#this man is beyond hungry for you to touch him; he is desperate to feel that skin to skin contact | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

zeciex · 1 month ago

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A Vow of Blood - Wedding Night AU

Much of this scene is written from Aemond's POV of chapter 96 and then in veers off--so you get an insight to his thoughts and feelings during that scene. 35K Words

Warnings: Smut, (p in v), over stimulation, multiple orgasms, oral (m&f), orgasm denial, handjob, rough sex, slapping, scratching, choking, degradation(?), cum play (?).

The worship of a starved man

Aemond had been born hungry.

That gnawing emptiness, deep and insatiable, had been within him from the very start, a hunger that time had only sharpened rather than dulled. No matter what he attained, the emptiness within him remained. It was a hunger for everything just beyond his reach–a desperate craving for what could never fully be his. He was the second son, a spare, forever living in the shadow of another, born into a role that left him wanting more.

From the moment of his birth, Aemond had been filled with a yearning for all that was denied him. What he received was never enough. The morsels of recognition or affection that came his way were inadequate to satisfy his growing hunger. What little he had, he had rested from the world himself.

Nothing was freely given; everything was taken by force.

He had claimed Vhagar, the mightiest of all dragons, a conquest that should have filled the emptiness gnawing at him. And for a brief, fleeting moment, it had.

The triumph had been short-lived. The blade had come soon after, carving another hollow deep within him, a wound that went far beyond flesh and bone. The void inside him had yawned wider, and no amount of strength, no dragon, could close it.

It had given him a different kind of hunger, had twisted into something darker; a hunger for revenge.

For years, he had fed that fire, starved for vengeance, convinced that once he had it, the gnawing ache would finally be satisfied. But it hadn’t. The taste of revenge had only stoked the fire further, leaving him with the same hollow emptiness, still aching for more, still unwhole.

Even now, with all he had wrested from the world, he remained hungry–starving for something he could never fully grasp. He had taken a taste of satisfaction, of peace. For a fleeting moment, the void had subsided, dulled by the comfort of her presence. Her touch had softened the jagged edges inside him, her warmth had stilled the rage and resentment that always simmered beneath his skin. In her arms, with her lips on his, and the heat of her body entwined with his, the hunger had receded, if only for a brief, blissful instant. For the first time, the acing void that defined him had quieted, almost forgotten.

But it had been just that–a moment.

A fragile, fleeting moment, forn from his grasp as quickly as it had come. The blood on his hands had ensured that much. He had tasted love, had felt the intoxicating sweetness of what she could offer. And then, like everything else, it had spilled away. Now, he wanted nothing more than to taste it again, to gorge himself on that sweet poison of hers.

But the hunger had come back to him, sharper, more ravenous than before. No matter how much he tried to bury it, no matter how fiercely he clung to her, the hollow ache gnawed at him.

He had believed that claiming her as his wife might finally quench the insistent hunger. Surely, with her beside him, it would ease. But even in possession, he found himself lacking. She was his, yet not truly. Her heart, the one thing he craved above all, remained hidden in the ruins he had wrought. Her love was beyond his reach, forever locked away behind the scars he had left on her soul.

There was nothing more terrible than to hunger for something so close, yet forever out of reach–to see it, to touch it, but never truly possess it. And that hunger, cruel and relentless, consumed him still.

The halls of Maegor’s Holdfast were eerily silent, the kind of stillness that clung to the air in the late hours of the night. Only the guards, vigilant but distant, patrolled the edges of the keep, their armor whispering softly as they passed. Aemond moved through the corridors with a slow, deliberate pace, his every step heavy with the weight of the day’s tensions. His muscles were coiled tight, as if they might snap at any moment, while an undercurrent of agitation simmered beneath his skin, restless and prickling.

A dull, persistent ache had settled deep within his skull, lodged behind the sapphire that now filled the space where his eye had once been. The pain was sharp, cold, like a shard of ice driven into his empty socket behind the sapphire, jolting with every slight movement.

It wasn’t unfamiliar–it had been with him ever since that night when his eye was taken, a constant companion that haunted him. But since Lucerys Velaryon had been torn from the sky, since his vengeful will had fulfilled itself, the ache had intensified, as if the act itself had deepened the wound, embedding the pain even further into his bones.

