and it’s only at the last second that you remember to apologize for what would make sense rather than what you really want to apologize for.

“Sorry,” you say, laughing slightly. “My mind left me. What were we discussing?”

Helaena is gracious even if Aemond narrows his eye. “I was asking if the two of you really mean to go dance or if you’re going to spend all night hiding with me.”

You frown slightly. “If you want me to hide with you.”

She snorts, so unladylike that you can’t help but to smile. “Absolutely not. If you hide with me, Mother will notice that you haven’t taken to the floor with Aemond which means she’ll notice I haven’t taken to the floor and she’ll make it her mission to make sure I dance with at least a few lords.”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t force you,” you try to defend her, your resolve weaker than it would have been before - now that you’ve witnessed her demands of Aegon. Still, it seems impossible that she would ever ask the same out of Helaena. Helaena was her only daughter, her only girl. She was sweeter and softer with Helaena.

Helaena nods her head, his smile only flickering a little. “Still, I wouldn’t want to push my chances.”

You watch for a beat longer, wishing that there was something you could say or do to make it easier, but eventually, you heave a sigh and nod.

“You needn’t look like you’re marching to your doom,” Aemond murmurs under his breath as he comes to stand next to you, offering you his arm once more.

You ignore him for a moment, giving Helaena one final look, letting her know that if she needs you, she need only call and you’ll come to her side but she waves you off. You focus your attention back on Aemond only to see him eying you with a small smirk.

“I should refuse you the dance,” you warn. “You only asked so you could beat my cousin to my first dance.”

He laughs. “Would it please you if I declared my intentions again - In front of all? What prize would you like this time? Another crown?”

“Perhaps the head of another Florent,” you reply, catching sight of the familiar shade of blue on the other side of the crowd, only visible as the two of you still stand on the dais. Erren Florent stands alone once more, dark and moody around the edges of the room. His son and good daughter stand by his side, subdued but preoccupied in speaking to well wishers as they approach. He speaks to no one, choosing to only stare at the pair of you.

Aemond hums. “My mother was almost a Florent. She told me earlier this week that the Hightowers once debated betrothing Grandfather to a Florent lady. They eventually decided on Lady Alerie Redwyne and she was convinced that was why the Florents chose to insult us by their repeated badgering of you and their less than subtle animosity towards us.”

You blink, letting the information settle in, before peering up at him. “So in another life, Victor Florent may have been a cousin or something of sorts. You’d have been a kinslayer.”

“There’s one in every line,” he replies, his eye glinting knowingly. He’s referencing the library, your debate about King Brandon and the night’s king all those years ago, but your mind races to the carriage ride here with your father and uncle and what you had said about his own uncle and sister. There were kinslayers in every line.

What would one more be?

You smile at him, suddenly pleased by the turn of his conversation. “The next dance will be a waltz,” you remind him. “It’d be terribly bold if our first dance was a waltz.”

“Bolder than crowning you?” He asks and your smile only grows.

“No,” you agree. “Not bolder than that.”

He begins leading you down to the dance floor and, when the two of you arrive, the mixer dance ends. Some of the floor dissipates but the majority of the crowd stays, people finding their partners and a free space for the two of them to claim on the borders of the floor. Some people slink on, grabbing partners as they go, and you and Aemond do as well, heading for a spot close to the center.

People greet the two of you as you pass and you smile and greet them all back, playing the kindly lady to Aemond’s aloof prince. You spot your father in the crowd, Lady Tyrell on his arm. You can spot Ser Edwyn Sand, a charming smile locked on his face as he leads a blushing lady of House Crakehall onto the floor. You can even see Baela towards the back of the room, laughing with someone who can only be one of her Velaryon cousins.

The two of you slow to a stop, settling in a spot next to an unsmiling Stormlands lord and his quiet wife. You turn to face Aemond, him copying your movements, and two of you wait for the rest of the room for the bards to begin their songs.

It takes a moment or two, most of it filled with the soft sounds of people chattering or the repetitive click-clack of peoples’ heels on the smooth stone floor.

But then the soft twang of the harp filters through the air, over the low brass of the pipes, and you curtsey deep to the ground, in unison with the other ladies in the room, as Aemond bows in response.

He reaches for you first and you respond in kind, lifting your arm high to settle on his shoulder while he grips your waist tight. The two of you spin slowly, the skirt of your dress flaring through the air, but the dance picks up, your feet never once taking a pause as the memories of your old lessons start reawakening.

At first, no one in the room speaks, as if there’s a spell cast over all demanding silence, but eventually the splatters of the conversations break out in the watching audience, spreading slowly and surely to the dancers in motion.

“You’ll have to forgive me, my prince, if I miss a few steps. It’s been years since I’ve actually studied the dances,” you start, more to open conversation than to actually apologize.

Aemond snorts. “I’m sure you danced your fair share back in Casterly Rock during the feasts for your brother’s birth.”

You immediately shake your head. “The feasts were a mite different there than they’ve been here. Tyshara and I mostly preoccupied ourselves with ensuring everything was going smoothly as our mother entered her confinement. I didn’t have much time for dancing. More to the point, I think the lords were rather scared to approach me after a time.”

He looks down at you as he dips you low and your heart flutters a bit in your chest without your permission. When he pulls you up, he pulls you closer than he ought but you don’t have it in you to push him away. “How so? Had they heard there was a Targaryen awaiting your return in King’s Landing?”

“I doubt it though I’m sure some suspected,” you reply, holding down a laugh. “No, they were all rather put off by me after I castigated two lordlings from House Clegane and Tarbeck for mocking my sister.”

“They mocked her?” He asks, raising an elegant brow. “Were they allowed to leave with their tongues?”

“I’m not your kingly father,” you mockingly scold. “I’m a Lannister. I wanted to toss them in with the lions my family keeps in the bowels of the Rock so they could see if they found their joke as funny as they did.”

“What was the joke?” He asks as he spins you out.

When he pulls you back, you take a half moment to catch your breath again, suddenly gratefully that Aemond was meant to be leading this dance since you’ve forgotten how you’re supposed to move relative to the rest of the floor. Thankfully, he has not or, more likely, all his years in the yard have taught how to read his opponents’ body language and he was just naturally inclined to move in response.

“They called her Cerelle the Almost Heir,” you say once the pair of you have settled in the new movement of the crowd. “I’d applaud the rhyme if it wasn’t for the fact that that name was meant to hide the fact that any of their houses would count themselves lucky to have Cerelle as their heir. She spent her entire life preparing for that possibility. Every waking moment was spent getting ready for the chance that she might become Lady of the Rock. Little Loren kept her from that but, if she was to be Lady Lannister, the true Lady Lannister, she would have been the fiercest in our history.”

“Did she want to be the Lady of the Rock?” Aemond asks after a moment and your eyes dart up to his. “Does she regret having it taken away from her?”

You know what he really wants to ask.

Does your sister sympathize with Rhaenyra Targaryen? Does she, like the Princess, resent the younger brother born to take it all away from her?

You had asked yourself that very question in the lead up to your brother’s birth. When the two of you, along with all your sisters, would make the trek to the golden sept in your home and kneel on the floor, letting the incense burn your noses and eyes, as you had all prayed fervently for a boy to be born, did a part of her pray for another little sister?

When she had cried in the birthing chamber, when she had whispered to you about buying a thick cloak for her journey north, were her tears ones of joy or loss?

How would you feel, you had dared wonder in the sanctity of your mind, if what had been yours was ripped from your hands by a mere babe? A baby that you had in equal parts prayed for and dreaded?

How would you feel if you were the Almost Heir?

You release a sigh, faintly aware of Aemond awaiting your response, faintly aware of the music reaching its crescendo. “She knew what would happen to us if Loren had been a girl,” you say in lieu of answering his question. “Our bannermen were already lying in wait to push their sons onto Cerelle in hopes that their boys would get to be the next Lord of the Rock, Warden of the West. House Lannister survived it once in our history, when Queen Leila was the only child born to King Gerold III. Our vassals’ hunger has only grown in size and ambition since.”

Aemond hums in response. “As hungry as they may be, their ambition is outpaced by the one inherent in Lannisters. Your sister herself recovered the title lost. She might not be Lady of the Rock but she is Lady of Winterfell now.”

It’ll sound natural eventually, you reason to yourself. Soon, the name Cerelle Stark will be as familiar to you as Cerelle Lannister is. Decades in the future, she will have spent more time with her married name than she ever had with her maiden one.

But it is not now and, in this moment with only Aemond patiently waiting for you, you do not have to pretend.

“I should have been there,” you murmur, voice soft as to not be overhead though you doubt anyone is listening and, if they are, they can hardly hear you over the constant hum of the crowd. “It was my idea. My plan. And I sent her there alone.”

“You were that invested in a trade contract with the Starks?” Aemond asks, with only the faintest hint of humor in his tone telling you that he knows damn well that the earlier lie that you maintained, the current lie you’re maintaining in the court, was just that. A lie.

A lie you want to dispel - at least with him.

