#the way i fervently prayed

[michyeosseo]

Mother, I can see right through you.

Yoon Hae Young as JANG SE-MI LADY DURIAN (2023) 1.16

[thebirdandhersong]

I think I'm over the "men are the WOOOOOORST" hill of irrational rage :D

[vyragosa]

to be quite honest

APAC being in name, a reference to the pacific ocean

then you show me Paz Ortega Andrade, Pacifica Ocean

the angel of peace triple agent “love deterrence singer” in red with an absolutely horrific storyline about bombs inside her and i’m supposed to sleep well after learning of it...? i don’t think i will. i just don’t think i will.

[randomdragonfires]

Parallel Lines, Act II

Text Divider by @saradika-graphics

SUMMARY | He fears her proximity, and she fears his distance. As war looms, they’ll have to learn to make their marriage work to find comfort in each other. Or at least, try.

PAIRING | Aemond Targaryen x Wife!Reader

WARNINGS | 18+; SMUT; Angst; Complicated Relationship Themes; Emotional Negligence; Infidelity; Major Character Death; Gore and Graphic Depictions of Violence.

AUTHOR’S NOTE | Henlo! This was meant to be a duology, but the second part became too long so I ended up making it a trilogy instead. Hope it doesn't disappoint! :)

WORD COUNT | 13.9k

On a rare stormy night in King's Landing, the trees danced violently during a torrential downpour. A world-weary mother cloaked in the shadows of the flickering candlelight, whispered her gratitude to the Gods while on her knees - her sickly son had clung to life for yet another day. She thanked the Seven for their mercy upon her child and prayed with a fervent desperation.

"Gentle Mother, I beseech you. Mercy for my boy. He has suffered enough. Rid him of his pain, and give it to me if you can."

Her voice, trembling with exhaustion, echoed through the cold stone walls of the Sept. She turned, the weight of countless nights spent wanting, praying, and begging for her son's life pressing heavily upon her. As her whispered plea lingered in the air, a dark shadow crept through the halls of the Red Keep.

Back in the dimly lit chamber, her son laid fragile and fevered. The babe's suffering ended not by divine mercy but by a blade’s cruel bite, leaving a pool of crimson beneath the crib.

War had come to their doorstep, a brutal retribution for her husband's actions.

As the Princess crossed the threshold of the Sept’s grand doors, the candle flame she had lit in her son's name sputtered and died, extinguished by an unseen hand - that of the Gods, it must be. 

The storm outside seemed to howl with discontent, and an eerie silence settled over the castle, broken only by the distant, mournful wail of the wind. The gods had not answered her prayers - only darkness had.

The funeral had taken place that morning, a bleak procession of mourning and regret. Aemond had stood like a statue, his heart a hollow void as Vhagar’s flames engulfed the little bundle at his command. He had not shed a tear, his grief and rage too immense to be expressed in such simple ways.

She hadn’t either.

Later, he had descended into the castle's black cells, taking Larys Strong with him. The rogue Gold Cloak who had murdered his son lay shackled to a stone slab, his eyes wide with terror.

Aemond approached the man, his eyes cold and dead. "You took my son," he whispered, his voice a venomous hiss. "Now, you will pay."

He began with the nails, gripping the rusty pliers with a hand that trembled not with fear but with a seething rage. One by one, he yanked the nails from the man's fingers, the sickening crack of breaking bone and the wet pop of tearing flesh echoing through the cell. The man's screams were shrill, a high-pitched wail that echoed through the stone walls, but Aemond felt no satisfaction.

"Please," the man gasped, his voice raw and broken. "Mercy..."

Aemond's lips curled into a snarl. "You showed my little son no mercy." He moved to the fingers next, taking a blade and slowly severing them, joint by joint. Blood spurted in thick, dark streams, pooling on the cold stone floor. The man's howls grew frantic, agony that only fueled Aemond's fury.

He grabbed a branding iron, heated until it glowed red-hot, and pressed it against the man's skin. The smell of burning flesh filled the air, acrid and suffocating. The man's screams turned to guttural roars, his body convulsing in torment. Aemond's own face twisted in a mask of hatred and pain, each act of brutality a futile attempt to fill the gaping void in his heart.

"Confess!" Aemond demanded, his voice a thunderous roar. "Confess your crime!"

"I did it!" the man wailed, his voice a ragged sob. "I killed the boy... He made me do it... please, stop… the Rogue Pri-"

But Aemond did not stop. He could not stop. He continued his relentless torture, burning, cutting, and breaking, each act more savage than the last. The man's pleas for mercy turned to incoherent babbling, his mind shattered by the unending pain.

Hours passed, the cell becoming a chamber of horrors. Blood stained the walls and floor, a macabre display of a grieving father’s wrath. Finally, when the man was nothing more than a broken, bleeding husk, Aemond stepped back, his chest heaving with exertion. The rage had not subsided. It never would. But he was too exhausted to continue.

He had been ready to slowly kill the other ratcatcher when found, but Aegon, much less patient, had ordered the hanging of every ratcatcher in the city as recompense for his nephew's life. The streets of King's Landing would run red with blood, a brutal reminder of the price of crossing the King that sits the Iron Throne.

As Aemond ascended from the depths of the castle, the echoes of the man's screams still ringing in his ears, he felt the weight of his failure pressing down on him, a crushing burden that threatened to consume him. He had failed his family, and no amount of blood or pain could ever atone for any of it. Each step he took felt like walking through quicksand, dragging him further into an abyss of guilt and despair.

Now, the greatest task awaited him: facing his wife. How could he? How could he look into her eyes, knowing very well that it may as well have been his own hand that had slain their child? How could he, when he had been out at a whorehouse while his only son was murdered in cold blood?

No matter how angry and fierce he had been moments ago, now he felt small and cowardly. The righteous fury that had fueled his brutal interrogation of the rogue Gold Cloak had dissipated, leaving behind a hollow shell of a man. His rage had been a mask, hiding the unbearable sorrow and guilt that now threatened to overwhelm him.

He paused outside the door to her chambers, his hand trembling as it rested on the fine wood. He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and pushed the door open. His wife sat on the floor, clutching Aerys' blanket to her chest, her eyes hollow and fixed on the bloodied crib. The sight of her, so broken and lost, pierced his heart more than anything else ever could.

He’d failed as a husband, father and protector.

The servants moved around her like phantoms, silently removing the stained mattress and the crib that had once held their precious boy. She did not give them a second glance, her body rigid and unyielding, as if she had turned to stone. The servants bowed to Aemond as they passed, their eyes lowered in sorrowful respect and fear. He watched them, his heart shattering with each step they took, carrying away the last remnants of his son.

Aemond's throat tightened, his breath coming in shallow gasps. How could he face her? How could he bear the weight of her grief and anger? He took another deep breath, forcing himself to move. Each step toward her felt like an eternity, the distance between them an insurmountable chasm of pain and regret.

He knelt beside her, reaching out to touch her shoulder. She did not flinch, did not acknowledge his presence. Her gaze remained fixed on the empty space where their son had once lain. If not for the faint rise and fall of her chest, he would have thought her dead.

“You were not there,” she said, her voice a hollow echo in the dim room. “You were not there when he was born. It’s only fitting that you weren’t there when he died as well.”

The words struck Aemond like a physical blow, each one a dagger to his already bleeding heart. Her tone, completely devoid of any emotion, sent a chill through him. The emptiness in her voice was far more terrifying than any rage or grief. It was the voice of someone who had been utterly broken, and it slowly killed him a little more with every passing moment.

His mind flashed back to that night, so long ago now, when Aerys had been born. He had been with the Madame, scared of losing his wife so much that he could not bear to stay - leaving her to bear their son alone. He had returned to find her pale and exhausted, cradling their newborn with a mixture of joy and exhaustion. 

Her eyes, once filled with warmth and love for their boy, now held only a deep, hollow emptiness. “He needed you, Aemond. I needed you, I went out of my way and begged you to protect us. And you weren’t there. Not when he took his first breath, and not when he took his last.”

She turned away, clutching Aerys’ blanket tighter to her chest, her body shaking with silent sobs. “I watched him suffer every night,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I watched him cry out in pain from the fevers, and I couldn’t do anything to save him. I prayed, Aemond. I prayed so much, and the gods took him anyway. And how… how he must have suffered…”

“I don’t know how to live with this,” she continued, her voice cracking. “Everywhere I look, I see him. His toys, his clothes, his empty crib. And I see you, and I wonder how we’ll bear it. How can we live with ourselves, knowing very well that we’d failed him?”

Her choked sobs gave way to cries, piercing the silence of the room like a thousand daggers. Aemond turned to hold her close, desperate to offer any semblance of comfort. She pounded on his chest with her fists, weakly at first, then with growing strength as her grief overwhelmed her. She tried to push him away, but he held her closer with each blow, his arms a fortress around her fragile body. Her screams grew louder, echoing through the empty chambers, the corridors, the entire Keep.

“What do we do, Aemond? How do we go on?”

For what felt like hours, he held her as she struggled, his heart breaking anew with each of her sobs. She pushed him away again and again, but he pulled her back every time, refusing to let her go. He whispered words of solace, though he knew they were hollow, futile against her anguish. The warmth of her tears soaked through his tunic, mingling with his own as they wept together.

Gradually, her struggles weakened, her sobs quieting into shuddering breaths. Exhausted, she slumped against him, her head resting on his shoulder. He stroked her hair gently, his own tears falling into her tangled locks.

When she finally calmed, she lifted her head to look into his eyes. The depth of her pain was mirrored in his gaze, their shared torment powerful enough to get the Gods to bow down their heads n shame. "I see you," she said, her voice throaty, raw and trembling. "I see you, Aemond, and I see the reason our son is dead."

Her words cut through him like a blade, and he flinched, but she continued, her eyes never leaving his. "But I also see the only person who feels this loss as much as I do. I hate you, Aemond, for what you've done, for not being here, for all of it. But I cannot push you away. I don't have the strength to be alone. Not now. Not ever."

Her voice broke on the last word, and she buried her face in his chest again, clutching his tunic with trembling hands. "Do not leave me," she begged, her voice a whisper of desperation. "Please, Aemond, do not leave me today."

She cried against his chest once more, her tears soaking through the fabric. He could feel the rapid beat of her heart, a frantic rhythm that matched his own. The memory of their son lingered in the air, as they clung to each other - two broken souls, adrift.

Aemond and his wife grieved, their methods as different as night and day. He poured himself into the war, throwing himself into strategy and shadow plotting to escape the crushing weight of his anger, guilt and sorrow. Every victory that Criston wrote to him about was a fleeting distraction from the void left by their son's death. The fight, the anger, the bloodied lands had his heart become cold, and his mind was focused on the immediate need to conquer.

She, on the other hand, hid herself away in her apartments, crying until her tears ran dry, only to begin again as soon as the next wave of sorrow crashed over her. The chamber was an eerie tomb of memories, filled with the echoes of a child whose cries were now silenced. She clung to their son's bloodied blanket, refusing to let the maids take it away. It was the last tangible piece of him, the only thing she could still hold. Her grief was raw and unending, a torrent that left her exhausted and hollow.

He watched her more than once, standing silently in the doorway, his heart heavy at the sight of her frail form curled up on their son's blanket. She was a shadow of the woman she once was, a stranger that he shared his deepest failure with - not to mention the subsequent pain of it all. Her sobs were gut-wrenching, a mournful lullaby that haunted the silent halls. Each sob was a reminder of his failure to protect their child, to protect her.

On those nights, he would tentatively approach her, his steps hesitant and unsure. Sometimes she would receive him, allowing him to hold her as she wept, her tears soaking into his leathers. He would murmur soft, broken words, his hand gently stroking her hair in a futile attempt to offer comfort. Her pain was palpable, a living thing that wrapped around them both and squeezed until they could hardly breathe. He felt helpless, his warrior's strength, his proud lineage and dragonrider’s blood useless against the insidious enemy of grief, one that had thoroughly defeated her.

Other nights, she would blame him, her grief turning into fury as she screeched at him to never darken her door again. Her words were sharp, each one a poison-tipped arrow aimed at his heart. She accused him of failing them, of failing their son. He took her anger in silence, his eyes hollow and his heart heavy. Her words cut deep, but he could not refute them. He had failed, and he bore that failure like a scar across his soul. And when she was done screaming, she’d fall into his arms and cry once more - for who else did they have in their grief, apart from each other?

On those nights, the pain of her rejection would drive him to the Madame, seeking the comfort he could not find at home. The whorehouse was a stark contrast to his wife's chambers. It was filled with the scent of perfume and sweat, the air thick with the sounds of laughter and moans. He would lose himself in the warmth of another's body, the physical release a temporary balm for his wounded soul. She was experienced, her touches skilled and knowing. She took him without question, a vessel for his anger and sorrow. He sought solace in the intensity of their embraces, the roughness of their passion, and the desperate attempt to drown out his grief.

The relief was fleeting, and the guilt that followed only deepened his despair. He would leave the Madame's alcove, his body sated yet not, his heart heavy yet not. The walk back to the castle was a walk of shame, each step a reminder of his failure as a husband - what good was he if he could not protect or comfort? 

In stark contrast, his time with his wife was chaste, almost delicate. He would sit beside her, his hand hovering with uncertainty before resting gently on her shoulder. She would not speak, but she would not push him away either. Aemond treated her like fragile glass, afraid that one wrong move would shatter her more than she already had been.

Today was not one such day. Today, he would fly Vhagar to war.

Rook’s Rest beckoned him; his call to glory. This would be the day that he began his legacy.

Aemond stood in his chambers, his fingers trembling as he repeatedly failed to secure his hair with a threadbare tie. His heart pounded with a potent mix of nerves and eagerness. Each time the tie slipped through his fingers, frustration mounted, his movements becoming more erratic.

The door creaked open, and he turned sharply, ready to lash out at whoever dared interrupt his solitary struggle with no warning. But it was not a servant. It was his wife.

She looked to be in good spirits. He knew better.

She entered the room with a quiet grace, her presence a stark contrast to her appearance these past few weeks. She looked every bit the regal princess she was - her posture poised, her expression serene. She held his riding leathers in her hands, a gesture that spoke volumes without a single word. “I… I thought I’d wish you well,” she said softly, her voice a hesitant murmur. 

He didn’t know what to say, so he simply nodded, his throat tightening with a mix of emotions. The lump in his throat made it difficult to speak, and he watched her as she approached him, each step measured and deliberate.

His gaze lingered on her face, committing every detail to memory as he prepared to throw himself headfirst into the fighting. Her hair, cascading in soft waves, framed her delicate features. He noticed the way a few errant strands fell over her forehead, the way her ears peeked out from beneath the locks, adorned with earrings that his mother had gifted her upon the birth of their son.

There was a softness in her eyes, a vulnerability. He traveled the lines of her face with his eye, the gentle slope of her nose, the faint freckles that dusted her cheeks, barely visible but always there. His gaze settled on her lips, lips that he had not kissed since their wedding almost two years ago. They were slightly parted, as if she were about to say something, and he could see the subtle tremor in them. He remembered their first kiss, the way her lips had felt against his - cold and limp.

Her touch sent a jolt of warmth through him, and he found himself highly aware of every movement she made. She helped him into his clothes with a seemingly practiced ease, her fingers grazing his skin and leaving trails of heat in their wake. He stilled, his gaze locked onto her, and her alone.

She started with the undershirt, guiding his arms through the sleeves. Her hands were gentle yet firm, the fabric sliding over his skin. She moved to the leather jerkin then, her fingers deftly fastening the buckles and sending shivers down his spine. He could feel the heat of her hands through the cool leather.

Has she ever helped dress him before?

As she cinched the straps around his waist, her body pressed close to his, and he inhaled the scent of her - a mixture of lilacs and something uniquely her. Her fingers brushed against his neck, and he fought the urge to close his eyes and savor the sensation.

Once the leathers were secured, she stepped back, her eyes scanning his form to ensure everything was in place. "Do you need your hair braided?" she asked, her voice soft and hesitant.

He shook his head no, unable to find his voice. She walked behind him, her fingers threading through his silver strands. Her touch was soothing, and he felt a strange sense of calm wash over him. She gathered the top half of his hair, pulling it into a knot, while leaving the bottom half loose - just the way he preferred. Her movements were deliberate, almost reverent, as if she were committing every strand to memory.

Was she trying to remember him just as he did her?

When she finished, she stepped back to admire her work, her eyes meeting his functional one in the mirror. For a moment, they simply stood there, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air. He turned to face her, his gaze never leaving hers.

She laid her hands on his back and began reciting a prayer to the Seven, her voice trembling. Her fingers traced the lines of his muscles, as if memorizing the feel of him, and when she finished, she nodded and smiled weakly - a weak upturn of her lips so full of fear, for him.

She walked away, each step heavy with reluctance, until she stopped midway and turned when he whispered her name. “Your favor.” His voice was steady, almost devoid of emotion, but she knew him too well. The slight upward curve of his lips, the brief twitch of his eyebrow before it settled back, revealed more than words ever could.

Her hand trembled as she reached into her neckline, pulling out a small satin square. He caught her wrist, his grip gentle but firm, and she felt the world narrow down to the space between them. As she handed him the token, she stepped closer until their foreheads met, their breaths mingling, becoming one.

They stood there, suspended in a moment that felt both fleeting and eternal, the possibilities and uncertainties pressing in on them. It was a fragile convergence, their desire to be together finally surfacing, only to be shadowed by the looming threat of separation. The cost of their union was too much - Aerys, was too much - a weight neither of them will ever be rid of.

Her head was nestled against his neck, hidden from the world by the veil of her loose hair. It fell around her like a curtain, hiding her from the chaos. She whispered, her voice barely more than a breath, “I need you to come back.” For me, she didn’t say.

Aemond felt her plea in every fiber of his being. He understood her without needing her to elaborate. As he held her close, he let her imprint his presence into her memory, knowing that she believed that this might be their last shared moment -he was sure of their victory, and he knew she was too. But she was a wife, and he supposed it was in her nature to worry. 

I don’t have anyone else here.

Their foreheads met, a tender touch that spoke volumes. Her eyes searched his own, and he saw the reflection of his own yearning and fear. The intimacy of the moment was almost unbearable, a poignant reminder of what they had already lost, what they stood to lose. Her breath mingled with his, her scent enveloping him, and he memorized every detail - the softness of her skin, the warmth of her body, the depth of her woes.

Any closer, and he could kiss her. But he didn’t.

Later in the yard, the waiting wife watched her warring prince go, her heart heavy as he carried a piece of her with him into battle. 

She didn't pray anymore.

The Gods had seen fit to snatch her son away, and their cruelty had hardened her heart to stone. Yet, as she stood on the battlements of the Keep, watching the wounded men stagger through the gates, she felt the faintest pull toward the Sept, an old, almost forgotten reflex. The soft murmurs of hymns, the flicker of candles, the scent of incense - all seemed like distant memories of a life now lost to endless war.

So many men. Sons, brothers, husbands, uncles…

The scene below was a scene of abject suffering, a picture of agony and despair. Soldiers limped and staggered, their bodies broken and burnt, some supported by their brothers in battle, others barely able to move. Blood stained their armor, their faces twisted in pain, their eyes hollow and vacant. The air was thick with the stench of blood, burnt flesh, and the acrid smoke from dragonfire, a vile miasma that clung to her senses. The cries of the wounded echoed in the courtyard, a chorus of despair that seemed to reverberate off the stone walls and pierce her heart.

Her gaze flitted over the faces, each one etched with pain and horror. She saw men clutching at wounds, their fingers slick with blood, their expressions a mixture of shock and resignation. There were those whose eyes stared unseeing, their bodies no longer vessels of life but remnants of what had once been vibrant souls. Young boys, barely old enough to be called men, uncharacteristically sobbed. Older men, who had seen countless battles, now faced the grim reality that this war may as well bring their end.

Then she saw him.

Barely alive, Aegon’s body was a ruin of burns and bandages, carried on a stretcher like a broken doll. His frame was now a pitiful sight, his breath shallow and labored. She’d never liked Aegon in all truth - but he was her King. If he died, would all this blood be for naught?

Her heart clenched as she tried to move closer, to see the extent of his injuries, but the soldiers turned him away, rushing him towards the Maester’s chambers with a sense of urgency that spoke volumes.

“Make way for the King!”

She felt the strength drain from her legs, her back sliding down the cold, unyielding stone of the castle wall. Shock and despair settled over her like a shroud, heavy and suffocating. How much more of this horror could she endure? How many more lives would be lost before this nightmare ended? The enormity of the suffering, the endless cycle of loss and pain, was almost too much to bear.

Criston Cole emerged from the chaos, looking as though he had walked through the depths of Hell. His armor was blackened, his face lined with exhaustion and grief, his eyes dull and haunted. When their eyes met, she saw a flicker of something she never expected - pity.

“Princess, you should not be here.”

“What happened? Please tell me, Ser Criston.”

“King Aegon valiantly slayed Rhaenys and the Red Queen,” he said, his voice raw and weary, barely more than a whisper - empty. “Led his men into battle with valor. And now he’s brought back in a damned box, fighting for his life.” In his voice was a heaviness she never thought she’d hear from him - but how else was he supposed to sound when he’d watched a boy he helped raise himself come back looking shriveled in burn wounds? Her throat tightened, and tears threatened to spill. The weight of his words crushed her, a stark reminder of the relentless cost of war.

And where was Aemond? Her thoughts turned to him, a fresh wave of dread washing over her, suffocating in its intensity.

“What of my husband?”

“With Vhagar at Blackwater Bay. I… May I suggest that you keep away from him for a time, Princess? Give the Prince time before you go to him. Anger and… one does not have control over their words or actions after having immediately come back from a battle. Especially one like this.” It seemed like he was concerned for her, but she detected a sneer in his tone, especially in his last words.

Since when was Ser Criston Cole’s anger meant for Aemond? What could have possibly happened?

Blackwater Bay stretched out beneath the setting sun, the waters shimmering with hues of gold and crimson. The sky had dark clouds mingling with the fading light. The scent of salt and smoke lingered in the air, mingling with the distant cries of seagulls and the echoes of the day's violence. The waves lapped gently against the shore, a stark contrast to the turmoil that had unfolded earlier.

Aemond stood beside Vhagar, the massive dragon that had been his companion through his latest victory at Rook’s Rest. Her scales, a mottled mix of bronze and green, glistened in the twilight. Vhagar's snout was as wide as a cart, and Aemond leaned against it, his forehead resting gently against her scales. He murmured softly in Valyrian, his voice a soothing melody that calmed the mighty beast. The dragon's breath, warm and steady, seemed to wash over him, ruffling his silver hair. Her massive chest rose and fell with each breath, a rhythm that mirrored the ocean's tides.

From a distance, she watched, her heart pounding in her chest. This was the closest she had ever been to Vhagar, the legendary dragon whose mere presence could instill fear in the bravest of men. She had seen Vhagar from afar many times, a distant silhouette in the sky or a menacing figure on the horizon, but never this close. She hesitated, unsure if she should approach. Would she be welcomed, or would Vhagar see her as an intruder?

Summoning her courage, she stepped forward, her feet sinking into the sand as she made her way toward them. The closer she got, the more details she noticed. Vhagar's scales were not just bronze and green but interspersed with streaks of darker hues. The dragon's claws, as long as swords and just as sharp, dug into the earth, leaving deep gouges in the sand.

Aemond lifted his head slightly, his keen senses alerting him to her presence. He turned, his gaze meeting hers, a mixture of surprise and something softer in his eyes. He didn't say anything, but his eye spoke volumes. With a slight nod, he acknowledged her approach, his silent permission for her to come closer.

She took another step, her breath catching in her throat as Vhagar's massive head turned toward her. The dragon's golden eyes locked onto her, and for a moment, she felt a wave of fear. But Vhagar didn't move, only watched with an inscrutable gaze.

Tentatively, she reached out a hand, stopping just short of touching the dragon's scales. The heat radiating from Vhagar's body was almost overwhelming, a reminder of the sheer power contained within. She glanced at Aemond, seeking reassurance, and he gave a small, encouraging nod.

Gathering her courage, she placed her hand on Vhagar's snout. The scales were surprisingly smooth, warm beneath her touch. She felt a tremor run through the dragon, a rumble that seemed to resonate deep within her own chest.

"She won't harm you," Aemond said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

She took a deep breath, her voice trembling as she spoke. "Are you alright?" she asked, her eyes searching his face for any sign of the turmoil she sensed within him. The tempestuous energy that seemed to emanate from Vhagar mirrored the tension she felt in Aemond, a war-heavy restlessness that seemed to seep from the dragon into her husband.

Aemond's jaw tightened, and he looked away for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. "Hm," he replied, his tone clipped. The anger in his voice was barely contained, simmering just beneath the surface.

She took another step closer, her hand still resting on Vhagar's snout, the warmth grounding her. "I can feel it," she said softly, "...the fury. It's in Vhagar... and in you."

He met her gaze again, his eye hardening. "War does that to a man," he said bitterly. "It changes you."

She nodded slowly, her fingers tracing the smooth scales of the dragon. "It's not just the war, is it?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "There's something else."

For a moment, she expected him to speak of the men they had lost, the lives extinguished under his command. As their war general and First Sword, she thought he would be burdened by the weight of their deaths. But as his eye flashed with anger, her heart sank, a knot of dread forming in her stomach.

"Aegon," he spat, the name laced with venom. "That fool rode in on Sunfyre and stole the glory that was rightfully mine. I fought, I orchestrated this victory, and he swoops in at the last moment, drunk as a street lecher, to claim it as his own."

Her breath caught in her throat, the raw bitterness in his voice slicing through her. "Aemond," she said gently, "I know you wanted to prove yourself, to show your worth. But isn't it enough that you fought bravely, that you survived? Aegon is battling for his life, but you have come out unscathed!"

His eye narrowed, the fury in his gaze burning even hotter. "It's not about survival," he snapped. "It's about being remembered, about being recognized for my strength, my skill. And he took that from me."

The realization hit her like a blow. He was not mourning the fallen soldiers or the horrors of war. His rage was fixated on Aegon, on the stolen glory. The bloodshed, the loss of life, barely seemed to register in his mind.

"Aemond," she whispered, her voice trembling. "What about the men we lost? The lives that were sacrificed?"

He looked at her, his expression hardening further. "They were necessary," he said coldly. "A means to an end."