It gnawed at him, needling at his nerves, fraying them bit by bit. He had tried to dull it–to numb himself against the pain. Milk-of-the-poppy offered little relief but blunting the ache, and sleep, when it came, was fitful and muddled.

As Aemond continued down the empty halls, the cold silence only intensified the throbbing in his skull, each step reminding him of the pain. He clenched his jaw, his breath measured but tight, as if he could force the ache away by sheer will alone. But the pain remained, just as it always did, clinging to him like an unwanted shadow.

Aemond stepped into the chambers he shared with Daenera, the soft creak of the door breaking the stillness as it swung open. The sitting room lay shrouded in shadow, the darkness thick and heavy, broken only by the faint glow spilling from the archway that led into the bedchamber. Soft, dim light filtered through the small ornate holes in the screen that separated the two rooms, casting delicate patterns on the stone floor.

The once tidy space had become cluttered, the floor now strewn with chests overflowing with fabrics, their lids half-open, as if the attempt at organizing had been abandoned. A narrow path had been cleared, winding through the disarray toward the bedchamber. Scattered across tables and shelves were books and trinkets, remnants of their wedding–gifts from nobles, each piece laden with more meaning than sentiment.

Aemond moved through the room with a sense of detachment, his gaze briefly sweeping over the chaos but finding no reason to care. The weight of the day still pressed heavily upon him and the familiar ache behind his sapphire eye pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat.

His gaze lifted towards the lattice screen, catching fleeting glimpses of movement within the bedchamber beyond. His pulse quickened as he neared the archway, the soft glow of flickering candlelight spilling into the sitting room. He moved slowly, deliberately, stepping into the dim light until he stood in the archway, his attention immediately drawn to her.

There she sat, Daenera, her back turned to him, the silhouette of her form wrapped in a deep velvet robe he had commissioned specifically for her. The rich fabric cascaded around her like blood-drenched velvet. Intricately embroidered along the fabric were golden dragons, their serpentine forms woven in exquisite detail–a deliberate reminder of her mother’s dragon, something to remind her of her family and home, even if it warred against his own possessive nature.

Aemond’s desire for her to feel at home here–with him–was a constant struggle. He wanted this place, these chambers, to be hers, to be the sanctuary where she belonged. He longed for her to see this as her home, as he did, and not just a gilded cage in which she had been placed.

But still, he had chosen those dragons, knowing they might soothe some part of her that still longed for the past, even if it went against his deepest instincts. Even if it stoked the jealousy that quietly simmered inside him.

He had known she would refuse it if it had come from his hands, and so, he had asked Helaena to deliver it.

Now, seeing her wrapped in the robe, the golden dragons gleaming faintly in the dim candle light, his chest tightened, the familiar ache in his heart intensifying. A part of him swelled with something almost like pride–with dark satisfaction–at the sight of her wearing it, it settled deep in his stomach, burning.

His sister, Helaena, stood to one side, her hands working with the same quiet grace she always possessed. She glanced over her shoulder as Aemond appeared, offering him a gentle smile, a fleeting touch of warmth in her otherwise dreamlike demeanor, before turning her attention back to her task–gently drawing a brush through Daenera’s hair.

On the other side stood the girl, Edelin, her movements quick and efficient as she worked through the long tresses with practiced care. She offered him a bow of acknowledgement, though he barely registered it, his focus locked entirely on Daenera.

Aemond stood silently in the archway, watching her for a long moment. His eye traced the lines of her face through the reflection in the mirror. Her gaze remained downcast, her eyes deliberately avoiding his, a silent refusal that had been her quiet defiance throughout the day–ever since his return from Storm’s End. Each time she denied him, each time she refused to meet his gaze, it needled beneath his skin like a barbed thorn.

The tension within him tightened further, his frustration growing with each second of her silent dismissal. He barely acknowledged their presence as he strode further into the room, his gaze distant and his thoughts on her. The weight of the day bore down on him still, an invisible pressure that seemed to settle into his bones, making each step feel laborious. His hands rose to unfasten the belt at his waist, his long fingers deftly working the clasps with practiced ease.