“I was that invested in soldiers,” you reply softly. “In blood alliances. In oaths. Lord Cregan Stark is my good brother now. He has a line to the Lannisters as steady as the Rock. Which means he has a line to the Targaryens. He has an investment.”

The humor leaves Aemond’s face quickly and he looks at you as seriously as he had in the sanctified Dragonpit. “There’s never been a Stark who has forgotten a vow,” he murmurs, a hint of warning entering his voice. Not a warning of anger or rage but rather a reminder. It was for naught, he tries to remind you. You’ve lost your sister for no prize at all.

You smile again, confidence laced through it. “What’s an old vow to a wife’s warm embrace? What’s an old promise to a blood tie to the next ruler of the Seven Kingdoms? Lord Cregan is loyal, yes, but he’s pragmatic. He understands that for his people to survive, he needs to do what he must. His father’s vow was to the princess but he swore no vow. His vow is to the rightful heir and the rightful heir is supported by the house that helped him to his claim, the house that his lady wife is of.”

Aemond doesn’t say anything, looking at you over, only leading you through the dance out of sheer memory.

“You said earlier that you couldn’t swing a sword,” Aemond finally says as the dance slows to a stop, as he bows to you again and you curtsey in response. This time, his voice is firm and loud, loud enough for people to overhear. He wants them to hear this. “A sword would not be a strong enough weapon for you, my lady. You yourself are fiercer than any knight, more dangerous than any battalion.”

You don’t have time to bask in his compliment - not when another voice chimes in.

“Yes, the Lady Lannister is fierce. Fiercer than most know,” Erren Florent says, a cold smile plastered onto his face when your eyes jump to his.

Aemond and you rise up, the prince stepping in front of you slightly so you’re tucked behind his body, but Erren Florent’s smile does not flicker.

If you thought his soft countenance was a cover before, it is a grotesque death mask now. His gray eyes are bright but empty, utterly soulless as he keeps his smile firmly on his face. His skin stretches tight around his skull, as pale as any corpse now. If you hadn’t met him before his son’s death, you would swear that he was no human. No, you’d say, no human can look like that - as if they’ve peeled someone else’s face off and are wearing it as a mask, as if their own body is not your own.

Aemond is tense but he can afford to be tense. His weapon is a sword. His weapon is the largest dragon alive.

The only tool you have at your disposal now is your courtesy.

You smile brightly at him, as sweet as any lady could ever be, pushing down Aemond’s arm slightly so you can peer around him more easily. “My lord,” you greet, bowing your head, keeping your grip on the Targaryen firm. You’re here, you’re safe, you want to remind but you can’t, not with Lord Florent watching you with his dead eyes, waiting for any chink in your armor. “I meant to meet with you but time got away from me. As the Maiden in the wedding party, I was kept well occupied until this feast. I wish to pass along House Lannister’s, as well as my own, condolences. The loss of Ser Victor was a tragic one, one that will be surely felt in the City Watch for years to come.”

Erren bows his head, keeping his head down even as Aemond echoes your words, passing along the Crown’s sympathies. When he looks up, the first hint of emotion has broken through his closed expression.

Cold rage dances in his eyes.

“It’s a loss I will feel until the Stranger comes to claim me,” he says, his voice soft like a whisper. “A loss that will haunt my every waking moment.”

There’s nothing you can say to that. No words you could conjure that would make that blow any easier, would make him hate you any less.

You don’t want to. You don’t want to soften the blow. You want him to feel every moment of his grief. You hope that the pain of his loss will remind him of what his son had forgotten.

You are a Lannister, a daughter of the Rock. Your blood is old, the blood of kings. Even without Aemond, you are above a Florent even if their line stretches back as far as your own. A lion could not be caged by a fox, no matter how hard it might try. A lion could be caged by no one.

Not even a dragon.

“I pray you will find comfort, my lord,” you finally say, stepping out from behind Aemond, walking closer to Erren Florent. The old lord does not step back to accommodate you, letting you get within arm's length of you.

If he wanted to, he could reach out and strangle you here. He could pull a knife out and push it deep in your heart and not even Aemond would be able to stop it. If he wished it, Erren Florent could kill you as easily as you draw breath and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

But he can’t and that pain must be equal to the loss of the son. To have the reason for Victor's death, the true reason and not just the means through which it was delivered, so close at hand and being unable and unwilling to do anything.

How hateful a scene. How horrid.

You step closer, a smile dancing on your lips.

“May you find peace, my lord,” you murmur, your words intended for only you and him.

“May I find justice,” he snarls back, his mask slipping even further, his face twisting in his vengeance. His hot breath washes over your face, burning and awful, and you can taste the sharp smell of wine on your tongue.

Aemond steps closer, his chest pressing against your back, but you don’t move, not even to accommodate his touch. You stand in front of Erren Florent, smiling as innocent as a lamb.

“Justice, my lord? You found it. Your son earned it. The debt is paid,” you say, voice serene and calm. “But if you wish to seek further satisfaction, you are welcome to it. I could hardly deny it.”

You step closer, your expression never slipping.

Your smile grows, hunger sharpens it. “I pray you do, in fact. I pray you aim for more than your station affords you, just as your son did.”

“Why? So your prince might drive a sword through my throat?” Erren growls, all pretense of civility gone from his face.

You lean closer. “So that I might.”

There’s a moment where the two of you stare each other down, when the rest of the room including Aemond fades and it's just the two of you in the room together.

All he wants is to wrap his hands around your throat and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. He wants to break your neck. He wants to smash your head against the stone floor, crack it open like an egg and spill your brains out for all to gawk at.

Try it, you want to whisper. Try it and let me loose the hounds of war. Let me rip your house out by root and stem and seed. Let me wear your carnage and gore as a crown. Let no one utter the name Florent as anything but a warning. Try it and let me pay the debt.

The moment passes. The opportunity fades.

His anger festers. Your hunger grows.

He steps back, his mask sliding back into face.

“My lady,” Erren says, bowing his head.

“My lord,” you reply, dropping into a curtsey.

He leaves as quickly as he had come. You watch him go, slithering through the crowd towards the large doors of the throne room.

“I was his purpose,” you say softly but Aemond is close enough that he hears you.

“You are his purpose,” his voice is low and harsh and fierce and you turn to look at him, your skirt moving around you in a flurry. His eye is locked on you, concern sharpening his features into a fury. “He only lives now to seek his satisfaction. He won’t rest until he has your head mounted on his wall. ”

“It is a nice head, I’ll grant him that,” you laugh, your heart still pounding fast in your chest. “But it is mine and I have never been one to share.”

Aemond takes in a sharp breath, closing his eye. When he opens it, his worry is tempered by growing anger.

“You should carry a dagger,” he murmurs, his voice low, his tone leaving no space for disagreement. “I am your sword, I will always rise to defend you, but I cannot be everywhere at once. There are places that I cannot follow, places he will go to seek his vengeance.”

Your smile drops slightly. “I don’t know how to wield one. I’m more likely to stab myself than do anyone any real harm.”

His hand reaches out to touch your face, only pausing in mid air when he remembers himself. He drops his hand, clenching it into a fist at his side.

He’s angry, his brow furrowed tight with an anxiety you haven’t seen since Driftmark, since he was helpless and defenseless.

Your hands itch with the desire to smooth out the tightness in his face and you wish you were alone with a fierceness that threatens to tear you in half.

“I’ll show you,” he insists, his eye flickering all over you as if he’s already imagining what you would look like if Erren Florent had his way with you, as if he can already see imaginary wounds littering your body and even the mere thought of them is too much for him to bear. “I will show you and you will keep yourself safe when I cannot. You say you’re not one to share - I’m not either. I won’t be forced to suffer the loss of you. I’ve killed one Florent for you. I’ll kill another. I’ll keep slaughtering them until I’ve bled their house dry and even then, I won’t stop until all threats are gone, until you are safe in this new world that I will build for you.”

Your heart stutters in your chest. “And if there’s no end to the enemies you’ll make?”

“Then I won’t stop. I won’t stop until it’s just you and me left.”

You stare at him but nothing in his face flickers, nothing flashes. He is serious. He means what he says and you feel the weight of his devotion come crashing down on you. It is the heaviest thing you have ever felt. It knows no bounds and it crushes you completely, consuming every last bit of you and leaving room for nothing else.

And you relish it.

You’re not alone in your all-encompassing thoughts. Your hunger, your aching, raw desire, has its match, its partner, in him.

The enormity of it steals your breath from you, filling your lungs.

You’re not alone. It is complete ecstasy. It is utter bliss.

He stares at you, anger and worry fading away into anxiety, when he sees you’re not responding. Try as he might, hide as he will, but he cannot escape the little boy he once was, the boy desperate to be seen, the little boy desperate to be accepted, to be taken in.

“You are mine,” you say, the words leaving your mouth as easily as air enters your lungs. He sways towards you when he hears the weight of your voice, the adoration, the worship. “You are mine and I am yours.”

His eye grows wide and he stares down at you, his mouth dropping open slightly, looking as if you couldn’t have affected him more than if you had hit him over the head with a wooden beam, and you smile finally, feeling tears prick in the back of your eyes.