Her heart broke at his words, the chasm between them widening. The man she had married, the man she tried to love, was consumed by ambition and a thirst for recognition to the point of it being beyond inhumane. She glanced at Vhagar, the dragon's golden eyes reflecting her own despair.

"I thought..." she began, her voice faltering. "I thought you would care about them, about the lives we lost."

Aemond's eye softened slightly, a flicker of something like regret passing over his face. "I do care," he said quietly, "but not in the way you think. My duty is to win, to secure our place. Everything else is secondary."

As Aemond's words hung heavy in the air, she felt disillusionment settle upon her heart. She couldn't bear to look at him any longer, her gaze drifting to Vhagar whose golden eyes mirrored her own despair. The dragon, magnificent and fearsome, was a reflection of Aemond's ambition, a creature driven by instinct and power, heedless of the lives trampled beneath its might.

At that moment, she understood Criston's anger.  She felt a wave of sympathy for him, for having to witness the transformation of the boy that he helped raise and taught, into a man driven by ruthless determination. Was this what Ser Criston feared? Was this the monster he saw lurking beneath Aemond's exterior, waiting to be unleashed by the brutality of war?

She didn't blame him for his anger. In fact, she shared it. She was angry at Aemond - for his callousness, for his disregard of the lives lost, for his single-minded pursuit of glory. But underneath all her anger, there lingered a deep, unsettling fear. 

She feared that man he was becoming. What did it say about him that he cared so little for men that fought in his family’s name?

What did it say about her that she still yearned for him all the same?

Sleep eluded her that night.

How could it possibly come, after the horrors she had witnessed? And that too, only from the training yard! Aemond had been on the war ground, surely suffering even worse torments. She longed to seek him out, to offer the solace he might need, as she had done before. But how could she?

What of the men we lost? The lives sacrificed?

They were necessary... A means to an end.

He frightened her. War was transforming her husband into a monster—she knew he was bloodthirsty like every warrior who ever graced the earth, fiery with the dragon blood that coursed through his veins. But was he truly as callous as he seemed today?

A means to an end... Did he think of Aerys that way too?

Her son, her precious boy…

No.

The darkness of the night weighed heavy on her heart, each passing minute a relentless reminder of her fears. The once comforting silence of their chambers now felt oppressive, suffocating. The flicker of candlelight cast dark figures, transforming familiar surroundings into a space that she hated to remain in.

A means to an end... Was that all they were? Was that all their son was? The questions gnawed at her soul, each one a dagger of doubt and despair. She feared for Aemond, for their future, and most of all, for Aerys - the innocent caught in the maelstrom of her husband’s making.

Sleep eluded her that night, and with it, any semblance of comfort.

Her mind spiraled, a whirlwind of anguish and dread, each thought more tortuous than the last. She could no longer bear the torment alone, her heart ached with the weight of her fears. Driven by a desperate need for answers, she found herself rushing to Aemond’s chambers in nothing but a shift and her robe, her hair unkempt, the lack of sleep and stress etched into her face.

Bursting through the door without knocking, she stopped abruptly, her breath catching in her throat. Aemond stood before her in his dark green leathers, a cloak draped over his shoulders, the flicker of the torchlight illuminating his features. He froze at the sight of her, his eye piercing straight into her soul.

“Wife, you are not dressed.”

"And you are. It is late in the night, and you are dressed. Where are you going?" she asked, her voice trembling, barely a whisper.

His silence was deafening. The tension between them was palpable, a suffocating presence in the room. Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat echoing her growing despair.

"Where are you going?" she repeated, her voice breaking.

Still, he said nothing. His eyes, usually so full of fire and passion, were now cold and distant. She took a step forward, her hands trembling, reaching out to him as if trying to bridge the chasm that had grown between them.

The whorehouse. Was he going to the whorehouse again? Where else had he ever gone at this time of the night?

Her mind spiraled, a whirlwind of anguish and doubt. The thought of him seeking solace in another’s arms twisted the knife deeper into her heart. Tears welled in her eyes, her voice breaking as she spoke.

“You said the soldiers were a means to an end,” she choked out, her words trembling with emotion. “Is that all Aerys was to you too? Is that all I’ll ever be?”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, the muscles in his face hardening. “Do not bring Aerys into this,” he said, his voice low and menacing.

She wounded him, but she couldn’t stop herself. “How can I not?” she cried, her tears flowing freely now. “You talk about sacrifices and means to an end. Is that what we are to you? Just another sacrifice?”

His eye flashed with a mixture of anger and pain, his body tensing as if ready to strike. “You know nothing of what I endure,” he growled, his voice a dangerous whisper. “Do not presume to understand.”

“Then help me understand,” she pleaded, her voice breaking. “Tell me why you leave me here, alone with my fears.”

“Do not ever suggest,” he hissed, his voice low and dangerous, “that you and our son are anything less than everything to me.”

Her body trembled, not from fear, but from the raw intensity of his emotions. Tears streamed down her face, her voice a broken sob. “I don’t know what to believe. You’re going back to the whorehouse, and I don’t know what to think. I thought we were doing well but—”

Aemond’s silence was like a chasm between them, widening with every passing moment. She could see the struggle in his eyes, the battle between his pride and his vulnerability. But still, he said nothing.

Her heart shattered at his refusal to speak, the weight of her doubts and fears pressing down on her. “Is it the whorehouse?” she whispered, the words barely audible. “Are you seeking comfort in another’s arms again?”

His face contorted with rage, and in a swift, violent motion, he grabbed her shoulders and slammed her against the wall. The force of the impact left her breathless, the pain a sharp reminder of the distance between them.

“How dare you,” he hissed, his face inches from hers.

She trembled beneath his grip, her tears falling like rain. “What am I supposed to think?” she sobbed. “You leave me night after night, and you won’t tell me where you go, or what you do. You insist that you are true to me in your heart, but that means nothing when the servants keep seeing you slip out of the Keep and into Silk Street. How am I supposed to believe in you, when you keep pushing me away?”

Aemond’s grip tightened, his eyes blazing with fury. “I fight for us,” he said, his voice raw with emotion. “Everything I do, I do for us. To protect you, to avenge our son. Do not question my loyalty.”

Her voice was a broken whisper, the pain in her heart almost unbearable. “Then why does it feel like you’re slipping away from me?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Why does it feel like I’m losing you?”

He silenced her with a kiss, fierce and desperate, pouring all his anger into that single act. His lips crashed onto hers with an intensity that took her breath away. It was not gentle, but raw and consuming, as if he were trying to convey every unsaid word, every buried emotion, through the touch of his mouth on hers. Her protests melted away, her body responding instinctively to his touch.

She felt his hands tremble as they cupped her face, his fingers threading through her hair, pulling her closer. The kiss deepened, his tongue seeking hers with a hunger that spoke of months of separation, of sleepless nights and lonely days. Her own hands reached up, clutching at his cloak, her fingers digging into the fabric as if she feared he might slip away again.

Their breaths mingled, warm and erratic, each exhale a whisper of longing and regret. She tasted the salt of her own tears on his lips, mingling with the unique taste of him - how could you miss something so much if you had very little of it to begin with? 

His lips moved with a desperate urgency, as if he were trying to memorize every contour, every curve, and commit it to memory.

He was kissing her. He was kissing her. He was kissing h-

His lips on hers, her breath and his as one, their souls entwined. She felt the weight of his body pressing against hers, the solid, reassuring presence of him grounding her in the reality of the moment. The room around them faded away, leaving just the two of them, locked in a world where only their connection mattered.

Her heart pounded in her chest, the rhythm echoing the frantic beat of his. She could feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric of her shift, his warmth seeping into her skin, banishing the cold that had settled in her bones during his absence.

He broke the kiss only to rest his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling in the scant space between them. His eyes bore into hers, speaking volumes without a single word.

He had not kissed her since their wedding ceremony. This was the first in more than a year.

"Don't go," she whispered, her back pressed against the cold, unyielding stone of his chambers. His dark presence loomed over her, a shadow that both entrapped and intoxicated her. She was in no place to command, but this was a desperate plea, the truest command she had ever uttered. "I am.. I am a mother without a child, but tonight, let me be a wife to my husband. However you'll have me."

Her lips, soft as the brush of a feather, sought the hard line of his jaw, leaving a trail of tentative kisses. She held his head to hers, fingers tangling in his dark hair, lifting herself on tiptoes to reach him.

"Please, for once," she implored, her voice breaking. "I’m begging you, choose me."

His eyes flickered, emotions swirling within their depths. Intensity surged, a fierce storm, yet there was a hint of softness, a vulnerability that made her breath hitch. Then he laughed, a cruel, beautiful sound that sliced through her. She had always despised how his laughter made him even more captivating, even as it shattered her.

Humiliation washed over her, hot and sharp. She released him, feeling the sting of her own words. She had vowed never to beg for his love, yet here she was, laid bare and begging. And he laughed.

Her head bowed, eyes fixed on the floor, she tried to step away, her heart a heavy stone in her chest. But he was quicker, his hand shooting out to slam her back against the wall once more. The force of it rattled her, but she could not escape the vice-like grip of his fingers on her arms. His face was inches from hers, the ridges of his brow now visible to her in a way that it had never been before. His lips twitched, a predatory smile playing at the corners, and his fingers dug deeper into her flesh.

His nose brushed against hers, a tender gesture at odds with the roughness of his hold. She braced herself for more cruelty, but his words were unexpected.

"You once said you didn’t like begging for me. Shame," he murmured, his voice a deadly caress. "I quite like it when you do."

She was ensnared, caught in the dark web of his presence, and despite everything, she realized she didn't want to escape. His touch, his words, his very essence were chains she had willingly bound herself with. All she could do was surrender.

“I now find that I’m not above it if it brings me to you,” she whispered, her voice a fragile murmur lost to the wind.

He sensed her surrender, an unspoken truce formed between them. Was it exhaustion, or a sense of defeat from all they had endured? She couldn’t say. But at this moment, she knew where she stood. She needed him. She had no one else, and she needed him to be there for her, with her. Pathetic, really. The cost of them finally seeing eye to eye was too high, but she couldn't help but crave it all the same. She sought the same comfort he did. It felt heavy, but a bond forged by a loss as monumental as theirs had to be, surely?

His grip softened, the rigid tension in his body easing. Sensing his unspoken assent, she moved her hands to the clasp of his cloak, her fingers trembling as she unclipped it one by one. She nudged him forward as she pushed it off, watching the thick cloth fall to the floor with a soft thud.

In a swift, almost predatory movement, he pushed her onto the vanity near them, his lips crashing down onto hers with a fervent passion that stole her breath away. His kiss was searing, consuming, filled with a desperate urgency that came with not having each other as long as they hadn’t. He moved from her lips to her neck, his hands bunching up her shift with a roughness that sent shivers down her spine. He hauled her thighs forward, spreading her legs wide, and stood between them, his hardness pressing against her clothed cunt as she perched precariously on the edge of the table. His lips marked her skin, each bite and suckle sending jolts of pleasure and pain that mingled until she felt dizzy with desire.

She wrapped her arms around him, her fingers digging into the leather of his back, holding on as if he were her anchor in a storm. A moan escaped her lips when his thumb pressed against her damp smallclothes, a wicked smile curving his mouth in response. The smallclothes were swiftly discarded, his thumb tracing the slick line of her slit before he plunged a long finger into her warmth. She gasped at the sudden intrusion, her body arching into him. It had been so long since she’d felt him.

Her eyes fluttered closed, but his voice, rough and commanding, pulled her back. “Look at me,” he ordered, his tone a dark promise.

Her gaze locked onto his, the intensity of his stare holding her captive as his fingers pumped in and out of her. Each thrust sent waves of pleasure crashing through her, building until she thought she might shatter. Her world narrowed to the man before her, his touch, his presence, his power over her.

His fingers worked her expertly, his thumb circling her pearl as he added another finger, stretching her, filling her. She could feel the coil tightening in her core, the pressure mounting as he brought her closer and closer to the edge. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, her nails digging into his shoulders as she held on for dear life.

“Issa ābrazȳrys,” he growled. His voice a low rumble that sent a thrill through her. My wife.

He thrust harder, faster, his lips capturing hers in a bruising kiss as he drove her over the edge. Aemond tasted the copper tang of blood blooming from her lips from his attention and was certain he was going to lose all control. She came undone around his fingers, her body shattering in a blinding wave of pleasure. Her eyes never left his, her gaze locked onto his as she fell apart, her climax ripping through her with an intensity that left her trembling in its wake.

He held her through it, his fingers slowing but never stopping, prolonging her pleasure until she was spent, her body limp and sated in his arms. As the last tremors subsided, he pulled his fingers from her, bringing them to his lips and tasting her essence with a satisfied smirk.

She was his, utterly and completely, and in that moment, she knew she would never be free of him. Nor did she want to be. It scared her, but she could not help herself.

Her lord husband. Hers, hers, hers, h-

“Gevie.” Beautiful.

“What?” she asked, her voice breathless and filled with anticipation.

He responded with a firm squeeze of her hips, urging her to remove his jerkin and undershirt. Her fingers trembled with excitement and desire as she worked at the fastenings, feeling the heat radiating from his body. She wobbled slightly as he lowered her to stand, catching the smirk on his face as he steadied her. The look in his eye, dark and predatory, sent a thrill through her. His touch was both gentle and commanding, a stark contrast that made her knees weak.

Her robe and shift followed quickly, sliding from her shoulders in a soft whisper of fabric. She stood before him, exposed and vulnerable, watching his single eye darken with raw desire as her breasts spilled free. The intensity of his gaze made her shiver, a delicious anticipation coiling low in her belly.

This time, she was the one who initiated the kiss, her lips seeking him with a desperate hunger. She pressed herself against him, reveling in the sensation of his bare skin against hers, his muscles taut and unyielding beneath her fingers. His hands roamed her body with a possessive urgency, gripping and kneading her flesh as if he couldn’t get enough of her.

He guided her gently backwards, his movements controlled and purposeful. The back of her knees hit the edge of the bed, and she let out a soft gasp as he laid her down, the plush, satin-chased mattress cushioning her fall. She bounced slightly, her hair fanning out around her head, and looked up at him with wide, expectant eyes. Her gaze flickered to his eyepatch, a question forming in her mind, but she made no move to remove it. 

His growl, low and primal, reverberated through her, sending a shiver down her spine. His hands moved to her thighs, spreading them wide, exposing her to his heated gaze. He lowered himself over her, his lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along her neck and collarbone. She arched beneath him, her nails digging into his back, leaving red marks in their wake.

“Gevie,” he whispered against her ear, the word a rough caress that sent a jolt of desire straight to her core.

His fingers found her entrance, teasing and testing, before he thrust his hardened cock in her with a single, powerful stroke. She cried out, a mix of pleasure and pain, her body stretching to accommodate him. He set a relentless pace, each thrust driving her higher, pushing her closer to the edge of oblivion.

Her hands clung to him, nails scraping down his back, drawing blood. She bit down on his shoulder, sucking hard enough to bruise, marking him as hers. He responded with a harsh slap to her thigh, the sting adding to the heat between them. His hand then moved to her breast, squeezing and kneading, his mouth descending to capture a nipple. 

“A mother without a child,” she had once said. He remembered those words as he let go of her leaking breast and thrust into her with renewed vigor. Her second climax came swiftly, his fingers working her to pleasure, rubbing in tight circles as he pounded into her. She shattered around him, her body convulsing, her cries filling the room.

Even as she came undone, he didn’t stop. He continued to thrust, using her body to chase his own release. She clung to him, her body spent, her mind a whirl of incoherent thoughts. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound, as he neared his peak. His movements became erratic, desperate.

“I’ll make your belly round with my heir again,” he murmured, his voice strained. “I want to see you dripping with my seed.”

She could only moan in response, the thought of another child not something she had entertained - not so soon after Aerys. But in that moment, with him inside her, it was all she could think about. He thrust one final time, burying himself deep inside her as he came, his release filling her, marking her as his.

Another child. Another child. Another-

The words echoed in her mind as she lay there, sated and spent before she fell asleep in his chambers for the very first time.

He was back at the Keep that fateful night, the acrid smell of blood thick in the air, mixed with the metallic tang of fear and sorrow. He pushed open the door to Aerys' room, his heart pounding in his chest. The once pristine nursery was a scene of unimaginable carnage.

Blood smeared the carpet in grotesque patterns, splattered as if by some violent, monstrous force. It pooled on the floor, thick and dark, congealing around the lifeless body of his son. Aerys' headless form lay cradled in the arms of his wife, her wails piercing the oppressive silence. Her face was one anguish, her eyes red and swollen from relentless tears.

She was screaming, but he couldn’t hear her - only the ringing in his ears.

Aemond's legs felt like lead as he stumbled forward, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “No,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “No, no, no…” His eyes were drawn to the small, severed head lying a few feet away, Aerys' lifeless eyes staring up at him with a silent accusation that pierced at him.

The scene shifted violently, and he was atop Vhagar, the ancient dragon roaring beneath him. They were in the skies, the cold wind and rain biting at his skin. Below, he saw the small figure of Lucerys Velaryon, desperately trying to evade him. The storm raged around them, but nothing could drown out the roar of Vhagar as she lunged, her massive jaws closing around the boy and his dragon.

“No, Vhagar! No!” Aemond screamed, though his voice was swallowed by the wind. He watched in horror as Vhagar's teeth tore through dragon and rider alike, the blood raining down upon the stormy sea. The boy's scream echoed in his mind, a sound that would haunt him forever.

The scene shifted again, and he was back at the Keep. This time, he saw Aegon, battered and broken, lying on the stone floor. Aemond’s chest tightened with a mixture of anger and regret. He had warned Aegon, advised him to stay put, to avoid the fight. 

“Why didn’t you listen?” Aemond’s voice trembled with rage and sorrow. “I wouldn’t have had to burn you if you stayed home, brother. If you learnt to respect me, to fear me!”

In his nightmare, Aegon's eyes opened, filled with a pain that mirrored Aemond’s own. “This is your fault,” Aegon whispered, burnt beyond recognition, his voice a hollow echo. “All of it. You started it!”

The nightmare repeated in a relentless loop. Aerys' bloodied room, Vhagar's deadly bite, Aegon's broken body. The guilt and horror twisted inside him, a never-ending torment.

Suddenly, amidst the chaos, a warm sensation began to seep into his consciousness. It started faintly, then grew stronger, more insistent. A vision of his wife appeared before him, holding their son, Aerys, who was smiling and content. Her eyes, filled with love and concern - he has seen concern on her face, but she looks much more beautiful in love with him, he decided - reached out to him.

“I'm here, it's me. Just me, husband. Please, come back to me.”

Her words pierced through the fog of his nightmare, anchoring him. He kept hearing it, over and over, until he realized it wasn’t just a dream. The warmth he felt was real. Her touch, her voice, were pulling him back from the brink.

His wife had stayed to share his bed.

Aemond’s eyes snapped open, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He was disoriented, the remnants of his nightmare still clinging to him. He heard her voice again, soft and soothing, as she held him close.

“I'm here, it's me. Just me, husband. Please, come back to me.”

He felt her arms around him, her hand moving to his head, stroking his hair. He could still hear her voice, the same words repeated like a prayer, grounding him in reality. Aemond buried his face against her breast, his body trembling with the aftershocks of his nightmare. She rocked him gently, her touch a balm to his tormented mind.

After what seemed like hours, he began to calm down, his breathing evening out. She continued to hold him, kissing his head, her presence a constant reassurance. Aemond’s hand moved instinctively to her breast, seeking the comfort of her body. He wrapped his arm around her, clinging to her like a lifeline, squeezing her so tight like she’d slip through his fingers. When his weight became too much for her to bear, she gently lifted his head, making him look into her eyes. She kissed his forehead, her touch tender and reassuring.

This time, she reached up and unclasped his eyepatch with no hesitation. 

Does she see what everyone sees? Does he terrify her?

She adjusted herself, crossing her legs to allow him to rest his head upon her thigh. She began to massage his scalp, her fingers working through his hair with a soothing rhythm.

No signs of terror. Or was she indifferent?

As he lay there, her touch grounding him, Aemond’s mind replayed the words he had uttered in his nightmare.

“I wouldn’t have had to burn you if you stayed home, brother.”

The realization hit him like a blow. In his delirium, he had revealed a truth he had kept hidden. Would she have him still?

She was worried. The entire night and everyday forward, she worried about the man her husband had become.

He’d attacked his own brother at Rook’s Rest.

And yet when he took her once more the same night, she didn’t want to push him away.

What’s a cold-blooded killer to a simple woman who only wants to be held in her husband’s arms?

“I forgive you.”

He stood by the windows, the moonlight spilling over his form, highlighting the sharp angles of his face. His hair, pale as starlight, shimmered in the dim light, and he seemed lost in thought, gazing out at the night sky.

She paused, taking a moment to observe him. Two days had passed since their night together, and in that brief span, something had shifted between them. It wasn’t love, no - but a deeper understanding, a mutual respect that had begun to root itself in their marriage. They were not affectionate, no tender kisses or whispered endearments passed between them. But there was a newfound ease in their interactions, a subtle partnership that had grown stronger in its quiet way.

He turned, sensing her presence, and their eyes met. She had come to understand his character, the motivations that drove him, and the burdens he carried. She wouldn’t ever justify any of it, not when the price was too steep. But it was a time of war, and she had to see everything around her differently now.

In her heart, she pondered their relationship, this delicate bond. They were equals, a balance of strengths and weaknesses, each compensating for the other. In Aemond, she saw a man driven by a relentless need to prove himself, to carve out a legacy that would be remembered. He was formidable, fierce, yet there was a loneliness to him, a void that no amount of ambition could fill.

They never addressed what he’d divulged to her in his nightmare-addled hours, how he’d treated his own brother as collateral damage. There was an unspoken understanding between them, a silent agreement to support his ambitions without question. It was this unvoiced pact that had solidified their marriage, making it stronger in its own peculiar way. She admired his cunning, his strategic mind, and in return, she offered her own strengths, her own form of loyalty that was unwavering.

What else was she to do? She couldn’t leave him for fear of her life, but she could choose to be useful to him in their time together. She could try.

Besides, is this not what she wanted?

No, she did not want a man who tried to bathe his own brother in dragonfire, she thought. But he has been good to her since Aerys’ death, so good…

As she looked at him now, she saw not just her husband, but her partner. They were two sides of the same coin, bound by a common goal, driven by a shared determination. 

To survive, to thrive. They might never be lovers in the traditional sense, but they had forged something perhaps more enduring. 

She tilted her head up in acknowledgement, but then she noticed what he held in his hands. 

The iron and ruby crown of Aegon the Conqueror. His brother’s crown.

A quick and cutting reminder of what he’d done. A crown that his brother had been anointed with, now in her husband’s nimble fingers. He let the crown dangle from one hand as he reached out to her with the other, so she came to him, her steps uneasy but surer than ever.

He lifted the crown up to her bosom, gesturing for her to take it - so take it she did.

The weight of Aegon the Conqueror's crown was the first thing she noticed - it was heavier than she had imagined. As her fingers traced the intricate designs, she marveled at the craftsmanship that had gone into creating this legendary symbol of Targaryen rule.

The crown was a perfect mix of beauty and menace, reflecting the dual nature of its wearers. The metal was cool to the touch, smooth yet deceptively heavy. The rubies caught the firelight and seemed to burn with a fire of their own. The crown's inner band was lined with rich, black velvet, worn smooth by the many heads it had adorned. She ran her fingers along the lining, feeling the faint indentations left by those who had worn it before her, from Aegon himself to the rulers who had followed in his wake.

Now, her own husband was empowered by the power this crown symbolized.

With a steady breath, she stood on her toes, lifting the crown higher. Aemond lowered his head slightly, allowing her to place the crown upon his brow. The moment was charged with tension, the air thick. As she settled the crown onto his head, it fit as if it had been made for him, the rubies gleaming against his silver hair.

Her hands lingered for a moment, adjusting the crown until it sat perfectly. She stepped back, her eyes never leaving his as he turned to the mirror on his vanity. She stood right by his side, catching his gaze in their reflections.

Aemond straightened, the crown now firmly on his brow, and he looked every inch the king he aspired to be. The shadows in the room seemed to recede, and for a moment, the firelight cast a golden halo around him.

“Looks better on me than it ever did on him,” Aemond said, his voice low and edged with a bitter satisfaction, the statement hanging heavy in the air.

The shock of his words registered in a flicker of her eyes, a tightening of her lips, but it was there, palpable between them. Sensing her reaction, he squeezed her hip, his touch possessive, as if to anchor her to him.

“Do you not agree, wife?” he pressed, his tone challenging, almost playful but with an undercurrent of something darker. His words passed like heat through her ear as he bent down onto her shoulder to utter them, in heavy contrast to the coolness of the crown that now kissed her skin.

“You mustn’t say such things,” she replied, her voice a careful blend of caution and reprimand.

“‘Tis the truth, is it not?” he insisted, his gaze unwavering, boring into hers, seeking affirmation or defiance.

“I will not answer that question,” she said firmly, her tone brokering no argument.

Aemond’s eyes flashed, a flicker of irritation crossing his features. “I wear it better than the King,” he spat, the last word laden with contempt.

She met his eyes in the mirror, her reflection as resolute as her stance. “You are my lord husband, the Prince Regent. It is not my place to disagree,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm, a clear indication of her refusal to partake in a conversation that bordered dangerously on treason.

“Perhaps I should commission a crown for you. A queen to stand by me,” he mused, a dangerous glint in his eye, his hand sliding from her hip to the small of her back, pulling her closer.

Her mind raced, a cold dread seeping into her thoughts. If they were to be the King and Queen, then half his family would have to be dead. Aemond was not above hurting Aegon - he’s already done it once. No, no, no—

In a sudden and decisive moment, she broke away from his grasp, her skirts swishing as she whirled around. The silk and velvet fabric rustled in the heavy silence. She reached up and took the crown from his head, her hands steady despite the tumult in her mind. She set it on the vanity with deliberate care, the metal clinking softly against the polished wood.

Aemond’s smirk deepened at her defiance, a spark of amusement in his eyes. He reached out, his fingers brushing a stray lock of her hair behind her ear, his touch lingering on her cheek. “You’ve never been a woman of growth then?” he challenged, his voice a low murmur, his breath warm against her skin.

“Only that which comes without bloodshed,” she retorted, her voice steady, though her heart pounded in her chest.

“Hm,” he hummed, his expression inscrutable as he took a step back, giving her space but never breaking eye contact.