A restless impatience gnawed at him, an itch beneath his skin that he couldn’t quite shake. He wanted to be alone with his wife, finally, after days of strained separation and distance. The mere thought of it made his muscles tense with anticipation. Yet, even as that desire swelled within him, something heavier lingered beneath the surface–a sense of apprehension, quiet but persistent.

He could already feel the tension simmering between them, a weight that had settled in the air. He knew it was there, waiting for him, just as surely as he knew what had caused it. Even in this moment of privacy, it felt as though they were standing on the edge of a precipice, ready to fall into yet another silent battle.

He moved with the deliberate, restrained grace of a man accustomed to concealing his true emotions, but even now, the effort seemed heavier than usual. His muscles ached with the strain of holding himself back, and the hollow ache behind his sapphire eye pulsed with every heartbeat.

Without a word, he shrugged off the belt and let it fall into his hands. The presence of the others in the room was insignificant to him at that moment. All that mattered was the oppressive silence between him and Daenera, her deliberate avoidance of his gaze gnawing at his patients, fraying the edges of his already brittle composure.

The tension was palpable, like a storm waiting to break.

Aemond caught the soft murmur of Daenera’s voice, her words quiet yet clear as she addressed her lady-in-waiting. “Thank you, Edelin. That will be all. Please inform the kitchens of my preferences for breakfast.”

The girl responded with a nod. “Yes, Princess.”

Out of the corner of his remaining eye, Aemond noticed Edelin glance towards him, her head dipping in a small, respectful nod. He, however, made no effort to acknowledge her, his expression unmoved as he silently dismissed her presence. Her footsteps quickened as she passed, the soft rustle of her skirts barely audible as she slipped through the archway and out of sight.

Helaena followed Edelin, pausing only for a brief moment. She glanced at Aemond before passing him, her gaze soft with gentle reproach. It was a look only a sister could give–a subtle warning not to push too hard, not to force what was already fragile. Her quiet smile lingered for a moment longer before she turned, her pale green gown whispering softly as she crossed the threshold into the sitting room.

The soft creak of the main doors echoed in the silence, followed by the distinct, final click as they closed. The sound seemed to deepen the quiet, leaving Aemond and Daenera alone in the thick, oppressive stillness of their chambers.

Aemond abandoned the belt of the back of a chair with a careless flick of his wrist, his attention shifting to the laces of his doublet. His fingers moved deftly, pulling at the strings that his mother had fastened for him earlier that day. It was a task he found easier–the laces unraveled more willingly than they tied. The doublet parted easily under his hands, the weight of the thick fabric lifting from his shoulders as he shrugged it off, folding it on the foot of the chaise.

The shirt beneath clung lightly to his skin, the material much thinner, allowing the cool air to seep through and brush against him. He could feel a slight chill creeping in, but he didn’t mind it. With a sharp, impatient tug, Aemond loosened the lave at the collar, letting it fall open in the familiar way he always did, exposing the pale skin of his collarbone to the cool air.

He lowered himself onto the chaise, the cushion giving way beneath his weight as he leaned forward to undo his boots. Each motion was deliberate, methodical, though tension rippled beneath the surface of his calm exterior. He could feel her eyes on him–her gaze, heavy and intent, watching his every move. It prickled at his skin, like the sensation of needles poised to break through the surface.

Though she said nothing, her silent scrutiny hung in the air between them, thick with unspoken words and emotions that neither of them had the will to voice just yet. He knew she was studying him, weighing the tension in his posture, perhaps gauging his mood–waiting for the inevitable storm that seemed to linger on the edge of every moment between them.

Aemond felt the urge to break it, to say something–anything–but no words came to him. Instead, he remained still, unwilling to disturb the fragile peace that hung in the air like a thread about to snap. He could endure the silence if he had to. As long as she was near, as long as she stayed with him, he could bear it, he thought. He could bear it.

Aemond tugged off one boot, setting it aside with a quiet thud before shifting to the other. His fingers moved methodically, loosening the laces as he began to unfasten the second boot, his motions tinged impatience. His gaze lifted, drawing inevitable to her. She sat across the room, a glass of wine clutched in her hand, her slender fingers tightening around the stem. She drank deeply, desperately, the dark red liquid vanishing down her throat as if she sought to drown whatever unrest stirred inside her.