You had imagined saying it differently. You had imagined the library, had imagined being alone with none to disturb you.

But somehow, you can’t imagine it any different than this, any better than a stolen moment at the edge of a dance floor.

You reach out and grab his clenched fist, wrapping your hand around it as you bring it up to your mouth, pressing a gentle kiss on his knuckles.

“With this kiss,” you say, feeling almost delirious in your desire to do this. To prove yourself. To say something that can match his endless devotion. “I pledge my love. I pledge my life. I pledge my strength.”

It’s not enough. It won’t be enough. Not until you die in service of him.

But you need it. Oh gods, but you need it.

You drop his hand when you hear Daeron’s voice call, when you hear Alicent say his name right after.

You drop his hand and you smile at him, swallowing the thick tears down.

And he smiles back.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond x you #apologies for any mistakes this was written and posted fast and furious #i had plans to use a different gif from s2 bUT the expression in this one kills me SO (:#pls enjoy

175 notes · View notes

bunicate · 11 months ago

Note

omgeee mimi you hafta to mister yang hes such a icky and pervy old man! 💗💗 >w< every time you wear a tiny skirt he gets sooooooo sooo hard hes supposed to be your father figure but he wants to see your tiny cute pussy hehe 💗💗 he would cheat on his wife if he had one to be with a cutie younger girl (>/////<) 💗💗 !!!!!

- 🍄

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ 𐙚 ₊˚ warnings ꒱ྀི daddy kink. age gap. me not making any sense below cuz I’m deeply in luv with weltie.

mister yang believed himself to be an irredeemable man. he’s taking advantage of your pure young heart . . he knows he’s a father figure of some sort and his desire to protect you birthed something much more forbidden. instead, welt found himself conjuring up thoughts of your naked body — images floating around like clouds in his mind.

pretty, doe eyes, plump trembling lips, the soft timbre of your voice, and your thighs revealed from your tiny skirts all tugged on his heartstrings. you were young enough to be his daughter and you behaved like it too. stubborn, smart, a little bit shy, and thoughtful just like how he’d want her to be, and that furthered his shame.

he painfully remembers such thoughts even when sheathing his cock between the apex of your thighs. even as he uses the flesh until his seed paints the outside of your skin. even while he slaps his fat tip on your clit—rubbing his length all over your sloppy pussy, until you’re begging for your beloved daddie to put it in.

welt knows better than to chase after such young women, specifically ones that idolize him paternally but you make it difficult to keep away. he is not immune to your naivety, your eagerness to please, and that tiny little cunt he can spend hours fucking. your moans, so innocent and docile can send waves of burning pleasure straight to his cock.

especially when you whine out “mr. yang” and he has to coax you into calling him daddie instead.

“I think we are way past the point of you speaking to me so professionally, wouldn’t you agree ?”

he’s reserved, even when fisting your skirt and pumping your limp body up and down his leaky cock. welt draws patterns on your skin, his sanity slowly weakens with each drag of his hips despite appearing the opposite.

he’s been good at being avoidant around you. he’s been able to refrain from touching, only settling on looking but now that you're finally underneath him, petite cunt gaping, his control is no longer within reach.

“daddy —dada” you hiccup in between shallow breaths. the force of his thrusts robbing the air you breathe and you are forced to dig your nails on the wooden desk to keep yourself steady. every probe of his tip rubs your insides stroking the warmth inside of you to flames.

“that’s much better, sweetie . . “ his thumb rubs the sides of your lips collecting the drool escaping.

“how beautiful .” he dips his finger in your mouth and presses down on your tongue. your lips pulled together, puckering around the digit obediently as you begin to suckle.

“daddy is so proud of you. look how good you are for me.” he angles himself to fuck you deeper, your breast jumping with every jerk of hips

“hnn— too much—!” you babble with his appendage still buried in your mouth. your tight cunt puffed and creamed from his cock as you grew restless. welt didn’t slow down, he huffs into the side of your neck,

“It’s okay, i got you. relax for me.”

his other hand reached down to play with your sodden clit.

“papa isn’t done with you yet, I have a pretty pussy to fill.”

welt babbles. he’s a man with infinite wisdom. he’s so mature and so articulate. he has to express how fascinating you are. was this the body of a younger woman? so soft to the touch, so wet and tight ?

he has an analytical mind, it is only natural that your daddie takes his time to caress and suck every inch of you. and he’s unintentionally foul-mouthed. he has a habit of talking too much and describing every detail . he pulls his cock out from between your walls and all he can talk about how amazing it is to see your hole gape from his cock. he’s enamored by your chubby lips being split apart to welcome him.

“your pussy appears to be swollen. . . It seems like it was my doing,” and you can even detect something shy of cockiness in his inflection.

welt zeroes in on every twitch every squelch and he has to describe in vivid detail. even the drip of your cunt from the sound of his deep voice . . he’s so <33

#𝚜𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚕𝚎𝚜 ⪩⪨ .𖥔 ݁ ˖#weltie ❤︎#𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑙𝑏𝑜𝑥 ๑ ꒱ྀི #🍄#i love mister yang so much #i want 2 be his #I love my old man he’s so perfie ugh #mista yang loves a gud girl /wags tail/#tw: daddy kink #welt yang x reader #welt x reader smut #welt yang x reader smut #honkai smut

654 notes · View notes

inkstainedheartbeats · 5 months ago

Text

Part two of this. There may be one more part.

Slight content warning for vague but there child abuse

———————————-

Eddie doesn’t chase after Steve. To say what he does after he sits there blinking as the love of his life, his mate in all but bite, races out of their home would imply some sort of romantic grace. Nothing in what he does is graceful. The Beta bounces off walls, trips over shoes and fights for an agonizingly long time with the door knob. It’s the most nerve wracking thing Eddie has ever done, including but not limited to giving the lich king himself the middle finger before bashing his skull in with the Upside Down version of his warlock. He doesn’t even stop to apologize to Mrs Kendrick, the sweetest neighbor Eddie has ever had, when he nearly flattens her in his mad dash.

He’s not sure if he’s relieved or terrified when he sees that Steve hasn’t left. That this frantic, terrible energy caught in his throat and gut won’t be released on the road. He slips into the passenger seat, whines low and mournful at the smell of sadness, of that broken snow globe smell that is thick as a hot box fog.

“Stevie, baby, sweetheart?”

Steve’s hands are still shaking. Brown eyes clenched closed. Eddie’s done this. Brought Steve to this point. He’s lucky Robin or Erica isn’t here. That Max and Eleven are clear across town. That Lucas and Will and Dustin are gods knows where enjoying the summer.

He reaches out, stops when Steve flinches away from him. Brings back his hand to his lap.

“I’m scared shitless, Stevie. Absolutely fucking terrified.”

Leather seats crinkle.

“That’s why I said what I did. And it’s not because of you. Well some of it is,” he’s trying not to ramble. Twisting his rings and talking. Wayne says that ooen communication is the key to any relationship. Eddie’s never been too good at that outside of sex.

“I had a shitty dad, and I know you had one too. I know you’re so goddamn confident that you can have those six nuggets and not become him. I know you know that loving your kid is unconditional. You do it for eight of them now.”

And it was eight. Because despite Holly managing to avoid the sheer terror that was Vecna round two she still fell into Steve’s orbit. Still wound up wrapping the gentle Alpha that is Steve around her finger. He loves his munchkins so goddamn much and they aren’t even his. It drives the traditionalist stereotypers up a wall and Eddie loves it. He loves how effortless Steve loves.

“But I’m not. He’s always in my head, Steve. When our pups do something, when Henderson says something. He’ll speak up. I think for a moment of the punishments that would have earned me. And I can see myself doing them. See myself turning on you when you try to stop me just like my mom.”

His mother was a mousy, sickly Beta woman that didn’t know what she was getting into marrying his angry Beta father.

“I don’t want to be him.”

Steve tentatively reaches out. Grabs one of Eddie’s hands.

“I’m not you know.”

“What?”

“Confident I won’t be like him. Like my dad. I’m terrified every time I look in the mirror that I’ll be like him. That I’ll be worse.”

He’s brought Eddie’s hand up to his face. He’s nuzzling it in a way that would make Frank Munson absolutely furious.

“I’m scared of so many things, Eds. But you turning out anything like your father isn’t one of them.”

Somehow, Eddie manages to coax Steve out of the car. To agree to calling in sick. It’s not fixed. Not yet. But they’re working on it and that’s what matters.

———————————-

Hoping this works

Tagging:

@xxbottlecapx

Now has a part three

#inkstained rambles #stranger things #steddie #discussion of child abuse #vague but there

243 notes · View notes

beautification-tales · 3 months ago

Text

The Confession

A Corruption Tale

Debra entered the confessional booth. She bit her nail nervously waiting for the priest to open his window. She was used to the routine of confessing her sins but this time it was different. She heard the father slide open the cover. The wooden designs still remained allowing for her to be somewhat hidden from being seen, yet the darkness beyond was suffocating.