The room was thick with tension, the crown now a silent witness to their exchange. As she looked at him, she saw not just the ambition that drove him but the danger that lurked beneath. 

His ambition was a fire, one that could either warm him or consume him entirely.

In that moment, she knew that their survival depended not just on their unity but on her ability to temper his desires. She would stand by him, support him, but she would also be the voice of caution, the anchor that kept them from drifting into chaos.

The tension in the room ebbed. "When do you march to Harrenhal?" she asked softly, her fingers deftly working the fastenings of his tunic so she can undress him for bed.

"In a fortnight," Aemond replied, his voice steady. "Cole and I will amass the troops needed by then." He lifted his arms slightly, allowing her to pull the tunic over his head. The fabric rustled as it fell to the floor, leaving him bare from the waist up.

Her movements were precise and practiced as she helped him undress. She removed his eyepatch too, revealing the sapphire set in his empty socket. This act, once so charged with tension, had become almost inconsequential - their marriage has grown, she thought.

As she moved to unlace her own dress, Aemond stepped behind her, his fingers skillfully undoing the laces of her bodice. "My mother does not speak much to me anymore," he said quietly, his breath warm against the nape of her neck. "I believe she is jealous of my authority - power that she would have liked to wield in Aegon's stead, if the council hadn't chosen me."

She listened in silence, feeling the weight of his words as he undid the last lace. She shrugged off the dress, letting it pool around her feet before stepping out of it. "Your mother loves you," she said, her voice gentle yet firm. "But the burden of power is heavy, and it changes people."

Aemond’s hands lingered on her shoulders for a moment before he stepped back, allowing her to put on her shift. She moved to the vanity, removing the pins from her hair and letting it fall in loose waves around her shoulders. She caught his reflection in the mirror, already under the sheets, watching her with an intensity that made her heart quicken.

When she turned to join him in bed, the faint firelight cast a soft glow over their room. Aemond's gaze followed her every movement and she slipped under the covers, the warmth of his body a welcome contrast to the cool air of the chamber.

They lay facing each other, the silence between them comfortable. She reached out, her fingers tracing the contours of his face, feeling the roughness of his scar and the smoothness of his skin.

Aemond's hand moved to her forehead, brushing away a stray lock of hair before trailing down the side of her face, his touch light and deliberate. "The war progresses," he began, his fingers following a slow, deliberate path down her neck to her collarbone. "Our troops are amassing strength, and Vhagar has had her rest."

She gasped softly as his hand moved lower, his thumb brushing over her breast, lingering there as he spoke. "The Small Council debates strategy for Harrenhal," he continued, his voice a low rumble, "and I've been training harder than ever."

“Of course you have.”

His hand moved to the other breast, cupping it gently, his thumb circling the nipple until it hardened under his touch. She moaned softly, her breath catching as she watched his hand in her line of sight, mesmerized by his touch and his words.

"We will strike with precision and force," Aemond said, his hand sliding further down her body, grazing her ribs and stomach. "Cole believes we can take them by surprise."

His hand slipped under her shift, his fingers finding her wet and wanting. She gasped, her hips arching toward his touch, her need palpable. "Aemond," she breathed, her voice a mix of plea and desire.

He wasted no time, his body moving to hover over hers. His lips followed the path his hand had taken, leaving a trail of fiery hot kisses from her neck to her breasts, each kiss punctuated by his words. "We will defeat them," he murmured against her skin, his lips closing around a clothed nipple, sucking gently before continuing downward. "We will take Harrenhal."

Her hands gripped the sheets, her knuckles white with effort, but he took one hand and guided it to him. He moved lower, his kisses searing a path down her stomach as he pushed her shift up, his tongue dipping into her navel. "Husband, please," she moaned, her body trembling with anticipation.

He descended further, his lips finally reaching her cunt. He licked a long, slow line from her entrance to her pearl, his tongue swirling around the sensitive nub before sucking it gently. She cried out, her fingers tightening in his hair, her hips bucking against his mouth.

His tongue worked her with a practiced skill, flicking and swirling, his lips sucking and tugging. "So wet for me," he murmured between licks, his voice sending shivers down her spine. 

She moaned louder, her body writhing under his touch, her need building with every flick of his tongue. "Aemond," she gasped, "I'm going to—”

"Sīr gevie." So beautiful.

His words pushed her over the edge, her body tensing as she came undone beneath him. She cried out, her fingers clutching his hair, her body shaking with the force of her peak. He lapped at her pleasure through her climax, drawing out every last wave of pleasure until she lay spent and trembling.

When she finally stilled, he kissed his way back up her body, his lips lingering on her breasts, his tongue flicking over her nipples one last time. He settled beside her, his head nestled between her breasts, his hand resting possessively on her hip.

She offered to return the favor, her hand trailing down his chest, but he stopped her gently. "Not tonight," he said softly, his voice a soothing balm as he buried himself into her chest as tightly as he could. His breath warm against her skin, he calmed down at the steady fall and rise of her chest. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him close. 

The vision of the Conqueror’s crown on his desk - gleaming, taunting, terrifying - was the last thing she saw before she closed her eyes and let sleep take her.

Aemond found himself weighed down by emotions that he neither anticipated nor fully understood. This newfound closeness with his wife was a double-edged sword, cutting through his well-guarded defenses. The loss of their son had forged a bond between them, a shared grief that brought them closer in ways he couldn't have predicted. Yet, he felt an undercurrent of unease.

His mind, ever analytical and cautious, wrestled with the implications of their growing connection. The admission of his near-fratricidal thoughts should have been a cause for her to recoil, to distance herself from him. Instead, she had not only forgiven him but had also invited him into her bed, an act of trust that both warmed and unnerved him.

Why? Why? Why?

Aemond's wariness stemmed from the unfamiliarity of it all. Affections had always been something to grasp at. His life had been a series of calculated moves, a constant struggle for power and control. But now, he found himself speaking truths he had never intended to share, revealing parts of his soul he had long kept hidden. It annoyed him, this loss of control. It annoyed him how easily she could draw out his secrets, how her presence softened the edges of his guarded heart.

She’s never proven herself to be anything but faithful, his wife. Even when he was less than good to her, she did her duty like the Princess she married him to be.

Yet, beneath the irritation and paranoia, there was a deeper, more profound desire. He wanted this connection, this closeness that terrified him. He yearned for the comfort of her touch, the solace of her understanding. It was a maddening paradox: the need to protect himself clashing with the desire to surrender to her completely.

This was not like with Sylvi, whom he had not gone to see since his wife had willingly come to him that fateful night. Here, it was a partnership of equals. Neither of them knew where it was taking them, no experienced hand to guide them.

He’d begun fucking her each night too, and he wondered how long it’d be before her womb quickened with his child. They needed an heir, and he needed to give her a child again.

He’d wronged her the first time, he won’t do it again.

Aemond sat on a chair beside the hearth, with her sitting at his feet with her embroidery in a rare moment of undisturbed rest. His fingers dug into her scalp in a calming manner, though it was more an effort to calm himself than her. 

Regency. The word lingered in Aemond's mind, a whisper of power and responsibility. He would approach it with an iron fist. He would not be made a fool of, not like Aegon. His thoughts of being better than his brother consumed him, a fire that burned with fierce determination. He would rule justly, with strength and decisiveness. No one would dare challenge his authority or question his decisions. He would be a leader worthy of his name, a ruler who commanded respect and fear in equal measure.

And he would have to do it all in his brother’s name.

He looked down at his wife, her presence grounding him in the reality of the moment. His fingers moved gently, tracing the contours of her scalp, feeling the softness of her hair. This simple act of touch was a rare comfort for him, a connection that soothed the tumultuous thoughts swirling in his mind.

“He has bastard children, you know?” he said abruptly, breaking the silence.

“Yes?” she replied softly, her eyes focused on her embroidery.

“He used to watch them fight.”

“Fight?” she echoed, her voice tinged with curiosity.

“Silver-haired baseborn babes, thrown into fighting pits to satiate the peculiar needs of the likes of him,” Aemond continued, his tone hardening with disgust. “I’ve had to pull him back to the castle many times after his outings to these places. It is depraved. He… is depraved and a fool. He dishonors Helaena and their children, and then he goes on to make a mockery of his mistakes by watching them scratch and bite at each other, sometimes even until death.”

She then looked up at him, her fingers hovering over his knee in patterns he could not see, her embroidery forgotten. Her eyes searched his, a quiet intensity in her gaze.

“Do you have any baseborn children?” she asked, her voice calm but probing.

“I would not sully myself as such,” he responded sharply, a flicker of anger igniting in his chest.

“You used to frequent the whorehouse too. It would not be completely out of the question.”

Her words stung, and he thought of how he’d always made Sylvi take moon tea after their trysts, how careful he had been. “None of them are worthy of a child born of Valyrian seed… of dragonfire.”

“And I was?” She referred to her time as a mother in the past tense, and it made him bristle.

“You are my wife. Would you be so stupid as to keep yourself on level with a commonborn whore?”

“They used to warm your bed the same way I do.”

“It was never the same,” he snapped, his voice cold and final. A long silence followed, the weight of their conversation hanging heavy in the air. 

She then spoke again, her voice softer. “It’s good that you don’t have any illegitimate children. Say what you will about them, but they are simply babes. Born through no fault of their own. If anything, it is not the children that are illegitimate, but the fathers that seed them.”

If anything, it is not the children that are illegitimate, but the fathers that seed them. Her words echoed in his mind, striking a chord deep within him. He was taken aback by the weight of her statement, the truth that lay beneath her gentle rebuke.

“Are you calling the King illegitimate, wife?” he asked, his tone challenging.

“I will admit to no such thing,” she said, her voice steady and unwavering with a playful smile. 

Minx.

She then stood, the movement breaking the tension that had settled between them. He watched her, waiting for her to help undress him for bed, but she stopped in front of him, her toes shuffling anxiously. He could see the uncertainty in her eyes, the hesitation that held her back.

“Out with it, wife,” he commanded, his voice softer now, a hint of concern creeping into his tone.

“I think I may be with child again. I am not sure, but my blood is late and… I simply feel it. It is too early. Anything could happen, but I did not want to keep it from you. Not now, not in a time of war when things are uncertain.”

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, Aemond felt the world pause. He stared at her, the implications of her revelation sinking in slowly, like a ship slipping beneath the waves. He was not visibly overjoyed, but he hoped she saw his calmness in the way he let his hand rest on her now-flat belly, in the way his eye crinkled and his jaw slackened.

Aerys, Aerys, Aerys.

The name echoed in his mind, a reminder of their shared loss, a shadow that still haunted them. He shared her caution, so he tried to not get his hopes up until she carried the child to term, birthed it, and then watched it grow. His heart thudded in his chest.

“Good,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Mirrī zaldrīzes syt issa naejot gaomagon paktot ondoso.” A little dragon for me to do right by.

He let his hand linger on her belly. His mind wandered to the possibilities, the future they could have. A child, their child, born from both their strengths and their shared grief. He wanted to prove that he could be a better father, a better husband. 

He wanted her to think better of him. It was a fragile thing, this warmth they had built – delicate and easily shattered, but it was there. 

A few days later, she kept her eyes glued to him as he began his trip to Harrenhal. She only turned briefly to assess all that was happening around her as the troops readied themselves, and he wondered about how much of this was new to her; how much of the world she’d actually seen.

He then remembered Aerys, and that she’d spent most of their marriage in pain, heartache and horror.

Perhaps she’d seen enough.

MASTERLIST

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[sapphiremusings]

you’re how i pray | aemond targaryen

summary: lady baratheon does not fear her newly wed husband, prince aemond, anymore. she does, however, fear the consummation of their marriage. aemond is eager to show her that there’s nothing to be afraid of.

PART ONE

MASTERLIST

cw: explicit sexual content, p in v, oral sex (f receiving), overstimulation, breeding kink, ooc!aemond (i made him too sweet), baratheon!reader, no use of y/n

With the sound of their marital chamber doors closing behind her, trapping her inside the dimly lit room with only her newly-wed husband before her, Lady Baratheon– or would she be called Lady Targaryen now?– has never felt more nervous. Her heart is racing a thunderous beat within her chest, its rhythm only increasing as she sweeps her gaze across the large, four-poster bed that sits against the wall.

The thought of marrying Aemond ‘One-Eye’ Targaryen had once terrified her, and she had spent most of her time in Kings Landing avoiding him and anything else that had to do with her wedding day. But after the events that perspired between the two betrotheds just a few nights ago, she has felt as if she is burning from the inside out, flames licking up her sides and traveling deep into her bones. Recently, she had been avoiding the prince for a much different reason, one that is all the more unfamiliar to her.

She thinks of him constantly. In the morning when she awakes, lying among rumpled sheets with her aching thighs rubbing together, skin flushed from a vivid picture she painted in her mind, where he had bent her over the Iron Throne and licked her cunt fervently once more. During her daily walks around the Keep, holding her breath when she turns every corner, remembering how he had trailed behind her, heavy gaze searing into her back. At night, when she takes her bath, her handmaidens running their fingers through her soapy hair, and she imagines how it would feel to have him beside her, hands roaming her naked flesh as she admires his own bare form. Even in her dreams does he appear, lustful as he does unspeakable things to her, leaving her flustered and ashamed when she comes to.

Aemond hadn’t sought out her company since, or perhaps he had but she had just been too good at evading him. It wasn’t until she was walked down the aisle of the Sept, handed off to the prince by her lord father, that she had seen him since that night. His face gave nothing away as they gazed into each other’s eyes, hands clasped together as the septon spoke, but occasionally she would catch his single lilac eye dip down to her lips. She had wondered then if he has been plagued by the same thoughts, and now, as she stands frozen before him, she feels dizzy at the thought that he too wants her the same way she desperately wants him.

Goosebumps begin to form along her skin, now only covered by a thin nightdress, her handmaidens having undressed her in preparation for the bedding. She finds herself drawing closer to the lit fireplace, eyes lingering on the crackling flames. Aemond is quiet behind her retreating figure, yet she can feel his molten gaze on her timid frame, and she shivers at the familiar feeling. That beautiful eye of his seemed to always follow her, even when she was alone in her chambers late at night did she feel the weight of it, piercing and all-consuming.

She feels bare in her state of undress, the sheer fabric doing little to hide her shape, and when she dares to look down, she flushes red hot at the sight of her nipples, stiff against the cotton. Her arms come up to cover her chest, eyes flickering to the side to look at her husband, who still watches her, lifting his cup to his lips. She has already had her fill of the wine, a special import from Dorne that had tasted tart on her tongue, which left her with a clouded head and the urge to laugh at every little thing that amused her. By her fourth cup, her husband himself had decided she had enough, ending their night with the announcement of the bedding. Thankfully, there was to be no traditional ceremony, but it had still sobered her up immediately.

“Are you cold?”

His voice jolts her from her thoughts, making her turn to face him, her heart nearly stopping in her chest at the sight of him, closer than he was before. No longer does he stand by the table, cup in his hand, stoic in his leathers. Now he stands before her, tunic unclasped, showing his white undershirt, partly opened to let her catch a glimpse of his skin. Her mouth feels dry, and she slowly darts out her tongue to lick her lips, eyes trailing back up to stare into his hooded one. His iris is blown wide, clouded with the same emotion she had seen that fateful night, when he had ducked beneath her skirts and licked her cunt until she was crying out on his skillful tongue. The memory only serves to tighten a coil in her stomach, the very core of her beginning to throb incessantly.

She opens her mouth, then closes it. Her words have escaped her, throat parched and unwilling to cooperate. Instead, she nods, fingers tightening in their grip on her arms, still crossed over her chest. Aemond hums, dipping his head to nose along the crown of her head, hands making their way to rest above her own, dwarfing them in his grasp. His skin is burning hot, and the feeling of his flesh against her own makes her gasp out, her grip immediately loosening under his, giving him the chance to push her arms down, exposing herself once more. Hands run up them, leaving a trail of flames in their wake, before reaching around her shoulders and pressing flat against her back, pulling her frame against his own.

His lips brush the shell of her ear, breath steady along her cheek. “Let me warm you up, ābrazȳrys.” (Wife).

Flushed together, his warmth seeps through her shift, her nipples hard against his chest. Timidly, she reaches up to tug on his leather tunic, wishing to feel more of him, fingers shaky as she pulls it down his arms. He helps her, throwing it off to the floor, before immediately returning to wrap his arms around her, pressing her closer until she can feel every ridge of his chest beneath their undergarments. His lips begin to travel along her cheek and down her jaw, her hands finding purchase in his hair, the silver tresses feeling like silk between her fingers. In a daze, she searches for his lips against hers, chin dipping down as he comes up to meet her, searing in their wet embrace.

She wishes to never stop kissing him. His tongue is slick as it slides across her own, the taste of wine still lingering around the roof of his mouth, and she blames this for her faltering will, which grows thinner and more precarious the longer his lips are moving in time with hers, his hands gripping her waist tightly. A whimper leaves her lips as he brings a hand up to her shoulder, fingers slipping under the strap of her nightdress, tugging it down before moving to the other side. Her eyes scrunch up as her heart begins to hammer a racing beat within her chest, stomach twirling into a tight knot, and she breaks away from the kiss with a gasp for air. His lips move to trail down her neck, teeth gently nibbling the skin right below her jawbone, and she is quick to bring her hands to grab at his arms.

“I am scared.” Her mouth quivers around the words, her voice barely a whisper. “W-will it hurt terribly?”

Aemond lifts his chin, dark eye flickering across her worried face, flushed from the feel of him against her. “I told you I do not wish to harm you, little storm.”

When she continues to shiver before him, the straps of her dress resting along her forearms, he brings a hand up to caress her soft cheek. Her eyes flutter at the sensation, and she takes a step closer to him, now wishing she hadn’t expressed her fear. She is grateful for his tenderness, something she has never thought him to be, in all his harsh stoicism. A dragon prince, with the fiery blood and temper of a Targaryen royal, whispered to be as mean as the beast he rides. But his touch is gentle, and so are his words, filling her with a warmness that seeps through her veins from head to toe. Slowly, she lifts herself onto the tips of her toes, lips puckering as she embraces him once again.

In her movement, her nightgown slips down her arms, pooling at her feet in a heap of cotton. Aemond groans at the feeling of her bare form pressed against him, pert nipples stiff along his light tunic, and he wraps his arms around her back, pulling her as close to him as he can. Their lips move together in a sensual dance, teeth clashing and tongues rubbing against each other, and even as her toes begin to ache beneath her weight, she still tries to push herself up taller, wishing to melt into him. She brushes her hands down his neck and underneath the collar of his shirt, pushing and tugging until her fingers are scratching along the skin of his chest, warm beneath her fingertips. She nearly sobs at the feeling. “My prince…”

“I am your husband now,” he murmurs against her lips, wet with their shared spit. “I shall be addressed properly.”

They begin to gravitate towards the bed, until her legs bump the very edge of it, the furs and silks that line the mattress sliding across her flesh as she lays back, a whine leaving her as she becomes separated from her husband. He peers down at her, the black pupil of his single eye blown wide, until only a ring of dark violet remains. She resists the urge to cover herself, goosebumps lining the entirety of her as she shivers under his smoldering gaze, and she only hopes that he is satisfied with her. Back on Storms End, her septa had instilled in her the importance of pleasing her future husband, saying that if he does not find her comely she may never be blessed with babes.

Aemond squashes these worries with a satisfied rumble. “My perfect little wife…”

She shyly smiles, the arousal between her legs growing slicker the longer he stares, and she unconsciously rubs her thighs together. He follows this movement, hands moving to unbuckle his belt, lips twitching as she holds her breath, watching as he begins to undress. Soon enough, he is as naked as her, and he joins her on the soft bedding, sitting himself between her legs, which he presses open with a lift of her knees. His palms are hot as they slide along her thighs, until they rest on her hips, which he tilts upwards, leaning down with a pleased hum. Her back instantly arches off the bed as his nose nuzzles within her slick curls, tongue smoothing along her weeping slit, before flicking the very apex of her. A sob escapes her gaping mouth, head thrown back against feathered pillows, fingers scrambling around until they find purchase on the top of his silver head. Unlike last time, he’s quick to press a finger within her, hips bucking upwards at the intrusion, brows furrowed as her pleasure begins to swell over.

“I’ve been dreaming about this pretty cunny,” he grumbles against her, pressing another finger in, joining the other. She squirms at the sting of it, but when he curls them upwards, her hips still at the white-hot flash of pleasure that hits her. “So sweet… I could lick you forever.”

His words sound far away, her ears clogged in the throes of her rapture, and tears gather at the corners of her eyes as she moans. “Aemond…”

Between his tongue and his fingers, she can feel her peak beginning to wash over her, and she quickly wiggles her hips, trying to push herself away from his ministrations. He doesn’t allow her to go far, bringing his other hand up to press against her stomach, and she keens at the feeling of his weight over her womb, intensifying the pleasure and bringing about her end with a shattered cry. His tongue laps up her release, fingers still curling upwards against that spot inside her that makes her feel as if she is floating above her body, even as she whines at the overstimulation that starts to tingle across her. Another wave begins to rise within her, causing her to kick out her legs from beneath him, unable to stay still.

Aemond groans as she gushes around his fingers once more, tongue reaching down to catch every last drop. “There we go… good girl.”

Her chest heaves as she tries to catch her breath, whining as he pulls away, hands immediately reaching out for him. He pushes his two fingers into his mouth, cleaning himself off, before crawling over to rest upon her, his lips finding hers in another searing kiss. She wraps her quivering legs around his waist, jolting against the feel of him pressed between her legs, hot and hard as it slides across her wetness. Her arms tighten around his shoulders, pulling him down to lay atop her, wishing to feel him everywhere. When she thinks about him inside her, chest pressed against hers, lips locked as they indulge in a lover’s embrace, she feels an overwhelming sense of adoration for her newly-wed husband. His kisses, despite the ravenous nature of them, are sweet, and so is the way he holds her, arms slipping beneath her as he hugs her to his chest, their hearts thumping together.

“Husband…” she whispers, her lips resting below his, in the dip of his strong chin. “Please…”

His eye opens to stare into her pleading ones, nose nuzzling along her cheek. “What do you need, ābrazȳrys?”

She slowly rocks her hips upwards, the immediate friction causing Aemond to hiss, jaw clenching as his eye flutters closed. Her lips begin a trail across his face, stopping right under the leather eyepatch he still wears. It’s the only piece of fabric between them, and as she brushes along the jagged scar that peeks out from beneath it, she frowns. “Will you show me, husband?”

He tenses, pulling away with a furrowed brow. She flushes pink under his stare, yet doesn’t back down from her request, bringing her hands up to cradle his jaw. Her fingers slip under the leather strap, eyes searching his own, waiting patiently. It seems like an eternity passes before he dips his chin in a nod, closing his eye once more as he allows her to slip the patch over his head. The sight surprises her. A gleaming sapphire, broken skin surrounding its edges, glares back at her. He’s as still as a statue as she gazes at his wound, and it isn’t until she lands a soft kiss against the jewel does he open his eye, curiously. Instead of fear or disgust, she merely looks at him in awe, a small smile on her face as she brings a finger up to run across the stone.

“It’s beautiful,” she presses a chaste kiss to his lips this time, a hand brushing back his hair. “You are beautiful, husband.”

His eye searches hers for any trace of dishonesty, yet he finds none. At her words, he surges forward again, tongue slipping between her gasping mouth, the ache in his cock becoming unbearable as he ruts against her, hissing when the tip of him catches along her wet slit. Her hands scramble for purchase, resting atop his shoulders, fingernails digging into the bare skin. Thighs clench around his waist, trying to pull him in, and he pulls away to look down, the sight of him nestled between the lips of her soaked cunt the most arousing thing he’s ever seen. She mewls, wanton as she squirms beneath him.

“Shhh,” he hushes her, his hand going down to wrap around his pulsing length, bringing it to press against her entrance. “It’s alright, little storm.”

When he pushes in, she squeezes her eyes shut, mouth agape in a quiver as he slowly enters her. He holds himself above her, arms flexing as he sharply inhales, the scrape of his jaw brushing against her lips. The pain is slight, and her cunt is greedy as it pulls him in, her soft walls clenching around him as he bottoms out, until his thighs are pressed against her own, chest heaving as she adjusts to the feeling of being filled. Her arms wrap themselves around his torso, pulling him down until he rests atop her once more, trapping her into the soft mattress, hips starting to thrust in a slow rhythm. She presses kisses along his neck and jaw, tongue lapping against the skin, relishing the taste of him. When she begins to inch her hips upwards, matching the steady pace of his, he groans, bringing himself up to rut into her faster, hand going under the bend of her knee, lifting it to rest higher around his waist. She lets out a cry at the new sensation, his cock deeper now as he slams into her.

“You were made for me,” he whispers, lips brushing against her own, swallowing down her moans. “My pretty little wife… made to take my cock.”

A flush forms across her bare chest, the tips of her ears going hot as she whines at his words. She adores how he calls her wife, even as he drills into her, the sounds of their coupling echoing throughout the candlelit chambers, and she can’t help but moan out ‘husband,’ the word saccharine on her tongue. He seems to take pleasure in this, his pace becoming rougher, fingers digging into the flesh of her hips as he sits up on his knees, looking down at her with a dark eye. His sapphire glimmers as the glow of flames dance across it, and she finds herself attracted to the jewel like a moth to a flame, mouth agape as she stares into it, pushing herself up to embrace him again. She grinds down against him, the scratch of his pubic hair rough as she presses herself harder, fingers tracing up the side of his maimed face.

Under her attention, Aemond grows frenzier, ravenous as he thrusts into her, his strong arms wrapped around her back, pressing her close to him. She leans in to kiss him, their mouths slick, her tongue tracing the inside of his mouth, savoring the taste of wine that still lingers. Just as quickly as the last two, her peak begins to rush over her, her moans growing louder as tears begin to dot at the corners of her eyes. He gazes at her face, watching the way her brows furrow, sweat gathered along her hairline, strands of hair stuck to her damp cheeks, and she rests her forehead against his as she clenches down, alight with pleasure, grinding down so her pearl rubs along his navel. His cock twitches within her, and he releases himself with a shudder, keening forward until her back hits the mattress again, hips stuttering as he rides out their highs.

“Are you going to give me a babe, ābrazȳrys? Gonna take my cock every single night until you’re pumped full of my seed, hm? Ñuha dōna byka jelmāzma…” (My sweet little storm).