Aemond swallowed hard, the sight of her drowning her wine with such urgency gnawing at him, like a needle burrowing deep beneath his skin. The very idea that she needed the drink just to tolerate being alone with him twisted something sharp inside him. She drank with an intensity that made it seem as though she were bracing herself, steeling her nerves simply to endure his presence. His jaw tightened, teeth grinding together, but he remained silent, biting his tongue.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her place the empty glass back on her dressing table with a soft clink, her hand lingering on the stem for a moment before she reached for the brush. She began drawing it through her hair, her movements slow and deliberate, as though focusing on the familiar task might somehow soothe her. The long curls rippled beneath the strokes, but even as she tried to smooth them, they frizzed slightly in defiance, each pass of the brush seeming to do little to tame the wildness of her hair.

After pulling off his other boot, Aemond placed it neatly beside the first, his movements slow and deliberate. His gaze was then drawn to her, like a moth to a flame. Her long, curly hair was gathered over one shoulder, exposing the nape of her neck, where small, unruly strands clung delicately to her skin. The sight stirred something deep within him–he remembered the softness of that skin, the feel of it beneath his lips.

He watched her intently, his gaze tracing the gentle slope of her neck, the fragility of the exposed skin that seemed to beckon him. She ran her fingers through her hair, slowly taming the unruliness, the curls gradually becoming more defined with each stroke. His attention followed every subtle movement, every shift in the way her hair settled, as though memorizing the moment.

Her expression remained carefully composed, a mask of porcelain coolness that revealed little of what she might be feeling. And yet, he knew. He could sense the storm brewing beneath her still surface, could feel it in the air around them, thick and heavy like the scent of rain before it breaks.

His gaze traveled down the column of her neck, following the line of her skin until it met the rich red velvet of her robe, which draped over her from. The fabric clung to her, accentuating the curve of her shoulders and waist. His fingers itched with the desire to feel it beneath his hands, to touch her, to erase the distance that seemed to stretch endlessly between them despite their closeness.

Through the reflection in the mirror, he watched her more closely, saw the flutter of her eyelashes as they almost brushed her cheek, a subtle sign of the emotion she kept so carefully hidden. There was a slight blush beneath her skin, barely noticeable, but it was there–an undeniable warmth. Her full lips parted as she exhaled a soft breath, the gesture small but enough to make his pulse quicken. The restlessness within him grew, the silence between them feeling more suffocating with every passing second, the weight of his unspoken desires and frustrations threatening to spill over.

As if the weight of his gaze had become unbearable, Daenera abruptly rose from her seat, her movements marked by a restless, agitated urgency. The chair creaked slightly in her wake, and her footfalls were soft but hurried as she padded across the floor in her slippers, the sound barely more than a whisper against the stone. She made her way to the water basin with purpose, her tension evident in the sharpness of her movements.

Without a word, she dipped her hands into the cool water, cupping it and splashing it over her face in an attempt to calm herself. The water dripped from her fingers, beading and sliding down her skin before she reached for the cloth nearby, dabbing her face dry with a weary sigh that seemed to echo the exhaustion hanging between them.

When she finished, Daenera folded her arms around herself, as she moved toward the hearth, seeking warmth or perhaps a moment of reprieve. The firelight flickered against her skin, casting shadows that danced along her frame, but even the glow of the flames couldn’t soften the tension that crackled between them like an unseen storm.

Removing his eyepatch, he abandoned the leather piece atop his doublet. It always felt strange removing it, felt as much like exposing his nerves to the cruelty of the world as it did grabbing onto a blade and holding it against the neck of the world. When he had first donned the eyepatch, he had felt it chafe on him, felt it just as much as the loss of his eye–a reminder of it, perhaps because it seemed to agitate the tender flesh surrounding his eye, worsening the pain. But he had grown used to it, learned to bear it as he did the loss of his eye, as he did the pain, use it as a shield, as a mask. It protected him as much as it seemed to ease the world around him–while the ladies of the court had still turned their gazes from him in pity, they were no longer turning it in disgust, in revulsion, and his mother could finally bear to look upon him.