“Forgive me father for I have sinned. It has been two weeks since my last confession.” Debra's voice trembled, echoing slightly in the enclosed space. She paused, gathering her thoughts. She swallowed and took a deep breath.

“What troubles you, my child?” The priest's voice was warm, a gentle coaxing that usually brought her comfort. But today, it did little to ease the tightness in her chest. She clasped her hands together as she trembled slightly before finally speaking. “I have a classmate that I… have had sinful thoughts of.”

Her eyes remained fixed on the floor, unable to meet the unseen priest's gaze. The words felt like molten lead as they spilled from her lips. “The thoughts have been extremely explicit and uhh erotic in nature.” She paused, her cheeks burning with embarrassment.

Father Thomas leaned slightly forward, his brow furrowed with concern. “Tell me more, Debra. What is it about this classmate that tempts you so?” His voice remained calm, a beacon of understanding in the shadowed booth. Debra felt her body become warm as she thought about the man once again. “Father, I am so ashamed but it’s his body. I lust after him.” She took another deep breath. “I imagine us together in ways that are not holy. I’ve seen him at the gym, his muscles flexing, sweat glistening on his skin, and I can’t help but wonder how it would feel to touch him, to kiss him.”

The priest’s silence was palpable. Debra felt her heart hammering in her chest, the echoes resonating through the small space. She waited for his judgment, her mind racing with fear and desire. “Continue, my child,” he finally said, his voice a whisper of calm in the sea of her anxiety.

“One night in my bed I thought about him. I imagined kissing him and him touching me.” Debra’s voice grew softer, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment. She could feel the heat radiating from her body, and she was sure the priest could hear her racing heart. She took a moment to gather her thoughts, trying to put into words the tumultuous storm of desire that raged within her. “I dreamt of his hands sliding under my clothes, of his mouth on my neck, and... and...” she trailed off, unable to go further.

Father Thomas leaned back in his chair, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “It’s natural to have these thoughts, Debra, the trouble is fighting the urge to act on them.” He paused, allowing his words to sink in. “But father… I did act on them.” Debra’s voice was barely a whisper now, and she felt her heart drop into the pit of her stomach.

“The dream was so… vivid and my body felt like it was on fire. As the fantasy continued… I realized that I was touching myself.” Debra’s voice was barely a murmur, the words escaping through clenched teeth as if they were physically painful to speak. She could feel the priest’s gaze on her, even though she couldn’t see his face through the screen.

Father Thomas’s expression remained unchanged, his voice a calm and steady presence in the darkness. “Do you truly feel guilt for doing such a thing?” He leaned in slightly, his voice a whisper that seemed to wrap around her confession like a warm embrace. She could hear him inhale deeply as if a new aroma had filled the booth.

Debra nodded, her eyes filling with tears. "Yes, Father. I feel...dirty." The confession was like a weight lifted from her shoulders, but the fear of divine retribution remained, a leaden presence in her gut. She waited for his condemnation, the fire and brimstone that she knew she deserved.

“How did it feel during? Did you enjoy it?” Father Thomas’s question was unexpected, but it hung in the air, demanding an answer. Debra felt a flicker of confusion. Was he supposed to ask that? But she was too far gone to hold back now.

“Yes Father, I enjoyed it,” Debra admitted, her voice trembling. The admission was like a dam breaking, releasing a flood of emotions she had been trying to suppress. She felt a mix of relief and terror, the dichotomy of confession. The tingle she had felt that night had returned as she bit her lip.

“Did you orgasm?” Father Thomas’s voice was firm but not judgmental. His question was matter-of-fact, a clinical inquiry into the depth of her transgression. “I… I don’t know… I think I did. Father, why does that matter?” Debra’s voice was shaky, her eyes pleading through the darkened screen for some kind of reprieve.

“Because every orgasm will make you more addicted to the feeling. Do you feel it now? The tingling in your pussy?” Father Thomas’s voice grew deeper, more intense. Debra felt a warm flush spread through her body, her heart racing as she nodded. “Yes, Father… What’s wrong with me?”

“You are a slut my child. You need to be taught the error of your ways before you go down the path of sin and temptation further,” Father Thomas’s voice grew darker, his tone harsher. Debra’s eyes widened, her breath coming in short gasps as she felt a sudden jolt of fear mingled with a strange excitement. The priest’s unexpected words were like a forbidden fruit, tempting and terrifying all at once.

“Touch yourself and let me watch. Show me how you indulged in your sinful desires that night,” Father Thomas instructed, his voice a command that Debra found impossible to resist. Her trembling hands slowly slid down her stomach, under her skirt, and found the damp fabric of her panties. The coolness of the confessional booth contrasted with the heat that was building within her.

Her fingers hovered for a moment, the fabric feeling foreign against her sensitive skin. She glanced at the screen, the priest’s eyes seemingly boring into her soul through the darkness. She bit her lip and obeyed, sliding her panties aside. The sudden exposure sent a shiver down her spine. The confessional was a sanctified space, and here she was, committing a sin that was more intimate than any she had ever confessed.

“How does it feel?” Father Thomas’s question was laced with a hint of curiosity, his voice low and gruff. Debra’s hand trembled as she touched herself, her fingertips grazing the soft folds of her sex. She felt a wave of wetness, and her body responded to her own touch, betraying her own moral convictions.

“It feels so good! How can it feel so good?” Debra’s voice was filled with a mix of anguish and arousal. Her hand grew bolder, her fingers dipping into her wetness and exploring the sensitive landscape of her own desire. The priest’s words seemed to hang in the air, a seductive incantation that she couldn’t resist.

“Yes Ungh be a bad girl for me!” Father Thomas’s words grew harsher, his breathing labored as he listened to Debra whimpering. She couldn’t hold it back as she let a moan escape her lips. She heard a slapping noise and groan coming from the other side of the confessional booth.

Debra moaned louder as she realized that Father Thomas was pleasuring himself. The sound of his hand moving rapidly against his erection was unmistakable, and the thought of the holy man indulging in his own desires because of her was intoxicating. She felt a thrill of power, her own hand moving faster as she listened to his heavy breathing. The wood of the confessional booth creaked as she shifted in her seat, the sound mingling with the wetness of her own touch.

“Father! I want your cum! Cum for me!” The words slipped from Debra’s mouth, a seductive invocation that seemed to fill the confessional with an almost tangible heat. She didn’t know where this wantonness was coming from, but it felt so liberating, so wrong in all the right ways. Her fingers danced over her clit, the pleasure building like a crescendo.

She heard him roar as his hand stilled, the sound of his release muffled by the barrier between them. Her own climax hit her like a bolt of lightning, the sensation ripping through her body as she bucked against her hand. She panted, the aftershocks of pleasure washing over her like a wave.

The aroma of her fluids and his seed filled her nostrils. Debra felt energized and powerful. Her body still trembled with the aftermath of her orgasm. She didn’t know what to expect next. Would Father Thomas reprimand her? Or would he continue to indulge her? The silence was deafening.

“Unh… what did you do to me?” Father Thomas’s voice was shaky, his breathing heavy. Debra felt a thrill of power, her hand still resting on her wetness. “You controlled me like some witch! Your sinfulness has corrupted even a man of God!” He slammed his fist on the wooden barrier between them, making Debra jump.

Debra ran out of the confessional, her heart racing and her cheeks burning with a mix of guilt and arousal. She didn’t look back as she rushed through the quiet church, the echoes of her footsteps and the priest’s gasps of pleasure still ringing in her ears. The cool evening air hit her like a slap in the face as she burst through the doors, gasping for breath.

“What have I done?” Debra asked herself.

Back inside the church Father Thomas was still talking to the other side of the booth. His attention was so focused on the voice that was commanding him during the session with Debra. “Answer me! What are you?” He commanded.

The mysterious woman laughed from behind the wood lattice of her booth. “Oh Thomas, you should be thanking me. All of that pent up desire within you hmmm it was delicious. But don’t worry you’re not my target.”

#beautification #transformation #f2f transformation #mind corruption #corruption kink #bimboification #origin stories

61 notes · View notes

lesinquietes · 6 months ago

Text

Okok more Alucard and his Deity!Darling 🪽

18+ (minors dni) // angst, yandere

Breathtaking

Alucard decides that your rays of destruction are as breathtaking as you are. He watches as you destroy a cult that threatened your worshippers. You attempted to reason with them. In response, they killed. You’re not a cruel goddess; you gave them a chance to come correct. Now, anything you inflict upon them is justified.

When you’ve calmed down, he gives you proper space before commending your efforts. You don’t respond until he comments that you’re naturally talented in the art of calamity. Judging by the way you light up, it’s something you pride yourself on. He smiles endearingly as he listens to you discuss how hard you’ve worked to hone your magic.

“My father is the Master of time and space; all the same, he’s known for his debauchery. Where does that leave me? In the realm of chaos, of course!”

The enthusiasm that possesses you fills him with an unfamiliar sensation. It isn’t lust — though, that’s certainly present, too. He supposes it’s contentment. He isn’t tolerating your banter. On the contrary, he wants it; anything to keep you in his vicinity for more than a fleeting second. It doesn’t last.