He rambles on, and she moans and whines as she lays limp, in a daze after peaking three times, her cunt still fluttering as he spills into her, the warmth of his liquid coating her womb. She nods at his words, arms still wrapped around him, sated among the soft sheets and feathered pillows. When he finally finishes, he lays beside her, his cock still nestled within her as he maneuvers her frame until she is on her side, leg across his own, fronts pressed together once more. He embraces her, and she nearly expects him to start thrusting into her again, yet he merely nuzzles against her, skin warm against her own. She has never felt happier, she thinks, as she gazes across at him, eyes trailing along his bare chest, flushing when she looks lower at the sight of his soft cock inside her. His lips quirk into a small smile, barely noticeable, but she basks in it anyway.

“Did I please you, husband?”

A hand brushes against her exposed breasts, fingers circling around a stiff nipple. Her eyes flutter shut at the feeling. “The gods have blessed me with a perfect little wife, my love. I wish to never be parted from you, or this pretty cunt of yours.”

She smiles, a wide grin that makes her cheeks ache. He leans over to kiss her for what seems like the thousandth time that night, and she meets him halfway, her heart swelling within her chest as she holds her husband close. Between her legs, she can feel him begin to harden once again, and her own slick grows as his tongue runs across the edge of her teeth, and she wonders how she was ever afraid of him; this handsome dragon prince who can turn his enemies into ash, but caress her with the softest touch and the sweetest lips. Aemond hums as she begins to move her hips, pulling back to look at him with a wicked gleam in her eyes.

“I think we should try again,” she gives him an innocent look, reaching a hand out to dance across his chest. “Just to make sure the seed takes…”

Her laughter bounces off the walls as he sits up, a devious smirk on his face, fingers digging into her sides. It turns into moaning, hips snapping into hers, and she becomes tangled in the sheets, blissful under the hands of her terrifying prince husband.

*

A/N: i know it’s been so long i am soooo sorry!!!! i kinda just lost inspiration for this lil two-parter, and tbh i kinda really hate how this turned out but it’s been like 4 months and i know a few of u were looking forward to this so… i hope u guys enjoy it nonetheless <3

TAGLIST: @jmablurry @minas27 @veggie-eggrolls @anthonys-viscountess @letmeloveyouuuu @bellaisasleep @blackswxnn @imaginativeworld @littybeech @m1sschanel @ozzeryyyo @beebeechaos @ka1afbr

[madame-fear]

𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐄. being a Septa, and Jace having an obsession with you.

Many times, the firstborn son of Rhaenyra would find you quietly praying in the Sept to yourself. And along those many times, you’d find yourself sinning.

“your devotion is admirable— satisfying, I’d dare to say.” you’d hear him say, as his face was buried between your leg, grasping his rosy lips against your inner thigs; planting soft kisses & smooches. Jace would try to convince you that “the Seven would want someone to be as devoted to you, as you are to them”.

Guilt often overwhelms you, or at least, it did at the very beginning of your private meetings— but the Prince is a pleasure you can’t deny, especially with the way he takes care of you in every sense.

Your fingers would be interwined in between his brunette curls, head thrown back as you mutter his name in between heavy pants, your hand fervently kept in the back of his head, rubbing yourself against his lips — already moistened with your oozing fluids —, feeling them placing gentle kisses all over your aching cunt before his tongue teasingly abuses your clit.

“You should be praising me instead, though.” Jace’s voice would coo in a lower tone, his own breathing hitting against your throbbing genitalia— the ghost of a proud grin forming on the corner of his lips, as you, the seemingly innocent-faced Septa, pants his name in a trembling tone; legs trembling from the pleasure you receive.

“Or, perhaps, I should be begging to be allowed to praise you as you deserve.”

◞ ꙳ ๋࣭ ⭑ ` taglist .ᐟ

@damatheirin @jacesvelaryons @capellaadara @kyuupidwrites @tchatso @mstxdes @valeriecash @cookielovesbook-akie @zzz000eee @bellarkeselection @feliuuuksks @visenya-reigned @maria699669 @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 @sweethoneyblossom1 @jamiemydeer @snowprincesa1

@aegonswife @cloveradora @angrybirdxx @crack240 @number-0-iz

@nerdyphantomlady @julekaa @arabelllatargaryen @mduds @taylordaughter

@hibari-maika-muller @bailey1212 @aniisbavk1 @housetargaryenloyalist @imanewsoul

@withjinkoo @hearts4li @atargaryenlover aaand last but not least, my Queen Velaryon @lady-ashfade. ♡

[yongvillage]

ⓘ face fucking, suffocation, dubcon, name calling, idk jaehyun is mean and gross

jaehyun almost felt bad. key word: almost. but he couldn’t help but laugh, being quickly interrupted by his own moans. he looks down at you, mockingly.

your jaw ached with so much intensity you were certain it was going to fall off at any moment, and your tears blurred your vision. maybe it was for the better, seeing jaehyun’s smug face made you angry.

you tried to tap him, scratch, hit, anything to warn him that you couldn’t breathe, but all he did was laugh breathlessly, choking out, “you’ll take it, baby, jus’ a little longer.”

he’d been saying a little longer for an eternity by now. you felt the caps of your knees go numb from the hardwood floor of jaehyun’s bedroom, and your core ached. but you knew better than to touch yourself. no, jaehyun wouldn’t like that one bit.

jaehyun’s hips snapped into the back of your throat fervently, a jumble of curses and praises and groans clouding the room. your gags and tear stained face only egging him on further, “fuck, w-wish you could see how you, ah, looked right now.”

you sputtered as jaehyun’s cock went especially deep on one thrust, only able being able to hear his strangled chuckle as your eyes were screwed shut. his grip on your hair was vicious, tightening as his hips somehow managed to go faster.

you wanted to scream, to let jaehyun know that you were surely going to faint at any moment, black spots scattered across your plane of vision and limbs starting to tingle and go numb, and as if god somehow heard your prayers, jaehyun slowed down.

you look up at hm through your eyelashes curiously, wondering what prompted him to suddenly show mercy. his thumb came down and hooked onto your right cheek, tugging at it, creating an almost x-ray type of vision as he was able to see how the inside of your mouth looked with his angry cock hitting the back your throat. you could feel it twitch at the lewd position you were put in.

“fuuuuck, ju-jus’ let me look at you for a bit baby,” jaehyun said, panting. his eyes were trained on your mouth, on your lips, mesmerized by the way they molded around his cock perfectly.

your body relaxed a bit at jaehyun’s calm pace, thanking his fascination with your mouth for giving you a moment to breathe. it continued on for a bit, jaehyun was seemingly hypnotized by the sight of your mouth, the pad of his thumb starting to wrinkle from the saliva of your inner cheek that he was still holding open.

“i think i could cum just from looking at you like this,” he panted out, his mouth agape in awe and eyes half open.

and before you could even think, jaehyun’s other hand pushes your head all the way down, the tip of your nose hitting his crooked happy trail. his other hand pulls away from your cheek, and you inhaled his musk for what was probably going to be the last time as his thumb and forefinger pinched your red, snotty nose, his brutal pace picking back up.

your eyes widened at jaehyun’s action, tears immediately brimming and then quickly falling down your face as you felt your throat tighten.

jaehyun laughs, “mm, s-stupid bitch, you’re gon’ choke on this dick,” he grins, watching the way your mouth gives up on trying to even suck him and just lays open for him to play with. his eyebrows furrowed as his face contorted, “y-yeah, shit, you’re gon’ choke and you’re gon’ like it.”

saliva bubbled out of the corners of your mouth, running down your chin and neck. you begin to sob, or at least try to, snot leeking out of jaehyun’s hold on your nose and beginning to trail down your lips. your eyes burned from how much you’d been crying, and you wondered how jaehyun was lasting so long, praying that he’d break and come down your throat.

“wha-, ah, what’s wrong baby? c-can’t breathe?” he cooed, his head craning down to take a better look at your helpless and damp face, hair sticking to your forehead and the sides of your face, your eyelids beginning to droop at how lightheaded you were starting to feel.

your nails clawed at jaehyun’s thighs, glancing down for a second to see you’d actually drawn blood. you accepted the fact that jaehyun probably wasn’t going to stop, his sick self was going to keep going till you passed out and your body went limp. your muscles were sore from constricting and tensing at his pace, bracing yourself for each thrust. you’re vision began to darken again.

jaehyun smiled down at you lazily, his pace quickening as he finally felt himself getting close, hoping that you’d hold out a little longer so he could cum down your throat and have you swallow it, letting it pool it in your tummy, “mmf, j-jus’ a little longer baby.”

you tried to shake your head, but your current half-conscious state, the lack of air, and the fact that you had jaehyun’s enormous cock in your mouth made it almost impossible.

jaehyun laughed down at you, his breathing becoming labored and hips stuttering, “gon’ go sleep sleep? fuck, go ahead baby, you’re gon’ wake up looking s-so pretty f’me with cum all o-over you.”

in your final moments of consciousness, hot, sticky cum rushed down your throat, jaehyun’s groans sounding almost pained as his large hand kept your head in place, forgetting his other one was still pinching your nose.

jaehyun looked down to see your head had gone limp, smirking to himself as he pulled you off him.

@yongvillage | ໒꒰ྀིᵔ ᵕ ᵔ ꒱ྀི১

[hopefulceladon]

wherever you stay, i will stay | sunday x reader

summary: after many months in light of his newfound freedom (and his wardrobe change), sunday makes a visit home to you. pairing: sunday x reader word count: 1.9k notes: drip marketing and the worms influenced this one. because of course they did. i honestly might delete this one i'm not even sure yet ao3 link: here!

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The night's chill had settled bitterly into the quiet premises of your chambers, ripping you away from your beloved comfort and carelessly substituting it with an eerie cloak of loneliness.

As if upon instinct, you tried to seek out the familiar warmth of your beloved's feathered form, haphazardly guessing your hand's landing upon what would be there and what truly ought to be there, but a tensed sigh had crossed your lips once all your palm had planted itself upon was the lifeless, cold, white linen of the lavishly sized mattress you rested upon.

It was far too easy to loathe the evening when its’ brisk bite was so eager to remind you of your solitude, after all.

Still deeply disappointed, you curled the sheets against the grasp of your fist in frustration before fumbling around for the partially completed book on your nightstand with the other, retrieving it from atop the ever-growing pile of its familiarly half-read brethren, ever so careful to not knock over the candle that flickered nearby as you reached for your hopeful distraction.

You sat up and rested the book upon your lap, your eyes slowly trailing over every last detail of the front cover; it was a highly detailed guide to different factions across the galaxies that Sunday had recommended to you in passing. Despite your initial hesitance to comprehend such daunting knowledge back then, you’d chase down even the smallest of traces your beloved had interwoven into your life in the midst of his absence now.

Once you cracked the book open, however, you had found that you were struggling far more than you really should've.

Not only had you sworn that the nearby clock formed an elaborate conspiracy against you, desperate to drive you to your wits’ end with every second-span tick, the author of the book was prone to rambling up to the high heavens—everything truly reminded you of him now, did it not?—allowing for none of the words to have a chance at nestling within the crevices of your memory long enough for anything to click.

Before you could helplessly toss the book onto the wooden floor below and tirelessly fuss with the comfort of your pillows, as if the mere absence of your life's light was of their doing, a soft, unassuming knock rapped against the door of your house.

All the worsts were what had flown through your head first, and so you remained silent, far too alarmed to say a word as you quietly grabbed a dagger from the nightstand drawer and pocketed it.

As if dissatisfied by the lack of response, the one who knocked finally decided to speak.

“Please, I insist that you open the door.”

If you hadn't valued your life so much for the hopes of seeing your beloved once more, you would’ve audibly scoffed at the request. Still, you had to force your voice to not waver. “I... I do not open my house up to the likes of strangers!”

In the silence that fell, you had prayed whatever had intruded upon your property had lost interest and simply left you alone.

“Ah... should I be deeply offended by your words, my star?”

You froze at the familiar lilt in the ‘stranger's’ voice.

Either you were now indeed face to face with impending doom, or...

Feeling emboldened by what you fervently hoped was an abrupt rush of assured clarity, you tiptoed your way to the door and, with a candle in hand and a small dagger concealed within your pocket, opened it wide enough to see who it was, but hardly wide enough to allow them in.

All it took was a glimpse of familiar, soft grayish-blue hair to grace your line of sight before you abruptly nudged the door wide open.

“Sunday?”

The aforementioned Halovian quickly looked around and placed a finger to your lips, murmuring a small ‘shhh’ before lowering his hand and welcoming himself inside, shutting the door behind him with a small thud as he led you both over to a nearby seating arrangement.

Your eyes were still wide with disbelief, though your words were far quieter. “You’re... you’re here?”

“I... suppose you could say that, couldn’t you?”

It was then your bewilderment had melted away into a grin in light of his soft chuckle. There had been points in time where you weren't sure if you would ever hear such a simple sound again, and to have it fall upon your ears so gracefully like the beautifully familiar melody it was had made your cheeks ache from the overabundance of smiling.

Finally taking the time to refamiliarize yourself with the pleasant sight of your heart’s solace, it hardly took long at all for you to notice that he was no longer adorned with his priestly garments. Gone was the gray blazer that had been accompanied by a white vest, for they were both now replaced by a half white, half navy-blue ensemble.

You could’ve sworn the duality in colors and all the new embellishments that decorated his attire seemed to bring out the shine in his brilliant golden eyes.

With trembling hands, you briskly cupped your palms against the tops of Sunday’s stress-ridden shoulders, absentmindedly kneading your fingers against the soft material of his new apparel as you desperately tried to reassure yourself that he truly was standing before you.

Sunday’s focus trailed up from your wandering hands to gaze into your own eyes, his lips upturning slightly. “I take it you must’ve missed me?” he asked softly, as if he hadn't already been assured of the answer.

You hummed in agreement before abruptly resting your head against his chest, growing ever more grounded back within the fabrics of reality with each passing beat of his heart.

“Probably more than you ever could’ve imagined.”

The Halovian gently pulled you closer towards him at your heartfelt answer, resting his chin atop your head as he enveloped you in a more-proper attempt at a hug. “I’ve missed you dearly, too.”

You clung yourself taut to his form as if he would disappear into thin air if you hadn’t, your arms wrapped snug around his waist as your breathing synchronized with his.

How many hours had you spent aching for this? All the miniscule moments that made your chest clench with longing upon every reminder of his presence? All the passing thoughts of his actions? Every fleeting memory of his mere touch alone?

After multiple moments worth of resting yourself against him, you lifted your head away from his chest and, without much thought put behind it at all, delicately cradled your palms against his skin.

Sunday tilted his head at the gesture, his wings fluttering from his surprise.

It seemed as if, despite all the other visible changes in his appearance, his expressive plumage had yet to differentiate themselves away from the likes of those in your memories.

“What's on your mind, I wonder?” he questioned, pressing his cheek against one of your palms.

Abruptly broken out of your love-stricken stupor, your hands retreat to your sides. “I... am unsure, my love,” you murmured. “Please, forgive me.”

“Ah-ah,” Sunday tutted softly, the weariness in his eyes melting away into a rare form of playfulness, the very kind you missed oh-so-dearly. “Surely you had a reason? I’d love to hear it if you did.”

You were afflicted with disbelief as Sunday grasped your wrists and brushed a brief kiss against the right one, before settling both of your hands back against his cheeks.

Sunday hadn't known this, of course, but you had desperately craved for him to initiate any sort of contact against your skin.

What you hadn't know, however, was that he, too, had whispered a quiet prayer that he’d be at the mercy of your gentle grazing, aching for your touch like the rising sun yearned for the waning moon.

“It's just...” you began, swallowing down the lump of anxiety that had dried out your throat. “I’ve missed you so dearly, and...”

“And?” he urged you on, his patience never faltering in light of your hesitance.

You hated yourself for the hesitant, all too obvious glance you took at the very lips that had rested against your wrist only mere moments prior.

“I mean, for heaven’s sake, Sunday, it’s been months since I last saw you, and...”

Utterly fed up with the way you suddenly couldn’t finish a sentence around him, you silenced Sunday’s future words before he could even dare to speak them with a desperate, abrupt press of your lips against his.

Every brush spoke a thousand feelings more than your stammered words ever could’ve hoped to amass, and you quickly pulled away with a shaky breath.

As Sunday’s expression morphed into surprise, a rush of shame had snuffed out any feelings of relief you could've gathered from the intimacy.

You looked away with an embarrassed huff, tightly squeezing your eyes shut.

“I... should’ve warned you.”

Albeit still taken aback by your boldness, Sunday carefully guided your chin back to face him.

“You must know that you never have to do so by now, surely?”

Braving yourself into opening your eyes, you were met by the visage of Sunday gazing at you warmly, the corners of his eyes crinkled by the depths of his fondness.

You found yourself pushing him backwards for yet another kiss soon after.

As you both fell forth against the comfortable expanse of the couch ahead, you let out a small hum against Sunday’s lips as your hands hastily clutched against his chest for support.

After you had successfully steadied yourself, you allowed one to fall down to his leg, absentmindedly rubbing circles beneath the bottom blue belt wrapped around his thigh, whilst the other hand cradled his steadily-warming cheek, your thumb brushing slowly back and forth against the starting, downy feathers of the nearby wing.

Once your hand had squeezed itself against his lean yet soft upper thigh, Sunday had let out a trembling breath.

“Ah, love,” Sunday murmured breathlessly as his shimmering, pleading eyes locked upon yours. “I do believe that, we, ah... we shouldn’t...”

Quickly, you retracted both of your hands as if you had seared them on scorching coals, fastening them behind your back before scooting away from him on the couch.

Sunday was keen to the unspoken guilt that had marred your countenance, and he was quick to try to eradicate it. “Please, don't take my words harshly,” he began, reaching for your arms to slide his gloved hands back down their expanses to reunite with your hands, as if a simple, gentle squeeze would soothe your fears.

He had assumed correctly—it did. It always, always did.

“It's merely that I didn't imagine our reunion would... I simply don’t want to rush...” he stumbled. In light of his abnormal struggle with mulling over the perfect words, he soon relented to brushing his apologies against your knuckles in the form of a chaste kiss against your skin, his lips upturned at the way your breathing had fluttered. “Not here, my star.”

Sunday’s gaze turned distant as it lingered near the door, as if he were peering beyond the barrier and off towards distant horizons.

“Perhaps, maybe in the future, should you continue to follow me as I search for wherever within the stars that'll make a place for me...” he continued on, before turning to look at you. “Though, I beg of you, please don't feel the need to fasten yourself down to me.”

“Sunday...”

He tilted his head at the soft calling of his name.

“Wherever in this star system you roam is where I will roam, and your future planet shall be my future planet,” you whispered tenderly, pressing your forehead against his. “My home is where you are. Can't you see that?”

A shaky breath escaped Sunday's lips at your heartfelt confession, and he leaned in closer against you in kind.

“You truly mean so?”

“With all my heart.”

[nothingbutsweetwords]

ɴᴏʙᴏᴅʏ'ꜱ ꜱᴏɴ, ɴᴏʙᴏᴅʏ'ꜱ ᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ

ᴀᴇᴍᴏɴᴅ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ!ɴɪᴇᴄᴇ

"ʏᴏᴜ'ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱᴇᴅ ᴏᴜᴛ ʟᴀᴛᴇʟʏ, ʏᴇᴀʜ, ᴍᴇ ᴛᴏᴏ..."

Word count: 3,800.

Fandom: House of the Dragon.

Pairing: Aemond x Reader!Velaryon!Niece.

MEETING — 1. Her.

Her legs, without any command and with an unstoppable perseverance, set off through the labyrinthine corridors of the red keep towards her mother's chambers long before the phrase fully reached her ears, the one she had so longed for: "The baby has been born, my princess."

Her family was her most loved treasure and when her mother announced the big news, time seemed to slow down. She couldn't wait to have that baby in her arms and cherish every second the gods, those she fervently prayed to, would allow her to spend with him.

Every night, in silent supplications, she repeated to any who would listen: "Please, let him be born healthy. Please, take care of my mother."

Rhaenyra painfully held in her heart the memory of her mother Aemma's early departure from the world. She wanted to shield her little ones from all fear and anguish, so she didn't dwell on details about that traumatic episode, one that, despite the years, remained as a deep and open wound. Unfortunately, she couldn't stop the whispers, those that seeped into her daughter's ears, creating such intense fear that she barely had room to breathe during those long nine months.

She felt a smile so wide it would ache her cheeks later and feet that weren't fast enough. Upon reaching the large wooden door, she took a few seconds to take a deep breath, calm her racing nerves, and finally push it open with determination.

Her entrance went unnoticed, as all eyes in the room were on the small human being now peacefully resting in her father's arms.

Except hers, no, those were on the woman sitting on the couch. Her forehead was beaded with sweat, her hair tousled and a tired expression adorned her face; yet never, in her short years on this earth, had she seen her so beautiful.

"Mother" she murmured almost voicelessly, taking her hands in hers and seeking her gaze. She felt her eyes sting, tears threatening to spill, and a lump forming in her throat. She wanted to speak again, but her voice got lost along the way. Fortunately, it wasn't necessary; Rhaenyra knew her as well as herself and could read her like an open book.

"My love, please, have no fear, we are okay" with those simple words, her lungs filled with air, swelling her chest. She let out a sigh, laden with relief, laden with love. She could only nod in response.

"Sister, look!" Jacaerys exclaimed, drawing her attention. He lifted the lid of the large steel chest, releasing steam and revealing a dragon egg. 

"We choose an egg for the baby" Lucerys added.

"That looks like the perfect one, brothers" she said with a smile, though a bittersweet taste filled her mouth. Unlike her brothers, her own egg had never hatched, a disappointment she carried permanently with her, though she tried not to show it in these moments of happiness.

"I let Luke choose" he said, she messed up the younger one's hair and planted a kiss on his head.

"Thank you, Jace."

"Not every day an egg leaves the dragonpit, my princess, I thought it best to escort the lads" intervened Harwin Strong, adorned in his imposing armor and golden cloak. It didn't surprise her seeing him there; in fact, despite having a different last name, she considered him part of her family.

He was her protector, who always escorted her to her room, pampered her with luxurious books, and listened attentively to every word she said. She had more memories of him than of her own father, but she didn't complain; she knew he was a busy man. Harwin had tried to teach her the art of the sword, insisting on the importance of knowing how to defend herself, but she always found herself more interested in books. Besides, she had the feeling that he would never neglect watching her back.

"Laenor and I thank you, Commander" she heard her mother say.

"Father, may I see it?" she asked. Laenor knelt down, allowing the three of them to meet the new member of the family. It only took one look for him to completely captivate her. She mentally swore that nothing would ever harm him as long as she breathed. "What a fine knight you are going to make, eh?"

"Another boy, I heard" Harwin cleared his throat. "Might I?" he asked, seeking her mother's approval. She thought she saw a glimpse of the same relief that filled her eyes.

"Ser Harwin wishes to be introduced to Joffrey" she said, smiling. Upon hearing that name, her lips formed another smile. Of course, she would have been equally happy if it were a girl, but she was glad to still be the only one. It had its advantages.

"Of course" Laenor agreed. Rising, he gently placed Joffrey in Harwin's arms.

"Joffrey, is it?" her father nodded in agreement to the question.

"Mother, please may I hold Joffrey?" she asked excitedly, reaching out her arms towards him. A futile attempt, of course, the man in front of her easily doubled her height.

"No, mother, let me go first! I'm the strongest, I won't let him fall!" her twin brother vociferated.

"I won't let him fall either!" she countered.

Her younger brother joined in the pleas, arguing that he had the right because he was the youngest. Soon, the words melded into an indistinguishable uproar, as all three clamored in unison.

"No, no, no" her father hastened as Harwin turned his back to them, trying to prevent the disturbances from reaching the ears of the newborn.

"I think you left your septa waiting, my little lady, and back to the dragon pit for you two, before they send out a search party" he ushered the three younger ones out of the room, and gently pushed their shoulders, guiding them down the hallway. First, towards the room she had left only minutes ago, where her septa awaited along with Helaena, her mother's younger sister.

Her father left her at the door, and the expression on her face, the one she believed she was successfully hiding, betrayed her. Laenor crouched down to her height, gently taking her cheeks in his hands, making her look at him.

"You know, Leana had an egg that didn't hatch... and she didn't ride a dragon until she was five and ten. Now she rides Vhagar," he tried to cheer her up, "your time will come, dear daughter, I promise."

She was filled with hope at her father's promises. He always had the right words. She thanked the man she loved so much with a kiss on the cheek, and now with renewed energy, she entered the room.

Despite the repeated complaints from the septa, they remained on the floor; she leaned her back against the wall, while Helaena rested her head on her legs. She explored the pages of the book while playing with her hair, and when a passage caught her attention, she read it aloud to her aunt, who entertained herself by watching a long insect walk on her hands. They didn't share the same interests, not even could it be said that they understood each other, but they enjoyed each other's company and were grateful of having another princess of almost the same age as a confidante.

"This one has 60 rings and two pairs of legs on each. That's 240" remarked Helaena.

"Yes, you're right, I think... Did you know that Vhagar is 170 years old?" she responded, her eyes widening at the new information. "That's exceptional."

"The last ring doesn't have legs," Helaena pointed out, overlooking her niece, more interested in the insect "it has eyes, though I don't believe it can see."

She furrowed her brow. "Why is that so?"

"It's beyond our understanding."

She didn't know how much time they had spent in that position, but when she shifted her attention from the book due to noises approaching from the corridors, she noticed that the septa had already left and in her place was Alicent. The new companion was sitting a few meters away from them, holding a cup of tea and with her gaze lost in the window.

Suddenly, two king’s guards burst into the room, each holding one of Aemond's arms, alarming her.

"Your Grace" they left without waiting for any response, closing the doors behind them.

"Aemond, what have you done?" Alicent approached him quickly, scrutinizing him, and exclaimed exasperatedly while gripping his shoulders firmly, "after how many times you’ve been warned, must I have you confined to your chambers?"

"They made me do it!" the young prince shouted in his defense.

"As if you needed encouragement. Your obsession with those beasts goes beyond understanding" she furrowed her brow again upon noticing the same phrase that had come out of Helaena's mouth minutes ago.

Returning her attention to the argument in front of her, she noted that the prince's platinum hair and his green garments were stained black. Realization fell into her, she widened her eyes, astonished. Had he really ventured into the dragon pit? Alone?