The notion of corrupting a deity, of all beings, is incredibly tempting in its tenacity. He doesn’t know what will happen if he feeds on you, if he turns you, if he steals you away from your family. The unknown is attractive to one who exists as an enigma himself.

The following evening, he finds you in the library. Whenever you arrow at the Hellsing estate, you isolate yourself from others. It was a component of the deal you struck with Integra. You’ll help them, so long as you get peace and quiet while you do it. It’s a wonder why you haven’t demanded he leave sooner when he rears his head.

Since that first night you coaxed him out of the shadows, he manifests in his usual red trench coat and hat. There’s no need to hide from something omniscient of the forces around her. You don’t spare him a glance when he forms. He pretends it doesn’t irritate him. He’s used to commanding rooms, let alone women of all types, from his sheer good looks and gentlemanly charm. You, however, aren’t the type to lose sight of your sense of self. There’s far too much pride in that pretty head of yours.

“Sweet, terrifying Goddess.” He announces himself boisterously, with a hollow, raspy voice. “I had a feeling I’d find you here.”

You inhale deeply. Initially, he thinks you could be happy to see him. Then, you release the heaviest sigh he’s heard in centuries.

“You mean where I always am in this filthy manor?”

Your snobby nature is showing. It lights his chest ablaze with passion. Finally, someone who isn’t afraid to speak their genuine thoughts. You could spew the most twisted views and he would still be transfixed by your nonchalance.

“Walter and the others do their best,” he drawls, leaning on the bookshelf directly behind your chair. “But you and I both know that good help is hard to find.”

“What are you doing here, bat?”

He laughs out loud. Bat. Your insults are getting more creative.

“Simply checking on my favourite deity. Don’t think me so full of foul intentions that I would attempt to assassinate a guest in the home of my master.”

You scoff.

“If the legends are correct, you killed many a guests in your own home. Why not me?”

Your questions is rhetorical. Inwardly, he answers it anyway. It’s because it’s not time yet; when he kills you, it will be to rebirth you into one of his kind — or something in between. Miraculously, such an innate urge stimulates his willingness to go against Integra to have you.

“Have you uncovered anything during your time studying?”

He figures he’ll divert the conversation back to work. You don’t seem like you’re in the mood for chitchat, and he doesn’t want to depart yet. It’s a safe way for him to be with you.

In retort, you hum pensively.

“Alexander Anderson has been modified to regenerate. They call him God’s monster — and we don’t claim him, mind you — but does have a weak spot.”

Alucard chuckles. Anderson. His arch nemesis. Potentially, a reincarnation of Van Hellsing that’s intent on stopping him once more.

“Is it his relationship to Catholicism, as humans know it be?”

“No.”

You close the book you’re reading and set it aside. Hastily, you select another one from your pile. In front of you, there are words scribbled in a large notebook. They’re impossible for him to read; they’re written in dialect he doesn’t understand. When you rest your pen on an empty page, you make eye contact with him for the first time today.

“Evisceration.”

Alucard stares, starstruck by you. He’s in awe by your ferocity, just as he was when you did away with those cultists. You take his silence as a lack of his comprehension and continue.

“He can’t regenerate if there’s nothing left, can he?”

It invigorates him. He feels an intense desire to have you, to shower you with encouragement as his Queen, and to vanquish this world together. He doesn’t recall the last instance wherein he’s yearned for camaraderie like this. Perhaps he could have had this with Integra, was he not her servant.

“As you wish.” He purrs, smirking with murderous glee. “Then you and I will ensure there’s nothing left of that paladin when he returns.”

Silence settles as you reside in the aftermath of his promise. You aren’t as moved by the sequence as he is. He wouldn’t permit anyone, other than you, to partake in the death of Anderson by his side. Of course, you wouldn’t know that, nor would you care. You’re not interested in his feelings, and you’ve made that clear for now. It doesn’t stop him from prodding at you here and there. Vampires tend to toy with their prey.

“Tell me, my dear, have you considered taking a mate?” He grins like the predator he is. “You must be dreadfully tired, having to protect yourself all the time.”

The question catches you off guard. You have, in fact, thought of seeking a partner to spend your time with. It would have to be someone you trust with your life, if they’re to have your back; you wouldn’t accept a lover who couldn’t protect you. Unfortunately, no one of that calibre has come along in your years of living.

“I have not, Dracula.” Your reply is swift and finite. “And it would do you well to remember that your master has advised us not to converse.”

He growls. You make this comment when you grow bored of his banter. He must have overstepped. Very well, then; he’ll go. Regardless of your icy demeanour, he knows he’ll get what he wants in the end. He doesn’t have to like your treatment, though. You’re lucky he’s attached to you, lest you be in a heated exchange with him for your rejection.

“You speak my name so intimately, and yet, you shoo me away as if I’m nothing more than a pest.” The beast scowls, visibly agitated. “Confusing witch.”

You perk up, eyes glimmering white and forehead creased with anger. He’s disappointed that he can’t stay to admire your prowess. You grit your teeth and spit your vitriol.

“What did you call me, bloodsucker?”

But he’s gone before any the slur can land. You search for his presence. He’s retreated to the depths of the manor. He won’t be back for a while, if at all tonight.

Once you find tranquility, you pass the hours alone reading, uninterrupted by any other but your intrusive thoughts. You can’t get that bastard vampire out of your mind. It’s been this way for a while. As infuriating as he is, you’re growing used to his daunting presence and teasing inquiries. You wonder if this is what it means to miss someone.

Previous l Next

#hellsing #hellsing x reader #alucard #alucard hellsing #yandere alucard #yandere alucard x reader #alucard x reader #alucard x deity reader

137 notes · View notes

bludazey · 9 months ago

Text

Goodnight Socialite

(Ascendant Astarion x Tav) AU

Summary:

His head tilts down, his lips barely brushing the shell of her ear. “You know, if half the men in our court knew even a fraction of what you do, they would run the other way.”

“They would run hoping you wouldn’t catch them. We are not the same, my lord.”

Chapter 1: Chase Me

She holds on to her father’s arm as she is escorted briskly down the main hall of Ancunin manor, glittering blue skirts brushing the exquisite crimson carpets.

“Year after year, and he still hasn’t gotten rid of these tasteless canvases,” her father mutters beneath his breath. “Lord Cazador was a grim man, and it seems so is his usurper.”

The paintings that fly past them are vague renditions of desolate homes, with skeleton trees, and dim skies. They embody the kind of art that drags you to consequential depths if you stare for long enough.

“Lord Ancunin has always had a taste for the macabre,” she murmurs.

“You speak like you know the man.”

“I only know what I hear, father.”

“And what do you hear, Anastasia?” He turns his face sharply to her as she is dragged down the hall, closer, and closer to the ballroom. “Is he as kind, and understanding as he makes himself out to be in court? Is there nothing wicked beneath those eyes that gleam so uncannily crimson?”

Even the thought of those red eyes inching down her skin sends a shiver up her spine. “I hear nothing damning from the ladies.”

“The ladies.” A harsh, singular laugh. “Since when do you keep up with Baldur’s Gate gossip?”

“I must, father,” she insists, partially running to catch up with his long strides. “You drag me from city to city, and I mustn’t be left without conversation to hold.”

At last, they arrive before two guards flanking the large entry doors. Armed with golden greatswords, they bow their heads in unison.

Her father smiles at both of them, and apologetically, says, “We are late, I am afraid.”

In practiced synchrony, the guards simply reach to the ornate door handles and pull. Already, Anastasia can hear the sweeping of music, unmuted, flowing openly down the hall.

Her father tugs her forward, nodding to the guards as they enter that famed ballroom.

As always, there is too much happening at once. Tucked away in the far corner, the orchestra plays a gentle tune, coaxing the many guests to sway to an uppity rhythm. There are servants snaking around large skirts, and drunken gentlemen engaged in endless loud conversation. There are silver platters being waved around constantly, the servants doling out wine, and hors d’oeuvres to whoever will look them in the eye.

Her father immediately recognizes a few men ahead, and words are exchanged—quick assurances of wellbeing, and promises to chat. But Anastasia insistently pulls him away, for everyone must pay their respects to the host before indulging in the festivities.

It is custom, after all.

And so, Anastasia leads her father through the crowd of people, and finally, they reach the dais towards the back of the ballroom. Atop it is a singular, cushioned throne upon which the man of the manor gazes down to the rest of the party.

Astarion Ancunin looks regal, donned in a fitted dark jacket with glimpses of silver thread. His silver hair is tousled back, and as he lifts a welcome hand towards them, that is when Anastasia catches the glittering of a dozen rings on those dexterous fingers. She approaches, tightly clasping her father’s forearm.

The moment she feels her father dip for a bow, she lowers into a slow curtsy. She is perfectly practiced, and poised, and knows with utter delight that her cleavage spills daringly over her corset.

And if he’s looking at her, she wouldn’t know. Her eyes are lowered, and trained appropriately a few paces ahead.

“Please, rise,” comes that voice—so familiar and intimate. “Welcome back, Lord and little Lady Curtis.”

“A pleasure, as always, my lord,” Anastasia breathes, and straightens, letting her lashes flutter up, only to find that their host is more interested in her father.

Lord Ancunin continues, “I have heard your travels have been arduous as of late. The road from Waterdeep to the Gate has been swarming with raiders.”

“Arduous, indeed,” her father says, clasping his hands behind him. “There must be an agreement between the two cities to cleanse the raiders, if only to ease the trading routes.”

Lord Ancunin shifts, considering. “You are staying for the Council meeting in two days. It is something to discuss further.” His attention briefly shifts to Anastasia. “But this is not an appropriate discussion for tonight. I hope you enjoy the Gala, and leave the business for the court.”

Her father smiles tightly beside her. “Galas are nothing but court business, Astarion. Come, Ana.”

Anastasia is pulled to the side, but she catches that distinct flicker within Lord Ancunin’s eyes as they sweep down her neck, her chest, and then lower, to the curve of her waist. And then, as quickly as they fell, they snap back up to her face.

Momentarily, those crimson eyes gleam with mischief. It warms her more than she would ever admit.

“Don’t let me bore you with work. Go. Enjoy the gathering.” Her father gestures an uncaring hand towards the long table pushed to the side with refreshments. “We won’t be here for too long.”

She pauses. “Not too long, father?”

“We have made our appearance, and that is all that matters.” He glances briefly back at Lord Ancunin, who is engaged with another greeting. “I do not wish to be associated too long with a man who is known to keep secrets from the court.”

Ana masks her surprise well. “Secrets?”

A yank on her arm, and she’s pulled closer to him. His breath is sharp against her ear as he hisses, “There is something undoubtedly dark about Lord Ancunin, and I do not wish to parade you around him any longer.”

It is then that Lord Ancunin’s gaze unassumingly flits over to her from the dais. Anastasia feels the way his attention burns on her when she looks away. “What have you heard, father?”

“Suspicions.” He grabs a drink from a tray as a servant scurries by. “Speculations.”

“Enough to warrant a trial, or an accusation?”

Her father’s eyes narrow on her, and she can sense the belittlement from his expression alone. “You always want to know too much about matters that do not concern you.” He places a hand on her shoulder and turns her to face the many dancing couples at the center of the ballroom. “But what does concern you is Lord Atticus, and Lord Beckett. Both quite interested in a courtship that I daresay would finally settle you down.”

Her eyes roll in spite, but he does not see it. He has already turned to another gentleman, shaking his hand in greeting.

Smoothing a hand over her skirts, she makes her way to the other end of the ballroom, where she had indeed caught sight of Lord Atticus—a longtime friend of her father’s. But before she can take another step towards him, she feels a presence behind her.

It is instinctual, at this point, to lean into that feeling that warns her of imminent danger. It is a feeling she has learned to chase.

To admire.

To desire.

“Your father tires of my Galas.”

She smiles softly before turning around towards the voice that chills her very bones. With the practice of many years, she instinctively clasps her hands before her waist, and bows her head. “My lord.”

Lord Ancunin watches her for a quick moment before taking a step closer. “You ladies of the court are bred to be so… submissive, aren’t you?”

Her answer is quick. “I am bred to be married off to the highest bidder.” She doesn’t lift her gaze. “And most that bid are men of the dominant nature.”

“Opposites attract.”

That is when she looks up. “Precisely.”

He extends an arm, and upturns his hand in offering. “Anastasia Curtis. Shall I anger your father, and ask you for a dance?”

She does not give her hand. “I did not know you danced, my lord.”

He steps closer, and it is perhaps the closest he has ever gotten to her in public. “I host these damned things every year, my dear. I might as well participate.”

Ana still does not give her hand.

And the lord merely smiles. “You would refuse your host, Lady Curtis?”

She does not dare glance behind him, where she knows her two future suitors could very well be watching. “You will scare away my prospects.”

He still refuses to withdraw his offering, hand upturned before her. “Since when have you cared about that?”

Aware of every single movement, she at last places a gloved hand inside of his, and lets him twirl her into an embrace. Slowly, he begins to move in a gentle rhythm, gliding past couple after couple.

Close enough to his ear, she whispers quickly, “This is not part of our game.”

“No?”

She does not look at him, and instead fixes her flustered gaze over his shoulder. “You must not interfere with my life outside of this place.”

“What is your concern?” He regards her with his head bent low. “Chatter? Gossip?”

“Yes,” she says indignantly. “Every glance, every dance—it is all observed, and relayed to the correct circles at the earliest convenience.”

“How terribly tedious, to be a lady of the court.”

She makes a sound in assent, relaxing just a touch in his embrace. “And you aren’t helping, my lord.”

He hums, and twirls her once, only to draw her closer. “I simply do not wish to see you play with others when you have come here to play with me.”

Her mouth dries at the intensity of his intonation, and surely, he can feel her heart fluttering like a trapped bird. “I don’t have a choice in the matter.”

“Well, you choose to be here, don’t you?” His eyes dart from her face, to the entry. “And in less than an hour, you will choose to leave through those doors in favor of my halls. And you will choose to be prey on his wondrous night.”

She swallows, following his gaze. “I do not think one chooses to be prey.”

Something unrecognizable flashes in those striking eyes. “You are afraid.”

“With you, I am always afraid.” Her smile is gentle on her lips. “But it is also why I choose to be here.”

His head tilts down, his lips barely brushing the shell of her ear. “You know, half the men in our court would run the other way if they knew even a fraction of what you do.”

“They would run hoping you wouldn’t catch them. We are not the same, my lord.”

He examines her face, and those wicked eyes do not leave hers when he asks, “Do you wish to please me, Anastasia?”

The smile on her face drops briefly at the sensuality of his tone.

He stares at her lips. “Do you wish to play a game with me?”

She looks away, hoping desperately that no one is watching too closely. “Must you ask me every year?”

“Yes.”

She lets her eyes roam the room. “You already know my answer.”

The gentle tune fades to a standstill as a round of applause takes over the room, indicating the very end of the dance. Lord Ancunin’s hand slips from her waist as he takes a small step back. He bends forward, and grabs her hand, placing a simple kiss upon its back.

And even through her glove, she can feel the brush of his mouth. “Leave this ballroom at once.”

When he straightens, her eyes flash to the doors, heart hammering in her chest. “My lord?”

“If your answer is yes, then I ask you to run, Anastasia.” With a pull, she is tugged close until his breath plumes over her cheek. “Run, and by the gods, do not let me catch you.”

Masterlist

AO3

#astarion #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate iii #ascended astarion #baldurs gate astarion #bg3 tav #bg3 #ascension #fanfic #fanfiction #astarion fanfic

64 notes · View notes

honeybeebytheseaa · 10 months ago

Text

My Grandkid HC’s

ISABELA

Lesbian. I’m sorry I just can’t see her being into guys it just doesn’t work in my brain.

Also trans of the gender (mtf)

Since she’s dropped her perfect persona, Isabela has been pulling pranks, ESPECIALLY on known little shit head Camilo. He doesn’t know whether to be proud or extremely annoyed.

Can’t cook or bake she’ll set the kitchen aflame

Always walks barefoot on the grass

Has names for most of her plants, especially the cacti

Doesn’t really involve herself in farmers work unless there is an emergency.

Developed a skill for gardening without her gift, and continues to do so even once she’s gotten it back. There’s something special about watching plants grow over time.

She still makes bouquets for events, but they’ve lost their conservative look for something more ‘Isabela’

Unlike most of her family she doesn’t mind bugs (unless they are in her room)

Very high pain tolerance. Likely due to smiling all day and cacti thorns.

She still likes pastel colors but they aren’t high on her list of favorite colors, so she opts for darker colors when choosing cloths.

She used to bite people as a kid

Has conflicting feelings on animals because on one hand yeah they are cute on the other she has to shoo them away from eating her plants every other week

Has a large man eating plant named ‘Rosita’

Sometimes she’ll take whatever is in Mirabel’s hand, put it on a high shelf she cannot reach, and walk away.

Can actually be scarier then Luisa believe it or not

SNORES SO LOUDLY the only person who can handle it is her gf

Not big on physical affection and often uses gift giving as her way of showing love (platonically and romantically)

DOLORES

Incredible musician who could basically play any instrument you hand her

She sings lullabies to the younger family members

Personally I imagine her as the only straight grandkid but obvi she is supportive of lgbtq+ since half her family is apart of it

She wouldn’t come out of her room when she first got her gift, but her parents and a very supportive Isabela eventually coaxed her out

She has headphones painted red and gold by Mirabel

autism (vine boom sound effect)

As much as she loves Isabela and appreciates all of Luisa’s hardwork; out of her cousins her and Mira get along the best.

Speaking of that Isabela and Dolores’s relationship, much like Camilo and Mirabel’s, soured as the pressure to uphold the family name increased. Before the magic disappeared they basically ignored each other, but began to reconcile during the rebuild and became close again.