"They gave me a pig!"

"A what?" the queen asked.

"They said they found a dragon for me, but it was a pig" detailed, his voice breaking slightly.

She knew Aegon and she knew her brothers, and even though she was certain the last two had only been pawns used in the prank, a mixture of anger and disappointment washed over her. How could they tease and deceive the good prince in such a way? Worse still, with something that was also the cause of her tears.

"If he wants one, he'll have to close one eye" the princess beside her said, her gaze still fixed on the tiny entity. She spoke loud enough for only her to hear.

Her words were puzzling, and she didn't know how to interpret them. They could either indicate that she was still in her little world or suggest something deeper; it wouldn't be the first time for either option. She had heard her say... things before; at first, they seemed like mere nonsensical words, and suddenly something happened, something that reminded her of her words, something that led her to believe that her aunt had some kind of magic. No one had paid much attention to her when she shared her theory, dismissing it with disdain, saying they were just coincidences. But to her, it seemed like more than mere chance connections.

"Everyone laughed" Aemond murmured, trying to hide his sadness. Her anger now replaced by deep empathy. Alicent wrapped her arms around him, stroking his back.

The prince looked just as distressed as he left the hug and walked away as he did when he entered. It reminded her of her own feelings of desolation and loneliness, and she thought that there was no one in the kingdom who could understand her like he did. Not really.

She always had a special connection with Jace, a twin connection, as they enjoyed calling it. They understood each other with just looks, laughed at the same jokes, and shared the same tastes, except for the obvious; he loved his sword, she preferred her books. On the other hand, Luke had always been her little and spoiled one, her sweet and innocent child. That's why the situation had affected her so much. She didn't believe her brothers had meant to hurt Aemond, but they did anyway. They were insensitive, and she didn't want to see them grow up like Aegon, who with his character showed that he didn't know the true meaning of consequences.

It had been a few days since the incident in the pit and the birth of her brother, who was under the care of Diana, her mother's lady-in-waiting.

She tried not to lift her gaze from her plate and ate in silence, ignoring her brothers, offering them only monosyllabic responses. She was furious and intended to make it obvious. She huffed in frustration, trying to get her mother's attention so she could bring up the issue to the table.

"My dear, what troubles your mind?" she heard her mother ask as she gave her arm a gentle squeeze.

"Mother, have you heard about the incident in the dragon pit?" noticing her mother's concerned and confused look, she hurried to reassure her, "no one is hurt... not physically, at least."

"What happened?" her mother looked inquisitively at her sons, their heads looking down, ashamed.

"Jace, Luke, and Aegon played a prank on Prince Aemond. They told him they had a dragon for him and gave him a pig with wings, they even named it! Pink Dread." The children couldn't contain their laughter at the memory, which only made her angrier.

"Is that true?" her mother asked, wiping the smile from both their faces. It wasn't common to hear her upset or see her with a serious expression.

"It was just a joke!" Jace tried to justify.

"Aegon planned it!" Luke interjected.

"I don't want to hear justifications" she silenced them. "What if that joke had been towards your sister? Would you still be laughing?"

"It's different" Jace muttered, while Luke's lip trembled in a pout.

"No, it's not. Tomorrow during training, you will offer the appropriate apologies. From the heart. Aemond is family, and we must look out for each other. Isn't that so?"

"Yes, mother" they chorused, serious and repentant.

"Now you may retire to your chambers and think about what you've done," their mother pronounced, and before they could respond, she added, "no complaints." They nodded and left in silence.

"I think Aemond could use some kind words, don't you agree?" Rhaenyra suggested minutes later, breaking the silence. She responded with a smile, thanking her for understanding the importance of this to her. "Who better than you to do it?" She rose from her seat and embraced her gently, for she could see her still in pain. She planted a kiss on her forehead, the kind she cherished so much.

"Rest, mother. I'll ask the maester to make you some tea."

She smiled after hearing her daughter, thinking that any pain felt and to be felt would be an insignificant price to pay considering all she had gained. Jace, the next heir to the throne, who would reign with peace and intelligence; Luke and Joffrey, who would be the greatest and most honorable knights; and her daughter, her eternal and sweet companion.

There was no need to ask questions; she knew where to find him. A few floors up was the library, her second room, her refuge, where the world became a little quieter and she could transport herself to other times, places and lives.

She ascended the long stairs quickly, and within minutes, she stood at the door. This hallway had always been one of the least traveled, practically deserted, except for them and the king’s guards. It seemed there weren't many avid readers in the keep.

They used to be at opposite ends of the table, immersed in each of their books. She had always wanted to talk to him, ask him what he was reading and maybe ask him to teach her High Valyrian. However, she never did; she had been too shy in his presence, and Aemond's distant form didn't help. Perhaps he was shy like her.

Or perhaps he simply didn't want to talk to her.

She tried to push those thoughts to the back of her mind as she entered the library. She smiled to herself when she saw she hadn't been wrong.

"Good morrow, uncle" she announced her arrival as she headed to the usual shelf and picked up the book she had left halfway through a few days ago.

"Good morrow, niece" he responded with his usual seriousness.

She walked to the table and hesitated. Should she sit closer to him this time? She didn't want to invade his space, but she also didn't believe that a conversation should start at a distance.

She arrived at the table before deciding and stood there for a few seconds. She ended up placing her book at the usual spot and sat down, feeling uncomfortable.

Why was she feeling this way? She wasn't the one who played a distasteful joke, besides, he was family; they had grown up together in the castle, it shouldn't be so difficult.

Suddenly, she felt warmth engulf her when she noticed Aemond looking at her, puzzled. With the book still closed, her cheeks turned red as she realized she had been staring at him all this time, lost in her thoughts. She mentally cursed herself and searched for the page she was on. He looked away, not saying a word.

Her mother had asked her to talk to him and she had really wanted to, so she didn't understand why she found it so hard to approach him.

She audibly sighed and abruptly closed her book. He did the same seconds later. As always.

It was curious; every time they were here, they seemed… united, connected in their readings; when she finished, he did too, shortly after. They put away their books, and he walked to the exit, hurriedly, and then held the door, patiently waiting for her to exit. They parted ways upon reaching the floor of their chambers, all without exchanging a word other than greetings or thanks.

The king and the queen did a good job with him and Helaena. She couldn't say the same about Aegon, unfortunately.

She knew it was only a matter of seconds before he got up from his chair, so, with her book in hand, marched towards him.

Aemond furrowed his brow; he didn't seem upset, rather bewildered by the new proximity when she took the seat to his right and opened her book again, an action he imitated seconds later.

She found it impossible to read; she observed the page, but the words blurred together as her mind was occupied with something else. How should she start? It was clear they had something in common. Two things, in fact. Long conversations weren't necessary to know it, so she ventured there.

She cleared her throat, trying to get his attention, without success. Then, timidly, she placed her hand on his, causing an immediate reaction.

He remained still, stunned by her movements. He just looked at her, with eyes wider than usual. It was then that she realized how different they were from the rest of their family. Her grandsire, her mother, Aegon, Helaena, they all had eyes as clear as the sky on a sunny day. But not him, his were darker, bluer, with a trace of purple in them. As deep as the sea, and as beautiful as a sapphire. His hair was straighter, platinum, and even softer, she would dare to say.

How she wished to have the Targaryen attributes, just as distinctive as they were beautiful. Another one of her biggest insecurities and sorrows. It wasn't uncommon for people to be surprised when they saw her and her siblings next to their parents, as they hadn't inherited such beauty. They were equally pale, but with a tumultuous mane, full of curls, of the darkest black and eyes sometimes green, sometimes brown.

Once again, she felt the red fill her cheeks, her gaze lost in him as her thoughts swirled.

"Do you know that my father's sister also had an unhatched egg? Just like us," she said, softly, looking him in the eyes and trying to comfort him, "now she's the rider of Vhagar, the oldest, largest, and most feared dragon in the entire kingdom." 

She waited for a response that didn't come. "I like to believe that our wait will be rewarded, don't you?" then added. He only nodded, almost imperceptibly, without taking his eyes off hers, "I wanted to apologize."

Now with a confused look, Aemond finally decided to respond, "why?"

"They shouldn't have done it... It was cruel." Understanding dawned on him.

"No need to apologize for something that you did not do, niece." She couldn't help but smile at his words. Was he always so serious and formal? She thought he was like an adult trapped in the body of a little boy. An old soul.

"Can I ask you something?" she inquired.

"Yes, of course."

"Did you really enter the dragon pit? Alone?" she asked, curious. She noticed his face changing, a smirk of pride forming, his lips curling up into a small smile as he straightened up in his chair, now more upright.

"Yes, I did."

"Did you see any?"

"Yes, but it was too dark to know which one..." he began, with a spark in his eyes, and noticing her attentive gaze, he decided to continue "it throwed fire in my direction" he added, her eyes wider than before, conveying her astonishment.

"Gods! You must have been so terrified."

"Not really" he simply responded.

"That was... you're incredibly brave, my prince. I wouldn't have had the courage" she said and received a wide smile in return. She had never called him "my prince" before and she had never seen him smile.

She continued to listen attentively. No history book had ever excited her as much as the prince's adventures, and seeing him so enthusiastic about telling them filled her chest with something she didn't know how to name. Something warm. She liked it.

Despite it being their first real conversation, and the first time they looked each other in the eyes, there was a mutual understanding, a connection, different, special. One that went beyond being dragonless riders or relatives raised under the same roof.

It seemed to her that only a few minutes had passed when she felt a knock on the doors and a voice announcing that it was supper time and Alicent awaited for her son's presence. Both of them showed disappointment at the interruption; he seemed to have so much more to say and she hadn't had enough of his words. She thought she could listen to him for the rest of her days.

"Forgive me, niece, I must have tired your ears," he said before standing up, "and I didn't ask about your stories; you must think me rude." His words elicited a laugh from her lips, as it couldn't be further from the truth.

"Not at all, I would have liked to keep listening to you. Besides, I don't have stories as brave as yours, and I wouldn't want to bore you to exhaustion" she replied.

Once they had put the books back in their place, they walked to the door.

"I do not think that's possible" Aemond communicated with his hand on the doorknob. There was silence as they descended the stairs with the guards behind them.

"Goodnight, my princess" he said once they reached the floor, calling her that way for the first time.

"Goodnight, my prince."

"Perhaps tomorrow we could... continue?" It came out almost as a whisper from Aemond's lips. A smile on hers.

"Nothing would make me happier."

[formulawolff]

i. girls like u - t.w.

pairing: reserve female!driver x toto wolff

word count: 2.1k

warnings: morally gray individuals, slow burn, sexual content (intercourse), allusions to sexual content, cursing, marijuana use, references to alcohol use, lots of power imbalance, questionable boss x employee dynamics, light toxicity

a/n: ok this is my semi-return to tumblr after a writing hiatus. this fic is loosely based off of you by the 1975 and several blackbear songs. sorry if this shit is ass. i promise there is more world-building to come in the next chapters (it's been a while since i've wrote somethin' longer than 500 words) lemme know if y'all like it! i missed y'all! <3

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆:

“aren’t you tired?”

fingertips brush along your back, light and gentle. stirring, you blink, stifling a yawn and you nuzzle into the warmth. 

it’s inviting, your lids drooping the moment the tip of your nose brushes along heated skin. a plush comforter shrouds your body, limbs entwined. watery rays of light peek in through drawn blinds, promising of dawn. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆:

“you wore me out. of course i’m tired.”

there’s a rumble in his chest, adam’s apple bobbing as he chuckles, “no, that’s not what i meant.”

“then what did you mean?” bringing your chin upward, your gaze locks with his. 

he flinches slightly at the harshness of your inquiry, a crimson hue tinging his cheeks, “i-i don’t really know. i-i guess i meant to ask if you were tired of watching everyone compete from the paddock. don’t you want to race as well?”

don’t you want to race as well? 

of course i do. every single fucking grand prix i pray that i’ll finally get a chance to be behind the wheel. 

to prove to everyone that i’m just as worthy of a competitor as lewis or george. that i am capable of finishing a race. 

i pray that i finally get a chance to prove that i’m a champion. 

inhaling sharply, your head falls, avoiding any sort of eye contact, “i mean, yeah. of course i want to race. i want to compete just as much as you do, max.”

“i’m sorry if–”

“it’s fine,” you murmur, finding your body clinging to him, head nestling into his chest underneath the covers, “can we just go back to sleep or–”

he exhales, lips connecting with your temple. they trail along your brow bone, placing gentle kisses all the way down to your cheeks, “you know we can’t. it’s qualifying today.”

“right.” your jaw clenches, “there’s nothing more important than qualifying.”

“hey,” fingers grasp your chin, “are you okay?”

“yup,” you nod, “i’m great.”

concern lingers, swimming in his icy blue depths. his tongue darts out, swiping along his lower lip, “you and i both know that’s a lie.”

shrugging, your lips pucker, “maybe i’m just not looking forward to watching everyone chase their dreams while i’m forced to sit on the sidelines.”

in that moment, you sense his demeanor shift. max softens, his muscles relaxing as a hand cups your cheek, thumb caressing your cheekbone, “you know, we could change that.”

your heart thuds, pounding as blood roars in your ears, “how?”

he leans in, his mouth nearly millimeters from yours, “i could pull some strings.”

“and how would you accomplish that?”

max’s voice is low as he continues, his tone laced with a dominance that you rarely heard beyond radios, interviews, or press conferences. it was quite the contrast than the max you were used to. it had you absolutely reeling, scrambling to maintain your composure as a shiver ran down your spine.  

“i could speak with christian, put in a good word for you. there’s a lot of change that’s going to come within these next few months. checo hasn’t resigned quite yet. the contract isn’t finalized there’s still time to get you in at red bull.”

“y-you would do that for me?”

the dutch driver nods, a little too fervently. 

“i would do anything for you.”

there was a sincerity in his words, almost as if it was a promise. a sure one, at that. a promise brimmed with a passion that you could only describe as one emotion. 

love.

you had him right where you wanted him. 

max verstappen, three-time world champion of formula one, was right at your fingertips. the dutch assassin was poised and eager, ready to fire as soon as he was given the word. 

all you had to do was say yes. 

that’s all you had to do. utter those nine words. 

i want to be with you at red bull. i want to be in that second seat.

yet, there was one thing holding you back.

well, more so a culmination of things. 

one, there was that ever-present gnawing, nagging feeling. the guilt was slowly eating you alive, threatening to spill your precious secret at any given moment. two, there was that fear of the unknown. what would happen if you managed to pull this off? would you truly be happy at red bull or were you just trying to worm your way to the top? would that shiny trophy really be worth it if you weren’t fulfilled? 

and well most importantly, the third aspect of it all. would you be able to keep up the facade that you were just friends with max verstappen? it was only a matter of time before your relationship with the dutch driver would come from the shadows and into the light.

it was so much easier to keep things under wraps when no one paid attention to you. 

“max,” you begin, “maybe we should–”

the shrill ring of his phone pierces through the air. leaning over, he plucks the device off the nightstand, grimacing as his eyes scan the contact. 

“it’s christian.”

“what time is it?” you press, “surely it’s not that la–”

“baby, it’s well past eight.”

“shit.” you shoot up, peeling the comforter off, “why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

max follows in suit, shoving a leg through his pants, “cause we were in the middle of an important conversation. i wasn’t going to just interrupt you to tell you i had to leave. that wouldn’t have been fair to you!”

“right,” you scoff, throwing on a hoodie, “you don’t have to act like i’m more important than racing. you live, breathe, eat, and sleep formula one. and i understand tha–”

lips collide with yours, the kiss nearly sucking the breath out of your lungs. it’s fiery, blazing with hunger as your knees buckle. max pulls away, panting ever so slightly. 

“don’t you ever fucking say that. you hear me?”

“yes.”

shaking his head, he makes his way across the room, smoothing out a wrinkle in his jersey before slipping on a shoe, “you mean the world to me. we can talk more about this later, but i really have to go. christian is blowing up my phone asking where i am. fuck. i really hope that no one sees me. do you have a hoodie or something i can borrow?”

crossing over to your makeshift closet, you file through the hangers, pulling a garment off. tossing the sweatshirt to max, you can’t help but giggle at his haphazard state. 

his blonde locks are all over, clearly ruffled from a long night. his clothes are wrinkly, bunched up from being thrown to the floor. the only saving grace is his red bull cap, along with the hoodie you just provided. 

however, the moment he sees the embroidered logo, he rolls his eyes. 

“really?”

“just make sure you take it off before you see christian. and put on some deodorant when you get the chance. you stink,” wrinkling your nose, you blow the dutch driver a kiss as he waves you off. 

yet, he catches the airborne smooch, returning the gesture, “i’ll text you later baby. i lo– i have to really go now. have a good day, all right?”

“i’ll try my best,” you reply, buttoning a pair of jeans, “you know i won’t be doing much.”

“goodbye love!” his voice carries down the hall as he exits your motorhome, the sound of the door echoing throughout the space. 

well, so much for making progress.

there’s a buzz in your pocket, stealing your focus for just a second.

fishing your phone out, your brow furrows. no one really contacted you in the mornings. well, unless it was an emergency or an urgent matter. 

it was a text message, from a sender you were well acquainted with.

it was none other than sir lewis hamilton. eight-time world champion. one of the greatest athletes of all time. 

who just happened to be your fellow teammate. well, fellow teammate and best friend.

who knew that formula one contracts came with a package deal like that?

where art thou, sweet girl? i fear that our team principal is going absolutely mad because you are running very behind. pls hurry before he starts going in on me for being on my phone during a team briefing. 

your thumbs glide across the screen, crafting a careful response.

sorryyyyyy. running late per usual. perks of being in the reserve, right? i’ll be there in like five minutes. 

the reply was instant, phone vibrating once more.

hurry up. toto is pissed. 

gritting your teeth, you shove your phone back into your pocket. luckily, you had packed your go-bag for race weekends the night before. well, before you got preoccupied with max. slipping on a heavier coat, you push through your bedroom door, making your way down the hall. 

exiting your motorhome, you spin on your heel, throwing up the hood as you navigate through the endless maze of the paddock. 

you would think after six months you would know your way around by now.

members of the crew and hospitality chirp greetings and good mornings, earning a mumble here and there in response. graciously, you accept a wellness shot from one of the hosting staff, in hopes that it would perk you up just a tad. 

eventually, you nudge open the door of the briefing room, keeping your head ducked as you settle into your designated seat, lewis spotting you. from across the space, he shoots you a thumbs up, paired with a precious grin, dimples and all. 

the second you slide on your headphones, a voice floods your ears.

it’s brassy and gruff, thick with annoyance, brimmed with that accent you were all too familiar with. 

“good morning, hase. i’m so glad that you could take the time out of your busy schedule and join us this morning.”

it was none other than toto wolff, team principal of mercedes amg petronas.

your boss. 

looking up, you notice him to your far right, perched in his seat. his gaze is lasered in on you, almost piercing. with his brows furrowed and lips wound tightly shut, you couldn’t quite distinguish the emotion plastered across his features.

was it anger? disappointment? sheer and utter regret?

“good morning, toto,” you grumble, heat flooding your cheeks as snickers bubble up from all around.

“as i was saying,” toto clears his throat, “i think that we need a new approach for the remainder of the weekend. clearly george isn’t feeling up to par, so we need to explore our options.”

“i could drive,” george russell, your other teammate coughs, “i want to ra–”

“i don’t think pushing you to your limit is an intelligent idea,” toto cuts in. the words are firm, the team principal continuing, “let’s face it, with ferrari and mclaren in the mix this season, we are desperate for points. we need to make a strong move this weekend or else we are going to fall behind. even more so than we already are.”

the voices trail off as your mind wanders, your focus dissipating by the second. typically, you never paid too much attention to the briefings anyway. after all, they did not pertain to you. they usually were directed at the engineers, strategists, george, and lewis. 

not like you needed to really pay attention too closely. you were just kind of there. a body in the room.

the backup plan. 

fuck, did that absolutely torture you. so much potential wasted. all of your blood, sweat, and tears poured into nearly two decades of racing just to end up fiddling with a loose thread of your hoodie as a room full of men bickered about who would fill a fucking seat. 

some fall from grace this was. the 2023 formula two champion reduced to a reserve driver simply because no other team would take her. 

after all, you couldn’t really complain too much. this was the life you chose. you were the one who ultimately made the choice to sign to mercedes for a two-year contract. 

after all, it was your dream to drive for mercedes.

“here’s what we should do,” toto’s voice seeps into your headphones once more, snapping you out of your dazed state, “we should utilize our reserve driver. what is the point of having a reserve driver and not utilizing her?”

“toto,” bono’s voice chimes in, “i’m not sure if–”

“bono,” the fierceness in lewis’ tone takes you aback, “this is what’s best for the team. as a whole. we cannot give it our all if we don't have healthy drivers.”

“george,” toto turns to the british driver, “what do you think? do you have any input?”

“i don’t disagree,” george shrugs, the words hoarse, “i want to be healthy for saudi arabia.”

“then it’s settled,” the team principal shifts towards you, his lips curling into a smug smirk as his arms fold across his chest.

“i think that it’s time for our little hase here to really show us what she is capable of.” 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆:

taglist: @sweetjellyfishland @ts1m1kas @bxuzi @racecardilfs

lemme know if you would like to be tagged for future chapters! <3

[cultlix]

𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝

pair. surfer! chris x felix's soon-to-be wife! fem reader | genre. unrequited love (?), angst, slight smut| warnings. use of pet names, mentions of smoke, allusion to cheating, penetrative/unprotected sex.

synopsis. He's a tidal wave, sudden and unrestrainable, cataclysmic, sweeping away everything getting on its way. "You've never been more human to my eyes than you are right now," you confess.

author's note. learning to surf has always been on my bucket list, as much as being mr. bahng and mr. lee's object of desire. yup! thanks in advance for any form of feedback you'll decide to give to this new story. happy reading, guys!

➽──────────────❥

Chris drives the coast with the windows open and the radio turned off, in solemn contemplation, cradled by the regenerating caress of crisp air and the spellbinding play of lights on the waves crest. Everything around him feels like a promise of reconciliation, a long-awaited second chance. As his thoughts dart fast like the wheels on the asphalt, his heart succumbs to a flicker of hope. Nothing lasts forever.

What's not fated to perdure, always falls apart. That's an incontrovertible truth, a solace. Sandcastles dissolve into the fury of the ocean, unspeakable desires plummet gracefully into the forgiveness of the unknown, of the unresolved, becoming nothing more than spectres of draining obsessions.

It's a gory war the one against them, Chris knows better. So he patiently relies on whatever God is available, merciful, choleric, on weekdays or on holidays, and waits. Waits for an exemplary punishment to accomplish, for this arcane design to spare him from his demons, unslakable, compelling, always shaped on something - or someone - he can't have but he'd kill for, always voraciously aiming for his wandering soul.

But if this agony can help avoiding his entire universe to collapse on itself, he'll gladly greet a request of immolation, mastering the art of camouflaging, of denying, burying secrets and crucifying longings. It won't last forever, and it's a relief. Though sometimes it feels just like a blatant lie he tell himself to stay anchored to his sanity.

He finds you sat on the wooden porch steps, loose braid, white tank top and a pair of worn out jean shorts, a gaze crossing horizon lines and vanishing points, astray, imperscrutable. You wave listlessly in his direction, a cigarette butt still firmly set between your fingers, a form of latent slavery you seem to accept willingly, uglier but less striking than the other you show off on your left hand, a glaring warning, a coveted chain for many.

You walk towards the vehicle and bend down over the passenger window, the strap of your black bra falling off your shoulder. "I'm afraid we'll ride the waves alone today, lone wolf. Felix can't make it," you start off, throwing the cig on the gravelly ground.

Chris nods unsurprised while he connects the dots. Earlier that week, Felix, his undisputed soulmate, the only home he has ever known, suggested him to spend some extra free time with you to strenghten your bond. Chris didn't even know you two had one, until his little brother decided so.

"I'd do anything for her," Felix confessed him, watching you while you were feeding stray cats roaming around his beach cottage.

"I know," Chris answered, passing him a bottle of water after their daily run.

"No, I don't think you really do," he insisted, taking a long sip, asking his body one last effort to take you by surprise with a back hug, making you scream, laugh, turning you around to lock lips and then vanish inside that instant forever.

But Chris looked hard enough to perceive it, to watch it while it put roots in his rotten brain and invaded his heavy heart. He knew all the burdens and the ordeals of selflessness and deep veneration in their most virulent shades, and tolerated them. He knew, and fervently prayed he didn't.

"Surfing without sunshine. Ironic, isn't it?" He hints, staring absentmindedly at the road in front of him.

"Sacrilegious," you add sarcastically, shielding your eyes from the scorching sun, the elegant gem almost cleaving the air with its sharp facetings as you raise your hand, capturing egoistically the morning glow and returning it as countless thunderbolts, forcing Chris to look away, blinded, deafeted by its ruthless splendor.

"You still feel like doin' this, yeah?"

"Why shoudn't I?"

He shrugs, rubbing his nape. "Just thought that's the kind of thing a girl does only with her fiancé."

"Unlike you, I still can survive a day without sunshine," you clarify.

"Better not telling him. He thinks you're such a damsel in distress when he's not around," he warns, vaguely sore by your assertion.

"Yeah, I know. That's the kind of thing a girl does for her fiancé."

Is it really like this, Y/N? Well, it must be. Feeding a man's narcissism, enchanting him with your fatal feminine artifices, meekness, submissiveness, pretending you're his to take, to mold, while you turn his vanity, his naiveness into your trophy. Nasty, brillant little thing. You deserve to be taught a lesson, you deserve an award.

"Seriously, the wind is crazy. We can always reschedule this first lesson if you—"

"Wow, you're really doin' it, aren't you? You tryna back out, lone wolf?"

"No, it's just...it's gonna be tough," he explains dryly.

"Never expected you to go easy on me," you cut him off, getting in the car and pulling your pack of cigarettes out of your shorts pocket, but Chris promptly takes it away from your hands.

"My car, my rules, buttercup," he says with an authoritative stance.

"Fuck Christopher. Why do you even care so much?" you protest, rolling your eyes in a very childish way.

It's rare, unheralded. No silly nickname, no endearing mockery. Christopher. Vowels and consonants coated in honey and insolence, a venomous balm delighting his ears and hurting his pride.

"I've been asking myself the same question a lot lately."