Her room is sound proof (I know people say otherwise idc she needs a BREAK) but during the night she’ll sometimes open her window since it’s much quieter

I do believe she has SOME control over her gift, and in order to hear very far she has to hold a hand against her ear. When she isn’t, things are amplified but not unbearable. She’s kinda just gotten used to it.

Dolores love language is, unsurprisingly, words of affirmation.

If she gets stressed and doesn’t have access to her headphones, she’ll listen for the nearest family members voice (Ex: her fathers laugh, her mothers ranting, Camilo’s jokes, Antonio communicating with his animals)

Gets in on Isabela’s pranks now and again. She is mostly polite but has a devious side, especially with her cousins and siblings.

LUISA

I still adhere to the concept Luisa has some sort of ‘calm’ room. Wether it be an amusement park or a sauna she deserves to have somewhere to destress

Has a pile of stuffed animals, each with different names

She actually does enjoy doing chores and being active, but struggles to find a stopping point and not overwork herself

She’s more then just brawn, and was always a sharp academic when she was in school

Women enjoyer women enjoyer

VERY physically affectionate she’s giving everyone hugs and crushing their bones

Her and Camilo get along very well after Casita’s rebuild. She likes his energy and ability to let loose, and Camilo respects all the work she does around the Encanto. They mesh well.

When she first got her gift she accidentally broke her dads hand

Her father used to teach her piano, though she sorta fell out of it the older she got. Since casita’s rebuild she’s picked it back up as a hobby.

A big animal person, second to Antonio. She likes patting the donkeys on the head if she gets the chance

Has a hard time sitting down to eat because she’s always getting ready to move

If you give her anything she’ll begin sobbing and thanking you (birthdays and Christmas are rough)

She puts the younger kids if air jail if she has to

She originally struggled to control her gift, and that made her scared to touch anyone in fear she’d hurt them. But Pepa helped Luisa find ways to control the strength as she had to learn with her weather

After she lost her gift she kept trying to move the church as a force of habit

Reads a lot of fantasy novels

Helps Antonio wrangle his animals

CAMILO

(This will be more brief as I have a whole post of HC’s for this mf)

Gay and trans can’t change my mind

Despite always being hungry he cannot stomach fish. Some other seafoods are fine but the smell of fish makes him ill.

Won’t say this out loud: he is kinda legitimately afraid of Isabela ever since he’s become the target of her pranks. No one knows true fear until you realize you are caught in a Isabela prank.

Camilo’s love language is a lot of things, but quality time is high up on his list as he likes living in the moment.

Is a very good artist but gets embarrassed when people try to look at his work

Despite being a stick he is surprisingly strong.

Him and Mirabel used to be close but sort lost that connection the older they got, and even began to fight and butt heads. I like to think they do eventually become close, but it takes a lot of conversation and time.

adhd and autism (vine boom sound effect)

used to bite people as a kid

He likes reading plays and will space out for hours thinking how something translates on a stage

Sometimes he stands in front of a mirror and goes ‘why why why why why why why w

MIRABEL

The silly!!!

Like Isabela: gift giving is her way of showing affection. She loves hand crafting gifts.

This is depressing but when she didn’t get her gift she drew a door on her wall hoping the magic would make it real

Once no one would wake up so she poured water on Camilo’s head and he screamed so loud it woke everyone else up

Mirabel looks extremely innocent but will literally try to stab anyone who bothers her with her sewing needle

She used to write simple picture books for Antonio when they roomed together

She DEF got her own room during the rebuild. Like imagine saving the miracle and your family is just like “anyway go back to the baby room lol” they wouldn’t do that to her

Bisexual icon love to see it

Has zero rizz I’m sorry queen but like she’s a girl failure by heart

Is a bit of old woman and can’t stay up too late without getting tired but in turn wakes up extremely early.

Not the best academic but obviously still very smart.

She’s an empath so if you begin crying she’ll start crying too she can’t help it

Is blinder than a bat if you take her glasses away she cannot see SHIT

ANTONIO

Don’t have too much on him since he is still a baby but I have a few!

His favorite animal is the jaguar! Hence the plushie and his closeness to Parce

He likes matching animals to people, and even has a few animals named after his family.

Animals often tend to just kinda… follow him. If he goes for a walk he might came back with some new friends.

I do think he’s a vegetarian. Maybe not a vegan but eating meat is not easy for him.

He doesn’t always go to his parents if he has nightmares, and will rotate between Dolores, Mirabel, and Camilo.

Kicks in his sleep

#encanto #encanto headcanons #camilo madrigal #dolores madrigal #isabela madrigal #mirabel madrigal #antonio madrigal

74 notes · View notes

cambion-companion · 2 years ago

Note

Could you write something about Alicent and Aemond? Maybe he is anxious about becoming the father and doesn't want to speak to his wife about this matter and goes to his mother. She recalls what he was like after being born, that he was all sunshine until world's greedy hands (aka Viserys neglection and Aegon's bullying) hurt him so deeply. And then maybe Aemond promises himself that he will never allow to steal his child's happiness and he will do his best so his child will have happy childhood. And Alicent still blames herself she didn't bring justice to him after he lost an eye. So yeah, nostalgic moments between them. I am sucker for mommy and her war criminal moments.

Ohhhh the potential here is almost overwhelming, I hope I did them justice Nonny!

Aemond and Alicent | reader is "offscreen" and heavily pregnant

"You will be a wonderful father, just as you are a loving husband." Alicent rose from where she'd been seated before the crackling fireplace, taking her son's hands in her own. "Aemond." She coaxed him to look her in the eye. "Do not fear to become Viserys."

Aemond was silent, keenly watching his mother's earnest expression. He had not been able to sleep that night, so he slid silently out of bed, careful not to wake his sleeping wife, and found his way down the hall to Alicent's reading room. The anticipation of a new child in the Keep had kept her awake as well and Aemond soon found himself unburdening his worries upon her.

"I am worried about her safety as well as the babe's." Aemond spoke, his long fingers tightening inadvertently around his mother's hands. "It has been challenge enough seeing her suffer through this pregnancy, but to birth a child..." He trailed off, remembering the echoes of Helaena's anguish filling the halls of the Red Keep.

"It is the natural order of things." Alicent gave him a small smile, understanding alight in her brown eyes. "I remember giving birth to you and what a sweet little boy you were."

"Mother." Aemond groaned, pulling away from her to sit upon the sofa.

Alicent persevered, taking a seat beside him and taking his hand yet again. "The first is always the hardest and the most painful. She will have the best healers in the realm attending her. All will be well." Alicent ran her fingers through Aemond's hair which fell loose over his shoulders.

His shoulders relaxed at her touch as he leaned slightly into her, adjusting his weight on the cushions until his head rested against her chest. Alicent made a small comforting noise in the back of her throat, her fingers massaging Aemond's scalp in soothing circles.

"What can I do?" Aemond's voice was small, reminding Alicent of when he was just a little boy tugging on her skirts and asking to be lifted into her arms.

"Be there for her. Be there for your child." Alicent placed a kiss to his fair brow. "You've always been the most perceptive of my sons. The most sensitive."

Aemond sat up to look at her.

She ran a finger lightly along the scar on his cheek, her expression growing somber. "The gods have not been kind to you." She shook her head, auburn curls falling loosely about her face. "Yet you've risen up time and gain, beating every obstacle. This will be no exception."

Alicent's eyes closed as Aemond leaned forward to place a brief kiss to her forehead. "Thank you mother."

817 notes · View notes

two-white-butterflies · 2 years ago

Text

coaxed you into paradise - c. 12

Description: The life of Saera Targaryen told in four acts. She was her father's forgotten daughter, cast aside as she looked nothing like her mother. Her younger days were spent beside her uncle. Years following her marriage with Ser Harwin Strong, she catches him in an affair with her older sister. She returns to seek solace in the arms of her uncle, that she's loved all her life.

(Coaxed You Into Paradise and High Infidelity Rewrite.)

masterlist for this series

Chapter Twelve: Kepus

Saera fought through the white light that seeped through the curtains. Her eyes were always sensitive to the light. A groan escapes her mouth - her hands feeling the cloth that covered her naked body. She remembers last night - the feel of Daemon’s tongue reaching her into completion, then Harwin arriving moments after her kepus left.

“Harwin,” she placed a hand on his back - her thighs still wet from his seed. “Huh?” a question exits his mouth as he gently stirred awake.

“What time is it?” he asked, rubbing his eyes.

“I don’t know - I just woke up.” she replied, holding the blanket close to her bosom. She didn’t want him looking at her. “Are you hungry? Do you wish to have breakfast?” he inquired, easily pushing the covers off his naked body.

“I don’t know.” she repeated - dissociating for a second. “I’ll have the maids bring some food.” he stated, placing a robe over his body. He opens the door with ease, not taking his time to pull it - like Saera did last night. She could hear him scream for Mysaria - demanding that the maid bring food. She would’ve scolded him, but she wasn’t in the mood.

He walks towards the bed - by this time, she was able to wear a sheer nightgown. It did nothing to hide her body - but it protected her against the coldness of the morning. His hands reached to cup her cheeks, moving a strand of her hair away from her face.

Saera was comely - not like her sister, but she was still comely.