His hand's steady on the gear shift, his jaw clenched. He feels his loins on fire each time you rock your bare upper tigh from side to side, rhythmically, hitting his calloused fingers, turning unbearably itchy, curious to plunge into your luscious flesh, glistening in the warmth of the sun filtering through the windows and inundating the narrow car cabin. He commands himself to regret it the moment he indulges in the mirage of sinking his teeth into every inch of your skin, of healing every deep wound with his mouth, sucking, draining, swept away by an orgiastic dance of blood and mellow nectars.

In the darkness of his unmade bed, enveloped by the hot steam of the pouring shower stream, these fantasies come to inebriate his mind, to take control of his muscles, of his arts, aching, yielding as these visions become vivider, nerve-wrecking, leading him to chase a crumble of inner peace by satisfying their disgraceful nature. He runs his hand over his stiff lenght, his grip firm and tight, emulating your walls, pulsing, contracting, engulfing him, swallowing him in to the hilt, driving him insane with the friction against your slippery crevice. He dreams of pushing himself inside you violently, hurriedly, from behind, nails digging into the softness of your buttocks, your bones hitting his just the way he needs, as a punishment, because he knows he shouldn't have you like this, on your fours, spine breaking under the weight of his quivering body and his guilt, he begs his reason to manifest again soon just to take him back from this mortal rapture, to reveal, or remind him the truth he's desperately trying to elude. You'll never be his. You'll never choose the traitor over the hero. He comes in groans and moans, with the raging force of a torrent, his fluid slipping through his digits because you're not there to contain it, to let it nourish your immaculate womb, and you never will.

"Lone wolf?"

Chris flinches, eyes still glued to the pavement. "Mmh?"

"I know what you're thinking."

No, Y/N, you don't. If you did, you'd see the monster you've made out of me, and you'd be aghast. You'd watch me meandering in the ghost lands this delirium has generated, eager to betray the man I was before this passion ate every shred of my heart, becoming the bastard I am right now, a shadow who bends to your fucking will even if you don't ask to, don't notice it, don't even care.

He clears his throat, tapping nervously his thumb on the steering wheel. "I—"

"I know you think I don't deserve him, but let me show you I do, I will."

He smirks, relieved, resigned.

"Oh buttercup, no one will ever deserve Felix."

"We're gonna get wet anyway," you protest, watching rain falling inesorably from the outdoor shed as Chris applies a layer of wax on your surfboard.

"Typical of beginners," he comments, chuckling, not giving in to your pleas. "Don't you know half of the fascination with this sport is the mental preparation and waiting for the perfect weather?"

"How could I? I'm a beginner," you retort, mocking him and rasing an eyebrow. "Anyway, isn't it the instructor's responsabilty to check the forecast and surf conditions before a session?"

"You can't predict everything, that's what makes surfing hard and rewarding," he elucidates patiently, undressing himself to wear his wetsuit, forcing you to look away.

"I thought in Australia you only knew about rain for movies and songs," you mumble.

Chris smiles fondly. "Considering it's gonna be your new home, I thought you knew more about Australia than what they tell you in movies and songs," he remarks, handing you your rented wetsuit.

"He is gonna be my new home," you state, taking the garment, gazing into his eyes purposely.

He turns around to let you change, hearing the muffled sound of your clothes falling on the ground confusing with the melodious crashing of the waves against the shore, seeing out of the corner of his eye you throwing your bra and your knickers on the only stool present, just over his boxers.

"The only good thing I've ever done in my entire life was protecting Felix, committing myself everyday to make him feel safe. I can't do anything else. It's a mission, a curse. My life revolves around him. And I know you love him, I can feel it, but it's hard to accept how easily he can get along without me. It's not about you, Y/N. But, what will be left to do for me then, if I lose the only thing that still makes me human?"

He's a tidal wave, sudden and unrestrainable, cataclysmic, sweeping away everything getting on its way.

"You've never been more human to my eyes than you are right now," you confess.

He gets closer, the superb gem still there, looking heavier, bigger, more blinding and menacing each time Chris avoids the distance between your exposed back and his covered chest, just enough to inhale sublime notes of lavender when your braid moves on your shoulders. The sillage trails him in a narcotic embrace that lulls his senses, dazing his lucidity, coaxing him to let his guards down, to swim towards the current, the trap, the end.

He brushes his lips gently on your nape, shivers mantling your skin when he places them on your neck, a weary butterfly dying on an autumn leaf.

"Lone wolf..." you say under your breath, paralyzed, afraid.

"What will be left to do for me, if I take the only thing that still makes him human?"

© cultlix, 2024. all rights reserved.

[tiramizuloz]

Sweet green adoration.ᐟ ˚˖𓍢ִ໋.⛰️⋆

summary: your crush on alhaitham has been eating you alive. with no hope that he likes you back you make your friend give him your letter of confession before you completly give up on him.

pairing : alhaitham x gn!reader

wc ~650, ''un''requited feelings, a tiny bit of angst , fluff, sumeru gang mentioned!!

The house of Daena was engulfed in comforting silence. warm sun rays streamed through the windows, gently falling on the white tiles. the hushed whispers of a group of students could be heard in the corner of the place. 'Kaveh, are you an idiot?!' you whispered loudly.

'No, look! I did what I could do!' he defended himself, throwing his arms in front of him. 'Telling him the letter was from me was not what I asked you to do!' you sighed and covered your face in embarrassment. 'Even If Kaveh hadn’t told him, he would have guessed it was from you.' Tighnari shook his head and continued reading his book. 

you huffed, knowing that Alhaitham was smart and could easily put two and two together, realizing that the letter was written by you. Your big crush on Alhaitham was obvious to all of your friends, even before you realized it yourself.

when Kaveh found out, he gave you a look that said 'What the hell is wrong with you?' and just sighed. Cyno and Tighnari had warned you beforehand that Alhaitham was not interested in dating or love. 

you already knew that, but you still held onto hope that your feelings could be reciprocated. The letter was your last shred of hope, and you told yourself, 'If he doesn't say anything about the letter, or worse, rejects me, I will just move on.' Looking back, you wished you had just given up and moved on without embarrassing yourself in front of him and your friends.

you still did it because you were captivated by him from the beginning. you could get lost in the way his soft grey hair falls or his features that seem to have been carefully carved by the archons themselves, oh and you love his fervent passion for reading. ever since you started your studies at the Akademiya, you haven't been able to stop thinking about him.

those bittersweet feelings of strong love for the man have begun to overtake you, and you finally pushed yourself to tell him how you feel, even if it was through your handwriting gently sweeping across the old paper you bought from a sweet lady at the Bazaar.

as you were lost in your thoughts, you felt something brushing against your leg. when you looked down, you saw Cyno's leg and he motioned towards something or someone in front of you. you looked up from the table and met Alhaitham’s teal colored eyes. 'Can you come with me? We need to talk,' he said, already walking away and expecting you to follow him.

you made eye contact with Kaveh, who gave you a thumbs up. you followed behind Alhaitham, his steady voice and words reverberating in your head. you could feel drops of sweat appearing on your forehead, your heartbeat beating faster and faster than before. you two were now at the entrance and he stopped and turned to you. 

you swallowed nervously, preparing yourself for the rejection you were sure was coming. he sighed loudly and looked straight into your eyes. you let your gaze wander across his face, because you know that may be the last time you do so. 'I appreciate the letter… as well as your sweet words that you wrote for me. I would be lying if I said I didn't know you looked at me that way,' he said.

you slowly nodded in response to his comments. he then took your hand in his. 'I... I like you too,' he said, surprising you. you tried to speak, but no sound came out. you moved your hands away from his and wrapped your arms around his neck.

his hands hung awkwardly at his sides, but he eventually put them on your waist and pulled you closer to him. a small, content smile spread across your face as you pressed your face against his neck.

all of your months hoping and praying that he becomes yours finally feel worth it.

© tiramizuloz all rights reserved. do not repost, modify, steal, plagiarize, or translate my works on any platform.

[crookedkryptonitebeliever]

Yandere Coworker (Part 16)

Thank you @i---believe---in---pink for commissioning this chapter.

(3443 words)

tw: afab reader, infantilization, nonconsensual touches from Cyprus, butchered Spanish, slight injury, violence, cyprus got pretty mad

Masterlists (+commission info), part 1, part 17

You twisted the knob and let the door creak open, the foreign noise made all parties quiet. From the gap, you peek out and see Cyprus, his mother, and another person standing by the doorframe, it seems like the stranger has tried to push their way in but couldn't succeed, thanks to Cyprus's hulking figure serving as an immovable gate.

Cyprus shot you a glare as he gestured for you to go back into the bathroom and close the door, he did so by jerking his head in the general direction of your original hiding place.

"Who's there?" The third voice was deceptively soft and kind, it couldn't be one of the voices shouting so fervently. It is feminine, and you immediately assume the worst; one of his insane exes is here. You made the smart move to retreat back and shut the door behind you, but you still pressed your ear against the barrier. It allowed you to listen to their muffled voices.

"Get the fuck out of my sight or we're calling the cops." Cyprus sounded aggressive with his guttural growl, which made you appreciate the way he speaks to you these days with the sweetest coos and murmurs.

"Who was that, Cyprus!?" You winced when the stranger let out a shrill shout. It is followed by the sound of struggling and yelling from Cyprus and his mother. It sounded violent, there was clattering of furniture and vague thudding, to which you can only deduce that the stranger is destroying the place and Cyprus is trying to stop it from happening.

There were panicked exclamations from Cyprus's mother amongst the chaos. In the end, you heard a slam so loud that it echoed throughout the apartment and caused the bathroom walls to reverberate. There was muffled screaming, but it was much softer than before; you assumed that Cyprus successfully shut the door on her. Aside from her deranged shouting, the living room was mostly quiet, and you deemed it safe enough to leave your safe refuge.

You cautiously opened the door and slipped out of the bathroom once more. The front door is locked, latched, and barricaded by a sofa. Cyprus is staying clear of the door, you could hear manic banging on it.

His mother is nowhere to be seen, but you hear her voice talking on the phone from her room. It sounds like she's talking to an emergency line operator.

Ignoring the frightening sounds of insanity outside, Cyprus calmly walked to you and firmly wrapped his arm around your waist. He pressed an assuring kiss on your head as he led you into his mother's bedroom. You asked him what was going on, and to that, he merely flashed you a smile. "Don't worry about it," Cyprus said as he shared a look with his mother before shutting the door behind him.

You saw his mother hastily walk to the door, blocking it with her body as if guarding it. All this while, she was still on the phone with the operator. You think that she's trying to stop you from getting out.

You took a few steps and decided to sit on a chair, it's probably not very safe to be outside anyway. You nervously wring your hands as your ears continued to pick up on the shouting and hitting. All you could do was pray that the police would be here soon, even if Cyprus is a professional boxer, his fists are no match with a bullet if she happens to be armed and dangerous.

You waited and waited. Somewhat grateful for the older woman's presence in the room. Even if she doesn't look like she could physically do much to protect you, the idea that she's willing to be a barrier between danger and yourself is heartwarming. Yet pitiful, she is only doing this because she perceived you to be the best option yet; she is paying for her son's atrocious taste in women.

The two of you waited, the operator stayed on the phone with her. You were sure that the stranger's havoc was audible enough for the microphone in her device to pick up.

It felt like eons before it slowly became softer and softer, you deduced the deranged woman somewhat lost interest and walked away. You sighed in relief but tensed up when you noticed Cyprus's mother was still not as calm as you like. She widened her eyes when she realized where you were sitting.

You let out a surprised exclamation when she suddenly grabbed you by the arm and pulled you away from your resting place.

Your questions are shortly answered with a deafening crash and tiny stings as shards of glass give you small, but painful cuts on your skin. His mother rushed to open the door, dragging you out of the room and pushing you into Cyprus's protective arms. He was eerily silent, staring at the cause of his mother's glass window shattering. You adjusted your head, so you could see past his muscular structure.

A rock. Not particularly large, it's smaller than the size of your palm, resting on the floor with glistening specks of broken glass illuminated by the lights above. Other than that, nothing seems to be amiss, except unintelligible, distressed yelling coming from outside.

The implications sent shivers down your spine, the three of you aren't on the ground floor. That means whoever Cyprus invoked the wrath of, was powerful enough to hurl a rock to break a window at this height. The fear subconsciously made you sink deeper into Cyprus for comfort, so he wrapped his arms around you tighter. He pressed numerous kisses on the crown of your head as he whispered words of assurance, but you were too occupied to register what he said.

After that, you heard a car alarm go off along with disordered metallic whacking and banging. You think she's in the process of destroying Cyprus's car; he, his mother, and you were hoping that the police would be here sooner. He sighed softly, you knew that he was angry and despondent, who wouldn't be, knowing that the vehicle that you bought with your hard-earned money was being eviscerated? However, Cyprus is clearly trying to control his temper around you, so as to not make any brash decisions to put you in harm's way. As shown by his enraged shaking. The idea of compromising your safety was the only thing stopping him from rushing down the fire stairs and beating her half to death.

His mother rubbed his arm to calm him further. She shared a sympathetic look with you.

-

The woman was long gone when the police arrived. It took almost all evening for them to gather evidence and everyone's statements. Dinner was long forgotten, the beer was at room temperature and his car was totaled; the offender managed to mar it so badly, it couldn't even start anymore. There were fluids of different colors and viscosity leaking out of his once functional vehicle, and Cyprus had to arrange for a flatbed tow truck.

You were treated for the minor cuts you sustained by the paramedics, Cyprus refused to leave you alone with them. Almost raising hell when one of them politely asked him to give you a bit of privacy, luckily you were there to tell them that you're fine with him being around to supervise.

His mother drove the two of you back to his apartment, Cyprus held the sourest look on his handsome face as he was in the foulest mood. It was so bad, that he didn't even care to touch you in any way nor did a sound leave his lips. His eyes are perpetually trained forward on the windshield, you don't think he blinked once; even if the headlights of another car were shining directly into his eyes.

You couldn't help but feel somewhat guilty, feeling like you caused all of this just because you're nosy. Maybe if you stayed still in the bathroom, his Ex wouldn't have done this much damage.

Luckily the drive wasn't that long. Before you felt too compelled to say something, his mother announced that she had reached your destination.

Cyprus gave her a curt goodbye before storming out of the car. But he didn't ascend the stairs yet, he merely loitered nearby to wait for you. His fingers are twitching, itching for a cigarette or ten. To quell his urges, he leaned against a wall and crossed his arms, letting himself steam in his fury. His steely eyes never left you, though.

You excused yourself and got out of the car too, in a much calmer way.

"Mija." She had her window rolled down. She gestured for you to come closer.

You did, and you received a maternal kiss on the cheek, a solemn goodbye for now.

You were about to pull away and return to Cyprus, but she held you by the wrist. You turned your head back to her, it appears that she has something more to say.

"He is not angry at you." She gave you a kind smile. "Please don't worry, my son loves you very much."

Was it obvious on your face? Either that, or she's a mind reader.

You dismissed yourself and walked up to him. His mother drove away and you hope that she gets home safely. No doubt, she's still shaken by that.

He uncrossed his arms and approached you too in large strides, spooking you. But he didn't do anything other than to tuck his arm under your knees, to carry your bridal style. This, of course, embarrassed you. So you protested, but it was quickly shut down when he shot you a threatening glare and barred his teeth, like a dog. You shrunk back and let him carry you up the stairs like this; perhaps this is his way of cooling off now, seeing that he doesn't want to break his smoke-free streak.

He unlocked the door, opened it, and immediately locked it behind him. Cyprus, despite all his anger, sets you down on the couch extremely gently. He marched off into the bathroom but he didn't close the door behind him as he merely washed his hands with soap. It didn't take long before he returned with clean, dry hands, You didn't even notice that he had set your medicated drops on your lap.

"Look up." You didn't dare to make a fuss, his tone was already strongly suggesting that he was not playing with you. He swiftly applied your eye drops before recapping them and putting them away.

You were rewarded a kiss on the forehead and a praise, "Good girl." He whispered softly as you squeezed your eyes shut. You wonder if he's just going to do this each time he administers your drug until you're cured.

Cyprus shot up and spent no time going to the kitchenette. You watched him prepare the utensils and ingredients he needed for tonight's dinner. You were curious why he would rather go through the trouble of doing so instead of ordering food delivery. But you weren't comfortable asking him that, so silence hung heavy in the air.

He looked exhausted, and you knew that there were an impossible number of thoughts behind those grey eyes that were concealed by the glare of his glasses. You felt some sympathy for him, after knowing a bit more about his history earlier.

As it turns out, the offender was indeed, an Ex of his. Cyprus has moved many times due to constant harassment from his previous lovers and the police's incompetence. She is one of them, but not the sole terror. She had found his mother first, and she was stalking her for months; around the time you and Cyprus became an item.

The woman tried to gain his mother's favor, leaving gifts, running errands for her, and trying to talk to her every chance she got, all to his mother's approval for their relationship and to know where his son was. It was completely inappropriate, that she would pretend to be incredibly close to his mother, following her to church gatherings and introducing everyone around as Cyprus's mother's daughter-in-law. This terrified his mother, but she was sadly used to it, as this wasn't the first or even the fifth Ex to do this.

She tried alerting Cyprus through texts or by calling him, but he has the bad habit of brushing her concerns off. His exes would usually lose interest in her over time and leave her alone without Cyprus's intervention. After you started "dating" him, she couldn't get a hold of him, as he was constantly too busy enjoying the healthiest love life he ever had. Cyprus knew if he had told her about you too soon, they would get into a fight; his mother would always assume the worst in his girlfriends no matter what he says now. That's why, he decided to surprise her with your existence earlier today.

As it turns out, the conversation that he had with her all afternoon was about you, gushing about how amazing of a person you are, telling her how happy you made him; and as his mother, she could see it. She could see that you are actually a positive force for her son. Someone entirely different from the types of monsters he would always attract. You're so lovely, so kind, so docile. She only wished that Cyprus would shut up for a while so she could tell him about the looming threat of one of his stalkers. But every time she tried to change the subject, Cyprus would cut her off and talk about you instead, too blinded by his infatuation with you to realize that he was foolish.

Alas, she could also see that her son loves you much, much more than you love him. Maybe that was the missing piece after all, that Cyprus is a giver, not a receiver. There is always a downside to everything, and in this case, it was the fact that you don't seem to want this relationship. But she thinks that can be worked around, she just needs to convince you to stay and she will try her damned hardest to do so. A mother wants nothing but to see her son happy and thriving.

In a sense, this was his fault. This is entirely his fault, you should be absolved of all blame. He should feel like crap, not you. Cyprus deserved this, if only he listened to his mother, if only he picked up his mother's phone call from time to time if only he hadn't stopped by at her apartment... if only he hadn't met you--

Your train of thought was broken by Cyprus nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck, greedily inhaling your scent as he trapped you in his arms. You made no move to stop him, to stop his fondling or kisses.

"Stop blaming yourself." He mumbled against your skin as he rubbed his hands over your thighs. You didn't deny it, because you knew that you did, no matter how much you tried to squash the guilt.

"It wasn't your fault." He continued, pulling you into his lap and resting his chin on your head. "And I'm not mad at you, so stop the pouting... even though you look so fucking cute doing that, I don't want my baby feeling bad about something she didn't do, or caused." His fingers were stroking your bandages covering the cuts from the glass shards, it was feathery and uncharacteristically gentle.

Just with that, you broke down into tears. Sobbing and gasping for air, it felt like your mind was acting separate from your body; as you told yourself to stop whatever it was you were doing, but your mouth kept spewing quivery apologies to Cyprus. You gripped hard onto his shirt and cried, wetting the fabric and making it cling to his chiseled chest.

You felt vibrations as he chuckled at your involuntary reaction. "Aw, come on, doll. I already said I wasn't mad at you." You felt his lips curl up into a smile.

You hid your face and whimpered, embarrassed and still guilty over what had happened. Cyprus coaxed your arm away from your face, and you saw him smirking down at you with such amusement.

"Is my baby still guilty?" He cooed, "Oh, you're such a sweet, selfless, kind girl. You're paying a price that wasn't meant for you... what can I do to take your pretty little mind off what happened, mi cielo?" He teasingly pinched your cheek. You wanted to slap his hand away, but you're still quite upset.

"¿Quieres un beso, hm?" His Spanish rolled effortlessly from his tongue, perhaps it was too fast for you to catch, so you were momentarily distracted from your despair. "No, ¿quieres muchos besos, mi corazón?"

He grinned widely when he saw that you were slowly coming off that loop of self-pity.

You stared at him dumbfoundedly. "Say 'Sí'."

You entertained his request, only to be attacked by a flurry of kisses on your face. You kicked your legs in the air, but it was futile. It's not slowing him down.

Cyprus ended it with a long, passionate press on your lips. He has his eyes closed and you close yours too, as you allow the bliss of the moment to wash the unease away. He slipped his hand under your shirt, caressing your bare flesh as he enjoyed the warmth you shared with him.

However, he pulled away. Earlier than usual, but he cupped your cheeks and pressed his forehead against yours. "Don't you ever feel bad for that bitch. I don't want you to feel any of this was your fault. I don't want you to feel pity for her and I don't want you to feel pity for me." He murmured.

"I can take care of myself, and I sure as hell can take care of you." He paused momentarily to give you a quick and playful peck on the lips. "I love you, baby. I'm never letting you go, no matter what. I don't fucking care what I have to do, I'm never leaving you and I'll go through hell to keep you if I have to." Cyprus gave the shell of your ear a sensual nibble, sending jolts down your spine.

You stayed still as he showered you in love for a minute, slowly recovering from earlier events and absorbing his words.

"Te amo." He whispered before mischievously blowing hot air into your ear, making you jerk away and whine. This merely made him laugh at your flustered face. "There's my girl, my whiny, weepy, baby doll."

You complained, telling him not to do that. He ignored it and smiled wider.

"Te amo." Said Cyprus.

You asked what that meant.

"Hm? You have to be specific, Cariño." He brought your hand to his lips, grazing them against your knuckles. "I said many things in Spanish, I won't know which one you're referring to unless you specify."

Te amo, you wanted to know what that meant. So you repeated it in front of him. And at that moment, you felt a sense of deja vu, but you pushed it away.

He chuckled and ruffled your hair. "Ya sé que sí." Cyprus suddenly tickled you on your sides, making you involuntarily show him a smile and letting him hear the peal of laughter he had been craving all day.

Suddenly, he firmly but lovingly pushed you off his lap, onto the couch and got up, because the pot containing tonight's dinner was bubbling over. Cyprus left the stove on for too long, too busy consoling you in his own bastard way to realize that it's making a mess.

"Shit!" He cussed, the dish was ruined. Unsalvageable from its mangled corpse, there is no way he's going to eat it, let alone feed you.

Usually, something like this would stress him out to the point he would have a whole pack of cigarettes for dinner instead. But ever since he had you, Cyprus has learned to laugh it off. Because you just had that effect on him, that calming effect that no nicotine or drug could give. It's quite literally, addicting.

He dumps the pot into the sink with a face that's visibly uplifted, a major improvement from before. Cyprus turned around and opened a cabinet, he stared at the contents for a while before looking back at you.

"Shrimp, chicken, or beef?" He asked while presenting three packages of instant noodles with three different flavors.

[buttercandy16]

Corrupted Vows

PAIRING(s): Nun!Agatha Harkness x Novice!Reader

SUMMARY: Sister Agatha, a revered nun with hidden desires, becomes obsessed with corrupting the pure-hearted novice under her care.

WARNING(s): Religious themes, manipulation, power imbalance, corruption, morally ambiguous behavior, and dark themes.

A/N: Sinful...

The abbey was cloaked in silence, its heavy stones steeped in centuries of prayer. The air was cool and faintly scented with wax and incense, a comforting cradle for your thoughts as you knelt in the chapel, whispering soft, fervent prayers to the Divine. It was your sanctuary—your refuge—until Sister Agatha arrived.

Her presence was undeniable, a velvet shadow slipping between the stained-glass windows and casting its allure over the sanctity of the room. There was something magnetic about her, something in the way her eyes lingered too long or her voice curled sweetly, like forbidden fruit on the tongue.

"You work tirelessly for your faith," she said, her voice low and tender. It startled you. You hadn’t heard her enter, but here she was, her face serene under her veil.

You looked up at her, blinking like a doe caught in lantern light. "I... It is my duty," you murmured, averting your eyes. Her gaze always felt too heavy, too piercing, as if she could read every stray thought that strayed from the righteous path.

Agatha smiled, stepping closer. Her robe whispered against the floor, brushing the silence aside. She reached out to tilt your chin upward with a gloved finger, forcing you to meet her eyes. "Duty," she repeated softly, as if tasting the word. "Such a heavy burden for someone so young, so delicate."

You flinched slightly under her touch but didn’t pull away. You told yourself it was respect, but deep down, the fluttering in your stomach betrayed an unease you didn’t understand.

"I was praying," you said quickly, retreating to the safety of your well-rehearsed habits. "For strength and for wisdom."

"Strength," Agatha mused. "Wisdom." Her fingers slid from your chin, lingering against your cheek, too intimate to be innocent. "Those are noble requests, my dear. But are you sure that’s what you truly need?"

Your eyes darted downward. "I... don’t understand."

She knelt beside you on the pew, her presence warm and overwhelming. "Do you think the Divine asks us to deny the very desires They instilled within us?" Her voice was velvet, an insidious comfort.

You froze, your mind reeling. "Sister... we are taught to resist temptation. To walk in the light."

Agatha chuckled, a low, melodious sound that felt sinful in itself. "Temptation is not the enemy, child. It's a lesson. To feel it, to embrace it, is to truly understand your faith. How can you resist what you do not know?"

Her hand brushed against yours, her fingers curling softly around it. Your breath hitched at the contact, a pang of guilt piercing through your chest even as you remained motionless.

"Sister Agatha..." you whispered, unsure of whether you were protesting or pleading.

"Shh," she soothed, stroking the back of your hand. "You work so hard, always giving, always sacrificing. But what have you been given? What warmth, what love, have you received for your devotion? Tell me."

You felt tears sting your eyes. It wasn’t something you’d allowed yourself to dwell on, but her words cut too close to a hidden wound. "The love of God is all I need."

"Is it?" she murmured, her lips close to your ear. "Then why do you look so lost, so lonely? Faith is powerful, yes. But it is not enough to fill a heart meant for more."