“You are beautiful.” he complimented, eyes trailing down to her lips. His words meant nothing to her. The word beautiful was nothing compared to gevie, which her uncle called her all the time. “Thank you,” she looked down, avoiding his gaze. He was about to lean closer to give her a kiss, but Mysaria opens the door loudly - startling Ser Harwin.

“My lady, my lord.” she bowed, a band of handmaidens trailed after her - quickly arranging their table to welcome the meal. Mysaria keeps standing in front of them, Harwin frowns and Saera motions for her to continue speaking.

“Prince Daemon has invited you to accompany him in his hunt, my lord.” she informed. Saera couldn’t help but smile. Her uncle wasn’t the one to be outshined. “Pardon?” Harwin gulped, his grip around Saera’s face tightened.

She takes a deep breath, moving his hands away from her cheeks. “It will be best to attend the hunt, husband. My uncle isn’t a lord that you can easily offend.” she advised. She wanted to witness their conversation, but Daemon couldn’t intimidate him with her, present.

“Yes, but you will be alone without me.” he took a deep breath. She shook her head, resting her hand on top of his. “I will be out with the ladies. I wouldn’t want to bore you with our endless chatter,” she assured.

“I suppose.” he hums, turning his head to Mysaria.

“Tell my handmaidens to prepare my hunting gear.” he commanded, and Mysaria bowed. “Thank you.” Saera added. Her good friend quickly faded from view.

—

Leila and Saera were opposite sides of the same coin. Leila didn’t desire for children - and Saera wanted it more than anything in the world. Leila was content in being a wife and lady, but Saera wanted to be the best dragonrider in the history of her house. Their differences never came in the way of them being friends. “You will become a mother in the future,” Leila hummed, strolling through the gardens beside her only friend.

“ - but the gods are the only ones who’ll be able to tell if they are from your uncle, or Harwin.” she joked, lowering her voice for a second. “Fuck off, Leila.” Saera whispered, picking a few flowers off the bushes.

Her friend had a mischievous nature - always speaking about things that could get them into trouble. “I was joking.” Leila giggled, placing a few roses on the Princess’ basket. “Well, keep your voice low.” Saera complained, exchanging a glance with one of her father’s courtiers. There were children running around the gardens - playing tag and laughing loudly.

“Children are incorrigible creatures. I wonder how anyone can stomach them.” Leila hums, dallying through the halls with her own level of confidence. “And you’re saying that whilst heavy with a child?” Saera questions with a tilt of a brow. Leila places a hand on her swollen stomach. “Oh, this one is different from the other runts.” she responds with certainty.

Saera turns to look at her friend slowly, switching the basket to her non-dominant hand. “I assure you the mother of these children thought the same,” she snorts. Leila takes a deep breath, clasping her hands. “Enough of my pregnancy, let’s talk about your future children - I want them betrothed to mine. Your son with my daughter or your daughter with my son.” Leila asserts, placing her hands on her hips.

The Princess freezes for a second - she hasn’t thought about having children with Harwin yet, but after their night of consummation - there was a chance that she was heavy with a child.

“Politically speaking it does bring an advantage. For my son or daughter to marry a scion of House Hightower and Lannister is a privilege - and I accept.” Saera nods her head, weighing down her options. Her daughter would be lonely without a proper match - being the Lady of Oldtown would strengthen their family. Her son will be the Lord of Harrenhal - and to have a maiden from a powerful house will put them in a strong position.

—

Daemon brandished the sword on his waist, though it was useless against a wild animal. He placed the sword back on its sheath - toying with the knife on his dominant hand. “Have you ever gone hunting, Strong?” he inquired, doing the same thing as Saera when she landed in the forest.

“Yes, my prince.” Harwin replied uneasily. He’s heard whispers about Daemon’s cruelty - he was the second coming of Maegor. “You were not my first choice - nor my second in becoming Commander of the Gold Cloaks.” the prince responds bluntly, searching the terrain for a willing price.

“Pardon?” Harwin halts.

Pardon was his favorite word nowadays, as everyone always found a way to offend him.

“I was training Saera to be my replacement. She has an expert command of the bow - the men respect her,” he explained, cutting through the foliage with ease. He looks back at the man, “ - at least more than they respect you.” he adds sarcastically.

“I don’t suppose that a woman can rule,” Harwin whispers.

Daemon chuckles bitterly. “I’d be careful with my tongue - our next ruler is a woman, Rhaenyra.” he corrected and the man faltered in his posture. “The Princess Rhaenyra is an exception,” Harwin was quick to respond.

Daemon gives him a side-glance, finding his rhetoric to be stupid.

They’ve been marching for the past hour, and there was yet to be a prize worthy of the Rogue Prince’s eye. An animal moves in the distance - with black, white and orange print. It was a young tiger. A cub that was roaring for his mother. Harwin points at the creature, only to be stopped again.

“Do not kill him.” Daemon commanded, staring at the little cub with interest. “It is a creature, my lord - the nobles at court will have fun staring at it.” Harwin defended again, annoyed that he was always interrupted by the uncle-niece faction.

“It is a cub - we only take what the forest allows, Harwin. That is the first rule of hunting.” Daemon gritted his teeth, already turning his back to return to his horse. “There are millions of them in this forest, I assure you my prince.” Harwin complains.

“Shut up and get on your horse, boy.” he ordered, and chills ran down Harwin’s spine.

—

It was late at night - the streets of Flea Bottom were alive and flourishing. Rhaenyra remembers the stories about Princess Viserra, daughter of King Jahaerys. She was found racing the streets of Kingslanding - then she died because she fell off her horse. She takes a deep breath, she wasn’t racing - which meant there wasn’t a reason for her to get into trouble.

She keeps walking down the street, watching everyone go on in their business. Her eyes linger inside one of the brothels - they were pleasuring each other, men and women, using their tongues, fingers, and organs. It was - mesmerizing but it was wrong. She catches a man’s eye, and she begins walking in another direction - only to realize that he was still following her.

“Shit.” she cursed, while bolting in the same direction - her long cloak flying with the wind.

She keeps running - looking at the man behind her. She stares at him, watching as he does his best to chase after her.

Not even realizing that there was someone in front of her.

“Princess,” the man huffs, and her body bumps into his armored body. “Ser Harwin,” she freezes, his body towering over her figure. “What are you doing here?” he questions, glancing at the man behind her - who begins walking in the other direction.

“It is none of your concern, Ser. Please escort me back to the keep.” she pleaded and he nodded. Finding his place behind her, hands on both of his shoulders and walking her to the keep.

—

Under the shade of the Godswood Tree, she sat embroidering a brand new sigil on her fabric. Rhaenyra wasn’t a big fan of knitting, embroidering and other womanly things - but she figured that picking it up wouldn’t hurt anyone. Afterall, the ladies at court couldn’t stop talking about Saera’s command with a needle. She blows a piece of her hair away from her face - eyes trailing away from her creation and unto the man that was watching her.

“Ser Harwin,” she says unamused, going back to the thing that she was doing. “Princess,” he answered with a smile.

“I’m surprised to see you early. Last night was uncharacteristic.” he played with his words, earning an eye-roll from the Princess. “Even for you. I suppose that my uncle’s post is far too complex for you.” she teased, the tips of her mouth slowly turning into a smile.

“Of course not. I merely wanted to escort the Princess to safety.” he defended, earning another chuckle from the Princess. “You are not my sworn sword.” Rhaenyra retorts, rising to her feet - finding the boredom to be overbearing. How could Saera do this for hours?

“As far as I am aware, my princess - you have none.” Harwin responds with a smirk. She crossed her arms, eyes darkening with every second. There were constellations in her eyes - a fire that he didn’t see with his wife. “Ser Criston Cole is part of the Kingsguard.” she answered.

“And I am your good brother - which means that you and Saera’s safety is my utmost priority.” he asserted, taking a step forward to scan her face longer. He couldn’t help but compare the two princesses. Rhaenyra was striking - and Saera was soft. He was certain of what he liked best.

“ - your safety includes sniffing out potential passages that could lead you into Flea Bottom.” he hums, her glare darkening. “There is no need for that, Harwin.” she chuckles nervously. “The passages that you speak of do not exist.” she lowered her eyes - fearing that her uncle would kill her if she exposed his passages.

“Alright then, have a good day, my princess.” Harwin curtsied, walking off to the other direction.

next chapter>>

taglist. @sweetybuzz25 @newtsniffles @loveandlewis-reads @lovecleastrange @julkaamazing @schniiipsel @mirandastuckinthe80s @areaderinlove @i-yam-awesome @ladystardvsts @gracielikegrapes @sweethoneyblossom1 @issybee0611 @tato0od @daemons-kelitsos @delaynew @borikenlove

#daemon x reader #daemon targaryen x oc #daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x reader #prince daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen headcanon #daemon targaryen fic #daemon targaryen smut #daemon targaryen imagine #daemon targaryen fanfic #daemon targaryen fluff #house targaryen #house of the dragon #daemon headcanons #daemon prince #daemonism #hotd daemon

236 notes · View notes