You shuddered, her breath warm against your skin, her grip firm now, anchoring you. "I’m not lonely," you insisted, but your voice cracked under the weight of the lie.

Her lips brushed the shell of your ear, not quite a kiss, but enough to leave you trembling. "Let me show you what it means to be truly loved, to be truly seen. The Divine isn’t just in the light, my dear. The shadow holds Its secrets, too."

For a moment, you were caught in her thrall, her words weaving a web of doubts and dangerous possibilities. But when she pulled back, her smile was soft, her eyes tender. "Think on my offer, little one. I’ll wait for your answer."

As she stood and left the chapel, her departure was like a storm receding, leaving you adrift in its wake. The air was colder without her, and the familiar silence of the abbey felt suffocating.

You clasped your hands tightly, bowing your head once more, but the words of your prayer faltered, her voice and touch lingering too deeply.

Somewhere in the depths of your soul, a seed of doubt had been planted. And Agatha, with all her charm and shadowed intentions, would be patient.

You lingered in the chapel longer than you should have that night, trying to exorcise the memory of her voice, the whisper of her touch. But even as you murmured prayers to drown her out, her presence clung to you like incense smoke—heavy, invasive, intoxicating.

When you finally left, the halls of the abbey were silent, save for the soft patter of your footsteps. You paused outside your cell, hesitating before entering. It felt too small, too quiet. The walls pressed in, as if they were accusing you. But of what? You had done nothing.

You thought sleep would bring respite, but it didn’t. Dreams came instead, vivid and strange: Agatha’s voice echoing, her hands on yours, guiding, possessing. The darkness around her swallowed everything, and you couldn’t stop walking toward her.

When you woke, sweat clung to your skin, your heart racing like you’d been running. The morning bells tolled, and you hurried to begin your duties, your shame a constant specter at your side.

But she found you again—of course, she did. She always found you.

This time, it was in the garden. The sun had dipped below the horizon, the twilight air cool against your skin. You were trimming roses in silence when her shadow fell over you.

"Good evening, little lamb."

You stiffened at the sound of her voice but didn’t turn to face her. "Sister Agatha," you said, trying to keep your tone even, though your hands trembled on the shears.

"You’ve been avoiding me."

It wasn’t a question. She stepped closer, her hands clasped in front of her, the picture of serene authority. "Do I frighten you?"

"No," you lied, swallowing hard.

Her fingers trailed over a rosebush as she watched you with that predatory gaze. "Good. Because I see something in you, something… untapped."

"Sister, please," you said, voice shaky as you turned to face her. "I don’t understand why you keep… saying these things."

"Don’t you?" Her voice was silk, sliding under your skin. She moved closer, invading your space, the scent of her—warm and faintly spiced—intoxicating. "You’re a bright little spark trapped in stone, and I cannot stand to see you dim yourself. Your God does not demand you be less than you are. Why should they?"

Her words struck a chord, unearthing a bitterness you didn’t even know you’d buried. You flinched, and she saw it—she always saw too much.

"I’m fine as I am," you said weakly, trying to step back, but she caught your wrist, her grip firm.

"No," she said, her voice darker now, carrying an undercurrent of steel. "You’re not."

The gentle tenderness in her face twisted into something sharper, a mask cracking to reveal the dangerous power beneath. "You’re wasting your light here, giving yourself to something that cannot love you the way you deserve. Why do you punish yourself for wanting more? Why do you fear me when I am offering you freedom?"

"Because it’s wrong," you whispered, though the words felt hollow even as you spoke them.

She tilted her head, her grip on your wrist tightening just enough to send a shiver of unease through you. "Is it wrong to want what you’ve been denied? To step out of the shadows of guilt and into the arms of someone who sees you—truly sees you?"

Your breath hitched as she stepped closer still, her other hand rising to cup your cheek. The look in her eyes pinned you in place, a storm threatening to engulf you. "You know it already," she whispered. "Deep down, you’ve always known. All you need is someone to take your hand and lead you to the truth."

Her lips brushed against your forehead, light and reverent like a prayer. You shuddered, frozen under her touch. "I can give you everything you’ve ever denied yourself," she murmured, her voice heavy with promise—and threat.

Her hands fell away suddenly, leaving you cold and bereft. She stepped back, her expression softening, though her eyes remained predatory. "The choice is yours," she said, turning to leave. "But I’ll make it simple. Tonight, after Compline, come to the east tower." She paused, her smile slow and wicked. "Or don’t. We’ll see if your devotion is as pure as you think."

You stood there trembling as she disappeared into the shadows, the roses around you whispering in the wind. For the first time since you’d taken your vows, you didn’t feel safe within the abbey walls. Worse still, you weren’t sure if you wanted to.

You couldn’t focus during Compline. Your lips formed the words of the prayers, but your heart wasn’t in them. Every moment dragged, the solemnity of the abbey’s rituals weighing on you like chains.

And through it all, the thought of her lingered. The east tower.

Your mind swirled with doubt, fear, and something darker—something you refused to name. Every warning from your teachings echoed in your ears, but they felt distant, drowned out by the sound of her voice, the memory of her touch.

When the prayers ended, and the sisters began retiring to their cells, you hesitated. Your legs felt like they belonged to someone else as they carried you through the dim corridors, each step a betrayal of everything you’d vowed to uphold.

The east tower loomed ahead, its staircase spiraling up into darkness. You paused at the base, your breath coming in shallow gasps. This was your moment to turn back, to prove you were stronger than whatever spell she’d cast over you.

But something deeper pushed you onward.

The climb was silent save for the soft shuffle of your shoes on the stone steps. The air grew colder the higher you went, the shadows darker. When you reached the top, you hesitated again, your hand hovering over the heavy wooden door.

Before you could knock, the door creaked open on its own. She was waiting for you.

The room was dimly lit, a single candle casting flickering shadows across the walls. Sister Agatha stood by the window, her back to you, the moonlight outlining her figure. She didn’t turn as she spoke.

"I wondered if you’d come." Her voice was calm, almost pleased.

You stepped inside, your throat dry. "Why did you ask me to come here?"

She turned then, her expression unreadable, her sharp eyes cutting through the low light. "Because I couldn’t bear to see you suffocating any longer," she said simply, stepping closer. "You’re meant for more than this, little lamb. And I mean to show you."

Your back hit the door as you instinctively stepped away from her. "This isn’t right. It—it’s not what God wants."

She laughed softly, a sound that felt cruel in its mockery. "And who told you that? The priests? The abbess? Have you ever asked God what they want, or do you simply recite the rules you’ve been given like a good, obedient servant?"

Her words cut deep, stirring something rebellious and bitter in your heart. Still, you shook your head, clinging to the shreds of your convictions. "No. I—I have faith."

"Do you?" she challenged, now only inches away from you. Her hand lifted, brushing against your cheek again, her touch electric. "If you had true faith, why are you here? Why are you trembling?"

You didn’t have an answer.

Her other hand slid to your waist, holding you firmly but not cruelly. "The truth, my sweet little lamb, is that you’re afraid. Not of me, not even of sin, but of the freedom I can give you. Because freedom is terrifying, isn’t it?"

Her grip tightened slightly, her lips so close to your ear you could feel the heat of her breath. "You could leave right now," she whispered. "I wouldn’t stop you. But we both know you won’t, don’t we?"

Your breath hitched, tears springing to your eyes as you fought against the war raging in your chest. She pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, her face softening as she saw the conflict within you.

"I don’t want to break you, my lamb," she murmured, her voice strangely tender now. "I want to save you. From this place. From this life. From yourself."

Her lips hovered over yours, an unspoken question hanging in the air between you. She didn’t move, didn’t take the choice from you.

It was yours to make.

You closed your eyes, your head swimming, every nerve in your body screaming for you to decide—to turn away or to fall.

You stood at the edge of a precipice, the storm of emotions inside you threatening to consume you. Every teaching, every prayer you’d clung to in your short life wavered, fragile as the flame of the candle flickering behind Agatha.

You opened your eyes, and her face was still there, so close, her gaze unyielding. She was waiting—patient, confident—but her eyes betrayed something else: hunger. She wanted you to choose her, to step willingly into the darkness she offered.

Your lips parted, trembling as your breath mingled with hers. And in that moment, you let go.

You leaned forward, barely aware of the decision, and your lips brushed hers, soft and tentative. Agatha let out a soft hum of satisfaction, her hands tightening on your waist as she deepened the kiss. It was overwhelming—her warmth, her touch, her control—and for a moment, the world around you dissolved.

When she pulled back, her eyes burned with triumph, her smile wicked. "There, now," she murmured, her voice dripping with honeyed sin. "That wasn’t so difficult, was it?"

You staggered slightly as she released you, the weight of what you’d done crashing over you. Your fingers went to your lips, trembling, as the shame seeped in.

"I—I shouldn’t have—" you stammered, taking a step back, but Agatha caught your wrist and pulled you to her with a strength that belied her graceful demeanor.

"Hush," she whispered, her fingers threading through your hair as she tilted your head back to force you to meet her gaze. "No more lies, little one. Not to me, and not to yourself. You came here because you wanted this. You needed it."

"I… I don’t…" The words faltered, your resolve crumbling under the weight of her conviction.

Agatha’s hand moved to your throat, her touch firm but gentle, her thumb brushing along your pulse point. "Don’t fight it," she murmured, her tone soothing. "You’ve been caged your whole life, chained by rules and guilt that were never yours to carry. I’m not asking you to abandon your faith. I’m offering you something truer—something deeper."

Her lips found yours again, this time demanding, devouring. You tried to resist the pull of her darkness, but every part of you betrayed you, leaning into her, clinging to her. You hated the way her touch made you feel alive in a way that prayer never had, hated the fire it ignited deep in your chest.

When she finally broke the kiss, her hands still cradling your face, her expression was softer, though no less commanding. "You belong to me now," she said simply, her voice like the closing of a door. "Body, soul, everything. Say it."

You shook your head weakly, tears spilling down your cheeks. "I can’t…"

Her thumb brushed away your tears, her gaze unfaltering. "You already have, my lamb. You just haven’t admitted it yet." She leaned close, her voice lowering to a whisper. "Say it, and I’ll show you a world beyond the walls of this prison. Refuse, and you’ll stay trapped, forever haunted by the taste of freedom you denied yourself."

Her words wrapped around your mind like chains, pulling you deeper into her orbit. You were drowning, and she was the only hand reaching to pull you out—but into what?

The words left your lips before you fully realized you’d spoken them, trembling and quiet: "I… I belong to you."

Agatha smiled, her eyes gleaming with victory. She pressed a kiss to your forehead, reverent in its tenderness. "Good girl," she purred. "Now, the real work begins."

Her hand slid to yours, her fingers entwining with your own, and she led you toward the window, the cool night air washing over you as she opened it. The moon hung low in the sky, full and luminous, casting everything in shades of silver and shadow.

"This world," she said, her voice soft yet commanding, "is far darker than they’ve prepared you for. But don’t fear it. It is only in the darkness that we find the truest light."

You stared out into the night, your heart pounding as her words sank in. You couldn’t go back now. Even if you wanted to, the part of you that craved her, that had always longed for something more, was awake.

Agatha stepped behind you, her arms wrapping around your waist as she rested her chin on your shoulder. "It will hurt," she said quietly, her voice almost tender. "Transformation always does. But I’ll be there for every moment, shaping you, remaking you. Until the only chains left are the ones you choose."

And as the wind swept through the open window, carrying the scent of freedom and danger, you closed your eyes and let yourself fall.

The following nights became a blur of shadows and secrecy, a rhythm you couldn’t break, even if you had wanted to. Agatha’s hold on you tightened with every encounter, her presence an intoxicating blend of tenderness and cruelty that left you more disoriented with each passing day.

She began isolating you in subtle ways—requesting your assistance during communal prayers, leading you to walk with her when the others gathered, always ensuring your focus remained solely on her. At first, you told yourself it was coincidence, but deep down, you knew better.

One night, she summoned you again to the east tower, her presence colder now, sharper. You hesitated at the threshold, the memories of her touch pulling you forward even as your instincts screamed to turn back.

The candlelight illuminated her silhouette, and for the first time, the shadows in the room seemed alive, flickering and dancing unnaturally. Her voice was soft when she spoke, but there was no warmth in it. "You came," she said. It wasn’t a question.

"You… asked for me," you murmured, your voice weak and brittle as you stepped inside.

"I did," she said, turning to face you. Her gaze pierced through you, her expression unreadable but heavy with something sinister. "And you came because you belong to me, don’t you?"

Your mouth opened to reply, but the words caught in your throat.

Agatha stepped closer, the air around her charged with something oppressive. "Say it," she commanded, her voice low and firm.

"I belong to you," you whispered, your voice barely audible, and yet it echoed in the silence of the tower.

Her smile was slow, almost predatory. She reached for you, her fingers brushing over your cheek. The touch felt colder tonight, no longer tender but claiming. "Good girl. You’re learning."

She turned abruptly, moving toward a small table in the corner of the room. You hadn’t noticed it before—though how could you have missed it? On it lay a single black book, its cover worn and marked with strange symbols, and a slender dagger glinting faintly in the candlelight.

"You’ve prayed to the Divine all your life," she said, her back to you as she traced a finger over the book’s spine. "And yet, here you are—willingly giving yourself to something far darker. Do you know why?"

You swallowed hard, unable to answer.

She turned, her eyes burning with something unholy. "Because your prayers were never enough. Because no matter how pure you tried to be, there was always that voice in your head, wasn’t there? The one that whispered of things you could never name. Desires you buried. Pleasures you denied."

You shook your head, your breath shallow. "I—no, I’ve always been faithful."

"Faithful," she said mockingly, her voice cutting like glass. "And yet, you’re here. Kneeling before me as if I’m your god. Isn't that what you’ve always wanted? Not salvation, but surrender."

Her words wrapped around you like chains, binding you tighter as she stepped closer, the book now in her hands. "I told you before, my lamb, that transformation would hurt." She set the book down, her eyes never leaving yours. "Tonight, we begin."

You took a step back, dread pooling in your stomach. "What do you mean?"

Agatha smiled, a dark, cruel thing. "This innocence you cling to—it’s a lie. And I will burn it away until there’s nothing left of the girl you were. Only then will you be truly mine."

Her fingers wrapped around your wrist, her grip ironclad as she dragged you to the table. The dagger glinted ominously as she pressed it into your trembling hands.

"Cut away the veil," she whispered, her voice a velvet command. "Offer a piece of yourself, not to the Divine, but to me. Show me your devotion, your true faith."

You shook your head, tears streaming down your face as you tried to pull away, but her grip was unrelenting. "I—I can’t—"

"Yes, you can," she hissed, her gaze unyielding. "Because I own you. And you will prove it."

The blade trembled in your hand, the weight of her gaze suffocating you. Your mind screamed to resist, but your body obeyed her command, as if your will no longer belonged to you.

You pressed the edge against your palm, the sharp pain bringing a gasp to your lips as a thin line of blood welled up. Agatha’s smile widened, triumphant.

"Good girl," she purred, taking your hand in hers and holding it over the book. The blood dripped onto the ancient text, the crimson stark against the dark leather.

You collapsed to your knees.

You knelt there, trembling, clutching the blade in your hands as the tension in the room suffocated you. The glint of metal against your bloodied palms seemed more symbolic than dangerous—a mark of your crumbling will, etched into flesh by your own choices.

Agatha’s presence loomed above you, her hand resting on your shoulder in a gesture that was almost comforting, though it carried no warmth. Her grip tightened slightly, possessive, reminding you that there was no escape, even if you wanted to flee.

"There’s no power in that blade," she said softly, her voice carrying the same chill as the cold stone beneath your knees. "The only power here is mine. And the only reason it matters is because I have chosen to give it to you."

You looked up at her, your tear-streaked face illuminated by the pale candlelight. There was no trace of kindness left in her expression. Her features were serene but unnervingly controlled, as though her emotions were held behind a wall, deliberate and impenetrable.

"What… what do you want from me?" you whispered.

Her hand slid from your shoulder to your chin, tilting your face so your gaze met hers. Her smile was faint, and the silence stretched uncomfortably before she finally spoke.

"I want everything."

The words settled heavily between you, an undeniable truth wrapped in her commanding tone.

"You cling to these walls, these prayers, as if they’ll save you from what you truly desire. But deep down, you know they won’t. No one here will." She leaned closer, her eyes fixed on yours, her voice low and intimate. "I am the only one who sees you for what you really are, and you can’t bear to look away. Admit it."

"I don’t understand," you stammered, though you did. You understood perfectly, but admitting it would mean giving her the power she claimed—and more terrifyingly, that she already wielded.

Agatha chuckled softly, a sound devoid of humor. "Oh, but you do. You came here tonight, not out of fear or obligation, but because you wanted to." Her fingers trailed lightly down your cheek, a touch that sent shivers of confusion and guilt through you.

"I came because—"

"—because you couldn’t stop thinking about me," she interrupted smoothly. Her confidence was unnerving, like a hunter closing in on its prey. "Every word, every touch, every breath I take has haunted you, hasn’t it? And now, here you are, begging me for something you don’t even have the courage to name."

Your throat tightened, the air in the room too thick to breathe. "This isn’t right," you said, the words barely audible, more for yourself than for her.

She smirked. "Isn’t it? Who defines what’s right? The same voices that told you to suppress your desires, to live in quiet servitude while they hold the power over your life? Or is it me—the only one who truly knows you?"

Her grip on your chin firmed, and her voice dropped, colder, sharper. "Don’t play the innocent with me. I see you, really see you, and you disgust yourself because I am everything you can’t admit to wanting."

The truth of her words struck like a slap, and you flinched.

Agatha released your face and straightened, towering above you as she studied your trembling form. "Stand," she commanded, her tone brooking no argument.

You hesitated, but the force of her gaze compelled you. Your legs wavered as you stood, and she stepped closer, her body almost brushing yours.

"You are not leaving this room until you admit the truth," she said, her tone deceptively calm. "And it isn’t the blade that will cut away the lies—it’s me."

She circled you slowly, her eyes never leaving you as you stood frozen in place. Every step she took amplified the weight in your chest, the humiliation of her scrutiny unraveling you piece by piece.

"I could break you," she said, her voice a cruel whisper in your ear. "I could shatter every illusion you have of yourself and leave you as nothing but a hollow vessel for me to fill. But that’s not what I want."

Her hands rested on your shoulders now, firm but strangely gentle. "What I want," she continued, her lips brushing the shell of your ear, "is for you to choose me, willingly. Because deep down, we both know you already have."

The words hit you like a knife to the chest. She was right. Every action, every choice you’d made up to this moment had been in her favor. You hadn’t fought; you hadn’t resisted.

And she knew it.

"I… I don’t know who I am anymore," you choked out, tears spilling freely now, and you hated the way her touch steadied you, grounding you in the chaos she’d created.

Her lips curved into a smile against your skin, predatory and satisfied. "That’s the first true thing you’ve said all night," she murmured.

Her hands slid from your shoulders to your arms, holding you firmly as she stepped in front of you again. "But you will, little lamb," she promised, her tone softening into something almost tender. "Because I will tell you who you are."

And for the first time, you felt the chains wrap around you—not of her making, but of your own submission.

Her hands never left your arms as she held you firmly in place, her piercing gaze locking you in place as surely as iron shackles. The dim candlelight flickered in the space between you, shadows licking at the edges of the room as if they too were captivated by her presence.

"You've fought so hard to hold onto this idea of innocence," she murmured, her voice as soft as a prayer, yet laced with wickedness. "But innocence is nothing more than ignorance dressed in virtue. And you, my sweet lamb… you crave knowledge. Don’t you?"

"I don’t—" you began, but her fingers moved, brushing down your arms, and the words faltered in your throat. The touch was slow, deliberate—a map being drawn along your skin, one line at a time.

"Shh," she interrupted, her voice almost soothing. "No lies, little one. Not now, not after you've already given me so much."

Her hands found your waist, fingers pressing lightly against the fabric of your habit. She tugged you closer with such ease, you wondered if you had moved yourself. Her breath was warm against your cheek as she leaned in, her lips hovering near your ear.

"Tell me," she whispered, her voice low and intoxicating, "what does it feel like to surrender?"

You shook your head, though it was more a reflex than defiance. "I haven’t—"

"Oh, but you have," she said, her tone firm now, almost chiding. "Every time you step into this room, every moment you stand here shaking under my gaze… every time you look at me like that."

"Like what?" you asked, though you hated the desperate note that crept into your voice.

"Like you’re mine," she answered easily. Her hands slid upward, brushing over your ribs, her fingertips grazing the edges of your vulnerability with surgical precision. "And you are, aren't you?"

"I don’t know," you managed, the tears welling up again as your mind swam with confusion and guilt—and something else, something that simmered low in your stomach and climbed higher every time she touched you.

"Let me make it simple for you," she said, her tone gentler now, like a teacher coaxing a student toward understanding. One hand moved to your chin, tilting your face up so you couldn’t avoid her eyes. "Obedience. Faith. Devotion. That’s what they’ve told you your life is meant for, isn’t it?"

You nodded shakily, unsure why you were even answering.

"Good." Her thumb brushed over your lips, a fleeting touch that left you breathless. "Then let this be your new faith. Me. Let this be your devotion: giving yourself entirely to what you feel, without shame. Let me show you the freedom they would deny you."

Her other hand traced the line of your back, her nails grazing your skin through the thin layers of cloth. The sensation was subtle but electric, sending a shiver down your spine that you couldn’t suppress.

"I don’t want to hurt you," she continued, though her voice carried a weight that made you wonder if that was entirely true. "But if that’s what it takes to strip you bare—of your innocence, your guilt, your denial—then I will."

Her lips brushed yours, featherlight but deliberate, and you froze. The kiss lingered there, her proximity overwhelming, her breath mingling with yours until it felt like there was no air left for either of you.

"You don’t have to fight anymore," she whispered against your lips. "Just say the word, and I’ll give you what you’ve been too afraid to ask for."

And yet, she didn’t move closer. She didn’t take that final step, leaving you in the suffocating limbo she’d created. The decision, cruelly and mercifully, was yours.

Her eyes bore into yours, expectant, unyielding. "Say it, lamb," she commanded softly, her hands now resting just above your hips, firm yet still offering the illusion of gentleness.

"I…" You hesitated, the war raging inside you as tears blurred your vision. Everything about this moment felt like a plunge into something you could never return from—a fall orchestrated solely by her hands.

"Say it," she urged again, her voice growing darker, less patient. Her grip tightened slightly, her fingers digging into your flesh just enough to remind you that she held all the control here.

You closed your eyes, trembling as your lips formed the words you hadn’t realized you’d been waiting to say. "I’m yours."

And as the room fell silent, save for the sound of your uneven breathing, Agatha smiled.

"My sweet lamb," she murmured, her voice dripping with satisfaction. "Now… we begin."

Her lips claimed yours then, not tender or patient, but consuming, pulling you deeper into her grasp as her hands explored every vulnerability she could find. Her touch was both a reward and a punishment, each movement calculated to dismantle what little resistance you had left.

Agatha Harkness was nothing if not thorough.

Agatha’s lips moved with calculated precision, coaxing you deeper into the moment as her hands roamed your body—not rushed, not hurried, but deliberate, every touch a claim that made your skin burn under the weight of her possession.

Her kiss was all-consuming, and in it, you felt the dissolution of everything you thought you knew about yourself. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t affection. It was domination veiled in intimacy, her way of branding you in a way no eyes could see but that you would feel forever.

Her hands slid up your sides, her touch searing through the thin fabric of your habit. She gripped your shoulders with gentle force, breaking the kiss to study your face, her eyes dark and unrelenting.

"Look at me," she commanded, her voice like velvet laced with steel.

You tried to avert your gaze, overwhelmed by the intensity of her stare, but she tilted your chin up, forcing your eyes to meet hers.

"No hiding now, little lamb," she said, her tone soft but laced with warning. "I want you to feel every part of this. Every piece of the girl you were falling away until there’s nothing left but my creation."

Her words sliced through the silence, leaving you vulnerable and exposed. She wasn’t asking for your consent; she’d already claimed it in every moment leading to this. The tension in the room was unbearable, the candlelight throwing long shadows that seemed to stretch toward you like witnesses to your undoing.

Her fingers traced along the neckline of your habit, her touch maddeningly slow as if savoring your trembling beneath her hands. "This," she murmured, brushing the fabric lightly, "is a shroud. A shield you think protects you from the world—and yourself. But all it does is hide who you really are."

She began to undo it, each motion deliberate, giving you ample time to stop her—not that she believed for a second that you would. And you didn’t. You stood frozen, paralyzed by equal parts shame and desire as the heavy fabric slipped from your shoulders, pooling at your feet like an offering.

Agatha stepped back, her eyes dragging over you with an expression that made your stomach twist into knots. It wasn’t hunger in her gaze; it was victory, as if stripping you of your barriers was the real prize she sought.

"Look at you," she whispered, her voice low and almost reverent. "Do you feel it yet? The freedom? The weightlessness of leaving behind the person you were forced to be?"

You wrapped your arms around yourself instinctively, your shame warring with the part of you that longed to be seen by her—truly seen.

"None of that," she said sharply, stepping forward and prying your arms away. "You are mine now, body and soul. You will not hide from me."

Her hands found your waist again, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. Her lips brushed against your ear as she whispered, "This is where you belong. With me. No prayer, no god, no doctrine will ever make you feel this alive."

Your heart hammered in your chest, your breathing uneven as her words sank deep into your mind like hooks. You wanted to argue, to plead for some semblance of salvation, but there was none left—not in this room, not in her grasp.

"I’ll ask you one last time," Agatha said, her voice softening slightly as she pulled back to look into your eyes. "Will you give yourself to me completely? Without hesitation, without shame?"

You swallowed hard, the enormity of her question pressing down on you. She wasn’t asking for a fleeting moment of vulnerability. She wanted everything—every part of you, stripped bare and given over willingly.

Your lips parted, the words hanging on the edge of your breath.

"I will," you whispered, the final crack in the dam holding you together.

Agatha’s smile was dark and all-encompassing, her hands tightening their hold on you. She leaned in, her lips hovering over yours as she murmured, "Good girl."

And then, she took you fully—not gently, not kindly, but with the same measured cruelty that defined her every action. She unraveled you piece by piece, her touch leaving marks on your skin and mind that no prayer could ever erase.

This was her victory, and you knew it. You were hers, entirely and irrevocably.

The room was cloaked in an oppressive stillness. The air felt heavier now, the flickering candlelight casting warped shadows on the stone walls. You sat on the cold floor, your limbs heavy and your mind a hollow, swirling abyss. Agatha remained poised beside you, her presence as dominating as ever, though her silence held a suffocating weight.

"You’re trembling," she murmured, her tone deceptively soft as she reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your sweat-slicked brow. Her fingertips lingered just a moment too long, a constant reminder that nothing about this closeness was accidental.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Words had abandoned you, slipping from your grasp as thoroughly as your innocence had.

Agatha exhaled slowly, her fingers tipping your chin upward, forcing your eyes to meet hers once more. Her expression was unreadable, her gaze piercing. She searched your face as if savoring the wreckage she’d left behind.

"I expected more fight," she said casually, though the faint curl of a smirk betrayed her satisfaction. "But no… you gave me everything. So easily, so completely."

You swallowed hard, but your voice refused to rise. The fire you once thought would guide you had been extinguished, replaced by something raw and consuming. Shame twisted in your stomach, mingling with the dark thrill that you hated to admit still simmered beneath your skin.

"How does it feel, little lamb?" Agatha asked, her voice a mockery of concern. "Knowing there’s no part of you I don’t own now? No thought, no desire, no boundary that belongs to anyone but me?"

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away, refusing to give her that final triumph. And yet, the words spilled from your lips before you could stop them.

"I feel… nothing," you whispered hoarsely.

Her smile deepened, a mix of condescension and triumph as she cupped your face in both hands, forcing you to hold her gaze. "Oh, but you will," she purred, her tone laced with an unsettling intimacy. "What you feel now is fear. Emptiness. But that’s what I want. I’ve stripped you down to the core, burned away all those useless pieces of you until there’s nothing left but… potential."

Her hands dropped, and she stood, her towering form casting a long shadow over you as you remained kneeling at her feet. "And now," she continued, her voice taking on a sharper edge, "we begin the process of rebuilding. Of shaping you into exactly what I need. What I want."

She turned, walking leisurely toward the small table in the corner. Your habit lay crumpled nearby, and she picked it up with a slight sneer, letting it dangle from her fingers as though it was a discarded shell.

"This no longer suits you," she remarked, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade. She dropped the fabric back to the floor and gestured toward the remnants of your previous self. "These trappings of piety, of humility—they’re meaningless now, don’t you think?"

You stared at the crumpled garment, your mind struggling to reconcile the life it represented with the one Agatha had forced you into.

When you didn’t answer, she stepped closer, her shoes clicking softly against the stone. Her fingers trailed over your shoulder, down your arm, sending shivers through your exhausted frame. "Speak," she demanded, her voice suddenly sharp enough to make you flinch. "Do not make me ask again."

"They are meaningless," you said quietly, the words like lead on your tongue.

Her smirk returned, and she crouched before you, her face inches from yours. "Good girl," she murmured, brushing her thumb over your cheek. "I knew you’d come to understand. But remember this—what you are now is not a failure. It’s freedom. Every choice from now on is mine to make for you, but it will feel like it’s yours. Do you understand?"

You nodded hesitantly, and her smirk turned into a full, wolfish grin. "Wonderful."

She stood again, but her hand lingered, tangling in your hair for a moment too long. Her grip tightened slightly, enough to send a spike of fear through your chest before she released you.

"You’ve pleased me tonight," Agatha said, turning to face the door, her silhouette regal and unyielding. "But know this—pleasure is earned. And obedience is only the beginning."

She turned back toward you, her gaze pinning you where you knelt. "Clean yourself up," she said, her tone now cold and commanding. "And tomorrow, you will come to me for your next lesson."

With that, she swept from the room, the sound of the heavy wooden door closing behind her echoing in the suffocating silence.

You remained on the floor, trembling in the dim light, the imprint of her words—and her touch—burned into your skin and soul. For the first time in your life, you felt unmoored, untethered to anything but her.

And as you reached for your discarded garments, you realized with a sickening clarity that you no longer wanted to resist.

_-_-_

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[ru8yx]

Jeremy from A Stepmother’s Märchen fluff headcanons please 💕

JEREMY VON NEUSCHWANSTEIN X READER

Jeremy, bound by the unbreakable ties of unwavering loyalty, stood beside you like a steadfast sentinel, ready to come to your defense at a moment's notice.

Scandal, gossip, or accusations held no sway over him, as his devotion to you remained unshakeable.

No matter the situation or the challenges that arose, Jeremy would be your first line of defense, unyielding and resolute in his allegiance.

When Jeremy falls for someone, his heart is consumed by an eternal devotion.

He believes that you truly deserve the world, even if your desires may seem peculiar. Your words, no matter how outlandish, become a melody of beauty to his ears.

Even if your affections may be elsewhere, his love remains unwavering.

He fervently prays for your happiness, knowing that genuine love is about selflessness, and he finds contentment in serving as your guide and supporter, no matter who your heart may ultimately choose.

Jeremy, devoted to your safety and honor, will fiercely defend you against any noble, regardless of their status.

Should even the slightest suggestion of misconduct arise, he would not hesitate to unsheathe his sword in retaliation.

The noble offender would not only face a battle against steel but also a public humiliation, as Jeremy would ensure that the offender's transgressions are exposed for all to see.

Jeremy's protective nature and unwavering loyalty ensure that no harm shall come your way, and he will fiercely guard your safety at all costs.

Jeremy, upon glimpsing you, would instantly push aside any sense of exhaustion. He would rush to your side, his gaze filled with tender affection and curiosity.

Gently lifting your hand, he would bring your knucklesto his lips, all that while maintaining a warm and intimate gaze.

His eyes would speak volumes of admiration and devotion, their intensity mirrored in the slight tremble of his lips as he bestowed a gentle kiss upon your hand.

In that moment, time would stand still as he savored the connection and inquired about the details of your day.

Jeremy would pay meticulous attention to every facet of your being, taking notice of even the smallest details.

He would present you with exquisite jewelry that reflected his own features, adorned in the same shades of verdant green and golden hues.

With these gifts, he aimed to silently proclaim to both you and the other nobles that he held a special place in your heart.

He envisioned himself as your devoted partner, the one who would greet you with a smile each morning, offer solace in times of sorrow, and stand steadfastly by your side as your adoring husband.

Jeremy longed for the sight of you and his family bonding as one, sharing moments of genuine happiness and laughter.

The thought of you forming a relationship with his younger siblings and stepmother filled him with joy, for they held a special place in his heart. He envisioned you all coming together as a unified family, cherishing each other's company and support.

Though his presence may not always be guaranteed, he yearned to see you continue to lean on one another in his absence, creating a tight-knit and loving family bond.

|❝ im sorry if it wasnt what u wanted!!! I took me 20 mins to write it since i was in a hurry😭❞

[eyesxxyou]

Confessions Pt.i

♡ hobie brown x religious!reader

rating. m

word count. 4.4k

synopsis. after years of being missing, Hobie finally returns back to his hometown where his childhood crush still waits for him. but you're more dedicated to God than ever and he couldn't care less. he wants you and he intends show you all that you're missing out on

♡ °｡ ⋆⸜ warning: religious themes, criticism of Christianity, corruption kink, defiling kink, making out, suggestive language, mentions of death

Part. ii

You've always been the model child, the child who attended mass when others wanted nothing more to do with the church, who clutched their rosary at night in fervent prayer and often slept with it under their pillow. You were used to pinched cheeks and smiles at your seniors, twisting your purity ring around your finger when you're nervous.

You had never known sin in your life. The idea of premarital sex revolted you. You prayed for forgiveness whenever you thought someone was even remotely cute.

That all changed when Hobie came back into your life. He had changed a lot since you last saw him when he was just an altar boy. He had left the church for years, his mother still attending and always asking for the father to pray for her son to return to God. He was now wild, feral even, decked out in spikes, something of a permanent scowl on his dark, beautiful lips. His hair demanded attention in the a way that distracted from God. Everything about him seemed to be for the flesh, not for the Lord.

There was a time where the two of you were friends. Your mothers were friends so it only made sense that you would be too. He has always been outgoing, loud, yet kind and pure at heart, holy even. He used to walk with humility and humbleness. It was like he was entirely different person who had walked into mass with his hands in his pockets and a confident saunter in his steps. He demanded attention and jangle if his chains echoed off the walls of your small church. You were always taught to remain quiet and keep your head low.

You quickly turned your gaze when his found yours among the many. Did he even recognize you? It's been so many years. You hardly even recognized him if not for some telltale signs. His height, the slender beauty of his face, a freckle. You clutched your rosary tighter, in your hands– it's milk white pearls wrapped around your hand, the detailed cross with Ch*st hanging pressing into your skin.

You don't look at him as he and his mother sat next to you and yours. He sidled up next to you, an arm tossed along the pew behind your back. He smelt of things you did not know, like sin, like temptation, like Hobie.

"How've ya been, luv?" He spoke after listening to mass and deciding it was too boring for him. It seemed he did remember you, in all your meek shyness.

"I've been fine. I'm surprised you remember me." You whispered, trying not to interrupt, not to get too wrapped up in conversation during church when you should be focusing on God's good grace. 

"F'course, I remember ya, dove. Still the prettiest girl in here."

Your cheeks burned softly with the compliment and for it, you you clutched the cross in your hand until the edges of it dug into your skin as punishment. "We shouldn't be talking during the congregation." You crossed your ankles, your mary janes knocking against each other as you prayed a silent prayer of forgiveness. You would not be tempted.

If it helped, Hobie thought you changed a lot as well. When did you get breasts that so obviously showed through your clothing? When did you get so pretty? When had you grown into a woman?

You allowed yourself light makeup, mascara, lip oils that made your lips all glossy and pouty. Your braided hair way pinned back out of your pretty face, caramel and black in color, tied back with a pink bow. You wore a white off the shoulder top and a pink skirt with lace trim at the bottom. White, see-through stockings clung to those chaste legs of yours and your feet were adorned with mary janes, decorated in more pink bows.

He had originally only come to mass to please his mother this one time but if you looked this pretty now, it might not hurt to come again.

After, your mothers were chatting with each other, his mother pinching your rosette cheeks as she always did, talking about how much of a good girl you were, how Hobie was already talking about when the next congregation would be all because of you. "You're leading him back to God, my love."

"Where is he? He never even said goodbye." Your mother looked around for him but he was gone, dipped the moment church was over. He'd be back, he said but you doubted it. His mother waved it off. "You know how the young ones are these days, they don't care much for mannerisms." She looked back to you, shyly standing behind your mother without much else to do besides go home. You were still young, only bordering on 20 and you still lived at home. You couldn't bear to leave your old, peeling, floral wallpaper and your collection of stuffies. Plus, working for a Chr*stian nonprofit didn't always pay the bills.

You wouldn't see Hobie again for another 4 of your congregations before he decided to show back up. He had scandalized the church by wearing a crop top, was the talk of the town when he slid into the pew next to you and tossed his arm behind you once again like you two were close. His body was pressed against yours, his warm skin against your shoulders neck, the smell of musky cologne, the deviating gorgeousness of his face. His finger curled around one of your neat box braids, curled and uncurled, curled and uncurled.

You were wearing a pink camisole shirt with more lace at the top and bottom, and a white maxi skirt with little roses dotting the fabric. You wished you had worn something that revealed less of your skin because you should feel his skin on yours and it made you feel hotter than the sun and more of a sinner than the devil himself because his skin felt so nice and soft against yours and you wanted him to stay right there he was, with his knee touching yours and his fingers playing with your hair. How scant a knee touch could be.

"Who's it goin' t'day, doll?" Hobie leaned over and whispered in your ear. You leaned away from him, muttering silent prayers asking for strength in such rough times. "I'm okay, Hobie… How are you today?" You managed to get out.

"'m quiet chipper actually, my mum jus' asked ya mum if we could hang out again, thinks ya good f'me. Will make me 'believe in God again', 'n allat."

How great, how perfect. Now you'd constantly be in his presence. You'd be happy to spend time with Hobie but this Hobie was not the Hobie you knew. He was a stranger to you. It’s been so many years since he simply ran from home and only recently has he decided to come back into his family’s lives for unknown reasons. You were nervous around new people and in all ways that mattered, Hobie was a new person.

“Well, do you want to believe in God?”

“No’ particularly, no. But I promised mum since I ran away.” He was only 16 when he left, now he’s back at 21 and his mother almost smacked him straight across the face when he showed back up on her door. All these years, everyone in the community operated under the assumption that he had died.

Before the parish began his sermon in which he’d get progressively sweatier and out of breath across the 2 hours which Hobie always used to snicker at, he spoke. “I’d like to welcome back Hobart. After being gone for 5 years, he’s finally returned back home.” Everyone clapped for him, including you, but he just let his hand drop and began drawing circles on your exposed shoulder.

He kept like this through the entire sermon, touching you in some way, shape, or form. He chuckled softly at some of the things the parish said and whispered to you about things completely unrelated. “Le’s go back to our usual spot, doll. You remember?” His warm breath fanned your ear with the promise of something wrong if you go with him. You turned to look at him and found his face far closer than you thought it was, a smirk playing on his pierced lips.

“Would you genuinely listen to what I have to say.”

“I’ll listen to whateva comes from those pretty lips of yas, dove. Every single word.” He was so much more flirtatious now. He had you clutching your rosary every time he was around you, an action that did not go unnoticed. He placed his freehand on top of the ball of yours and your hands fell open beneath his warm palm. You already had scars littering  your palms from all your years of grabbing the cross too tight for protection.

“Stop doin’ tha’, you gonna hurt yaself.”

That was the last thing he said to you all sermon.

He stuck around after church this time, his mother with a firm grasp on his wrist to ensure he didn’t go off and disappear again. You hung around your parents, your eyes always wandering about to find Hobie. It was hard not to find him. His height and his hair made it impossible to miss him. 

“Mama, Hobie and I are gonna go somewhere quieter. I’ll be back home in time for dinner.” You kissed her cheek and tapped your father’s hand to get his attention before motioning that you were going to go. He was in the middle of deep conversion with the parish. He nodded dismissively and with that, you made your way to Hobie.

“Ms. Brown. Is it okay if I take Hobie with me?” Her grip on her son’s wrist was deadly, out of fear that he may run away from her again. She wouldn’t be letting him go unless she was sure he was in good hands, and in her eyes, yours were holy. “Of course.” She smiled upon you with fondness, her accent of her homeland thick in her voice. “Hobie, be good.”

Hobie shrugged out of her hold. “Yeah, I hear ya.” He tossed an arm around you and dragged you off towards the spot where the two of you would always hang out as children, an old playset that was rusting over by now and couldn’t possibly be safe enough for children to play on. It was a little down the way from the church just in front of a stretch of woods that separated the playground from the creek.

You went to cautiously sit on one of the rusty swings while Hobie dropped himself down without a care. He looked at you, your moisturized skin glistening in gold under the sun. You tossed your hair over your shoulder to better feel the sun on your shoulders while it lasted. The winters in your hometown were brutal at times so any heat was much welcomed on your end.

“Go ‘head then, gimme all the reasons why I should want salvation.” He’s heard it all. Especially from his mother. He had come back an entirely different person and point blank told her that he didn’t believe in a higher power and wouldn’t be attending church while he was visiting. His poor, Jamaican mother, a devout Catholic, acted as if he had just struck her across the face. She cried, she prayed as she does every night to this very day, and she rebuked the devil "who had taken her son" from him.

She had managed to manipulate him into coming to church at least once. And then he saw you. His old best friend, his longest standing crush, and decided that he’d stick around a little longer.

You fiddled with your rosary. "Well, there's nothing I can say to change your mind if you already aren't open to the idea. I'm not here to convince you of anything. But Hobie– why did you leave? We were all worried sick over you, praying that you were safe. After the first year, we thought you…" 

“Died? No, I toughed it ou’. “N I didn’t exactly go anywhere. I’d been to so many places that I couldn’t name jus’ one. I jus’ knew I didn’ wanna be here.” He shrugged and drug his boot in the gravel, the rusty sound of the swingset let out a creak every time he swung. “‘M tired talkin’ ‘bout me. How’ve you been, luv?” His voice grew tender when talking to you, his eyes were a touch softer as well, almost flirtatiously so.

Nervously, you spoke of all the things that have happened since he left. “Father has blessed me with a good life. I’ve been studying His word more and I feel closer than ever to Him–”

Hobie pretended to yawn before snickering to himself. “I don’ wanna hear about allat. I wanna hear ‘bout you, not tha’ bloke.” You gasped at his choice of words, the casual blasphemy from his lips, and held your rosary to your chest. “Hobie!” you scolded him and he raised his hands in surrender. “My fault, luv. I forgot you were still brainwashed.” He murmured the last part under his breath. “Tell me ‘bout you. Tha’s all I wanna know ‘bout.”

You didn’t know what to say. Usually talk about how good God is suffices for people. No one ever really wanted to hear about you, they usually wanted you meek and quiet, submissive and innocent in your ways.

“I attended a purity ball soon after you left.” You raised your hand to show off the ring that adorned your finger as a symbol of your purity. “I thought it was the right thing to do. Everyone thought that we would get married when we got older so when you disappeared, I needed to wait for the right man to come along.” You didn’t sound as excited as everyone else around you was. Your mother was happy to dress you up in a white dress and your father was even happier to take your hand and claim you as his until a Godly man came around to take your hand in marriage. But it all just felt weird to you.

“I always though’ those things were fucked.” Hobie admitted. “Gettin’ married to ya dad so he owns you until another man comes around to take ya leash.”

“It’s not like that.”

“How’s it like then?” Hobie raised a pierced brow at you, waiting for a witty response only for you to fall flat. You shift your gaze from his. “It was my choice. I was distraught that you were gone, Hobie.” You twisted your ring around finger anxiously. “My whole life everyone told me that we were going to get married and suddenly you up and left and my life was spiralling.” You babbled, tears swelling in your eyes, overwhelmed by it all, overwhelmed by him so suddenly showing back up in your life with all these questions and opinions. 

“You don’ think ya gonna marry me anymore?” Hobie reached out and traced a finger down the scant of your arm. You whipped away from him and wiped the tears before they could fall, looking back to him with hardness in that soft gaze of yours. It was hard to take you seriously with eyes like those and the pout in your lips. “That’s not something to joke about.” You ripped yourself away from him because if you didn’t, you would have shivered under his touch.

“Who said I was jokin’? Remember when would kiss back here after church. You were a little rebel back then.” He pointed to the treeline where the two of you would sit in the grass and innocently peck each other's lips, justifying it by saything the two of you would eventually get married anyway. It was innocent at the time but your face lit up, your cheeks burning with humiliation at the memory. You placed your hands over your face and shook your head. “We were children at the time. We didn’t know any better.”

“Why don’t we do that now?

“Hobie!” You reached over and slapped his arm. A smile stretched across his lips, a smile you always admired. It sparkled with a touch of mischievousness. “What is wrong with you!”

He got up off the swing. “The bible doesn’ say nothin’ ‘bout kissin’. Plus, we’re married anyway, by law of children’s imagination. Tha’s gotta count f’somethin’.” He began walking through the gravel and onto the grass towards the spot where the two of you would sit and kiss. He looked back at you, his expression asking if you would come with him.

You looked uneasily down at your hands with your rosary and your purity ring. He was right. The bible didn’t say anything against kissing before marriage and you’d be a liar if you said you weren’t attracted to Hobie, with his sly smirks and teasing remarks. You stood slowly and made your way over to where Hobie sat, teasing you with an alluring smile and a hooded gaze.

You sat beside him, a great distance away with your rosary and your bible you brought along. You were so nervous you were shaking and Hobie was not blind. “I’m not tryna pressure you into nothin’, dove. It was all jus’ fun ‘n games.” 

"I just wanna stay pure, Hobie. I wanna be untouched for my husband. I wanna be a good wife." You couldn't bear the idea of being tainted, of being impure. You shook with the fear of it, tossed and turned in the dead of night worrying over it, twisting and turning your ring around your finger.

You fell back in the grass, Hobie's figure leaning over you as you look at the sunlight streaming through the leaves of the trees looking overhead. You sighed with anxiety, grabbing fistfuls of grass in your hands.

Hobie scoffed at the notion. "You think being a good wife means you have to be a virgin?" You looked at him as if it were obvious. "Of course. I'm supposed to be pure and submissive for my husband. That's how I make it into Heaven."

There was something unreadable on on Hobie's face, an expression that bordered on anger and treaded on distaste. "Luv, you have no idea how…" he trailed off. Brainwashed you are. But he didn't finish. You were right. If someone wasn't open to the idea, they'd never hear you. He had to get the idea across to you in a way you'd understand.

"There are ways to find Heaven on Earth." He told you, laying down in the grass beside you. He lied on his side to face you, a warm hand tracing the round of your jaw with his fingertips to make you look at him. "I'll show you if you let me." His lips hovered over yours and for the first tips you did not retreat from him. Your mind screamed passage after passage at you but your body melted into his warmth and you relented when he pressed his lips to yours.

You were just so innocent. It would be so easy to show you a world of pleasure you never knew existed. You didn't even know how to kiss. You let him take the lead, let him press his tongue to the seam of your lips and nervously parted them to let him intrude upon your sacred body. This was sacrilege, the way his tongue found yours, something far beyond an innocent kiss. His tongue coaxed yours to move like his, gently and with fervor. His tongue piercing pressed against the chaste muscle of your tongue, untouched before in a way like this.

It was messy and uncoordinated, lips, teeth, and tongue all touched and caressed each other, teeth biting lips, tongues soothing the aftermath. Hobie chuckled into your mouth suddenly turning from timid to desperately seeking him out and suckling on his lip piercing, then his tongue, wanting him so desperately.

You moaned softly, a hot feeling growing between your legs that scared you. Did he know, could he feel it, the way you rubbed your thighs together? Was this sin? This feeling of warm wetness growing so steadily between your thighs?

Hobie brought his hand beneath your maxi skirt, his warm against your bare, unsullied thigh. He kept it there, his fingers gripping your flesh, thumb rubbing circles against your pink panties. He must be able to feel it, this feeling you had no name for but felt so good each time you pressed your thighs together.

This had to be wrong, a pleasure of the body, something Earthy, something that would plant you right in Hell. But if it felt this good…

Hobie was the one who first broke from the kiss, leaving you whimpering wantonly, your lips seeking out his until you realized just what you were doing. He was laughing at you and suddenly you felt exposed and embarrassed, biting your kiss-swollen lips. "'M sorry, dove. I ain' mean t' laugh. I just ain' expect you to get so into it." He reached up and pushed your braids out of your face and tucked them behind your ear.

You couldn't bear to look him in the eyes. "I just…I've never felt that way before." It was almost embarrassing to admit.

Hobie frowned a bit. "No' even when you touch yaself?" He's always been a bit forward with his questions but this one has to take the cake. You rolled away from him, so humiliated by his questions that you physically couldn't touch him with such an idea in your head.

"You've neva touched yaself?"

You shook your head. You never knew you could for one, your parents never allowed you to take health class in highschool, the idea of you touching yourself in recent years only made you resent yourself for conceiving such an idea and you had immediately went to the father about it to confess your sins.

Hobie was silent for a moment, thinking about something, you had no idea what, not until he spoke again. "You should come back to my place at the end of the week."

"I can't possibly. I mean– it's not right for two people at our age to be alone in one's house. It's a breeding ground for sin." You sat up with grass in your hair, tugging down your skirt that Hobie had lifted. "We can't, Hobie. It would be ungodly." As if what happened here wasn't just the same. The imprint of your bodies were still imprinted in the grass, pressed against each other, intimate in a way neither of you should have been.

Hobie got up after you and grabbed your wrist. You shuddered at his touch, the hot ache between your thighs making your legs feel weak or maybe it was just him. His lips were less swollen than yours but your gloss was smudged all across them, making you realize that if you went out as you were, you'd look like nothing more than a harlot. You'd have to take time to fix your makeup which was already light to begin with. Too much makeup would make you out to be a common whore too.

"Just think 'bout it, will ya? Jus' f'me, doll." He was so good at persuasion, those eyes of his could turn from predatory to soft and pleading so fast. You wonder how many people he's used it on, from his parents to innocent girls just like you he meant to completely tear apart and defile.

You've always been weak to him, even just a little. You recognized your Hobie in there, despite the clothes and the hair and the confidence. It's not that he's changed, just that he's found himself out there in the world wherever he's been.

"Fine… I'll think about it. But that's no guarantee that I'll go." Your voice wavered in confidence as he approached and took your chin between his finger and thumb and tilted your head upward. He looked between your eyes then down at your lips before bending down to kiss you once more.

You didn't resist him, not one bit. His tongue teased entrance to your mouth but never fully went there. His lips melded against yours, smooth as butter, so lightly you almost thought he wasn't there. His large hands found purchase on your waist, pulling you in close. You were still so awkward about it, you didn't know if you should do more. Kissing like this felt like sex, like sin, like something  you shouldn't be doing. But he made it feel so good, made your guilt melt away against his lips.

You told yourself that there was no scripture that frowned upon kissing, that you weren't doing anything wrong. You had nothing to be ashamed of yet but you felt that Hobie had ways to make you do something wrong and make you not even realize it before it was already done.

"Y/n? Y/n, where are you?" You could hear your father calling you and immediately you placed your hands against Hobie in a panic and shoved him away from you, backing away yourself to put as much distance between the two of you as possible.

Hobie smiled at you and used his thumb to clean up your smeared lipgloss. "Jus' think 'bout it, luv. If you come, I'll show ya what real Heaven feels like." You pulled away from him, from his tender touch against your face, holding your rosary-wrapped Bible to your chest. You felt if you didn't, he'd be able to see right through you, see the way your heart raced and leaped. Maybe he’d see how weak you were for him, how you were always willing to go along with his antics as children and now that you finally had him back, you’d do almost anything he asked of you.

“You should really stop saying things like that.” You murmured, marching past him to return to your parents before they find the two of you in another compromising position. Hobie watched your retreating figure, your hips unintentionally swaying with each step.

Fuck all these people brainwashing you, telling you these stories to scare you into compliance, denying you your own pleasure. The only reason he came back to this damned place was for you. He couldn’t care less about anyone else here. He’d take you, defile you, show you the pleasures of the flesh, show you the gates of Heaven right here on Earth in his bed.

His sweet, innocent, little thing. He’d have to show you all you were missing out on.