He removed it now and felt it as though it removed a layer of skin.

Aemond stood from the chaise, his movements deliberate, tense, as he crossed the room. His steps were soundless over the stone floor as he approached the dressing table where Daenera had been sitting moments before. The faint scent of something earthy lingered in the air–light and nutty, with something sweet added. It clung to the space like an echo of her presence, delicate but undeniable.

Reaching for the abandoned glass, his fingers brushed the cool surface as he lifted it from the table. Without a word, he turned and made his way to the long, narrow table that stood near the sitting area. On it, a silver tray held a pitcher of wine and a set of glasses, their polished surface gleaming in the low firelight. He reached for the pitcher, the rich, deep red wine swirling inside as he tipped it carefully over the glass. The liquid poured smoothly, its color dark as blood against the crystal, filling the glass with a quiet slosh.

He didn’t need the wine. In truth, he didn’t even want it. Aemond despised indulging in it, hated how it dulled the sharpness of his senses, how it blunted the edges of his restraint. But the day had been long–too long–and the steady ache behind his sapphire eye throbbed with a relentless persistence. He took the glass more out of habit than desire, hoping that perhaps, in some way, it might ease the gnawing pain in his socket.

And more than anything, he hoped the wine might dull the deeper ache–the one that gnawed at him with every glance at her. She was so close, mere steps away, yet felt impossibly distant, just beyond his reach.

Lifting the glass to his lips, he hesitated for a moment, almost resenting the drink even as he sipped it. The taste was familiar but offered no real comfort. Rarely did he indulge in this much, but today, the weight of everything–of her silence, of his unspoken frustrations, of the mask he wore–had worn him down.

Still, he hated the feeling of dullness creeping into his thoughts, the sense that the edges of himself were softening when he needed some restraint–some focus. Even with the wine warming his blood, the ache within him remained.

As Aemond swallowed the wine, its bitter taste momentarily overwhelming his senses, her voice cut through the silence. It came unexpectedly, sharp yet quiet, just as he drew the glass away from his lips.

“You’re here.”

It was more than just a statement–it carried an edge, almost like an accusation. Her voice was tight as if she were questioning his very presence, as though she had expected something else–as though she expected to be alone. Of course he was here. Where else would he be? It was their wedding night, after all.

Aemond’s response came softly, but beneath it was a thread of weariness that he couldn’t quite suppress. “We have to keep up appearances.”

For a moment, his teeth bared in a flash of frustration before the sneer melted into a resigned grimace. This may have been their official wedding night, but it wasn’t their true wedding night. That had been months ago, under very different circumstances–when they had exchanged blood, cutting their palms and sealing their bond with more than vows. She had kissed his bloody lips, and he had tasted the essence of her, her heart’s blood mingling with his own. They had consummated their marriage not in the cold formality of a bedchamber but before the hearth, lying on a soft blanket, their bodies warmed by the fire’s glow.

That had been their real wedding, the moment that mattered. Tonight was just a formality, a hollow echo of what they had already claimed.

He clung to that memory, savoring it like a flame against the chill between them now.

Her voice cut through his thoughts, sharp and biting. “Appearances… I hope you don’t expect me to welcome you into bed with open arms and spread legs just to ‘keep up appearances.’”

The biting remark sent a fresh wave of frustration surging through Aemond, needling beneath his already frayed nerves. It worsened the simmering anger that burned low in his chest, threatening to ignite. Her defiance, her bitterness–he felt it burrowing beneath his skin, feeding the fire inside him. Yet he said nothing, the weight of his restraint pressing down on him as heavily as the silence that stretched between them.

“Out there, I may play the part of your wife,” she continued, her voice steady though a bitter edge clung to each word, “but I will not keep up the pretense behind closed doors.

Aemond let out a silent scoff, a sour bitterness settling on his tongue as her words hit him. He raised the glass to his lips, trying to hide the sneer threatening to pull at the corners of his mouth, and took a long, deliberate drink. The wine slid down his throat, bitter and strong, but not nearly enough to drown out the sting of her words.

What did she think of him? That he would force her to bed? The thought twisted like a knife between his ribs, sharp and bitter. If he had truly wanted to secure the marriage fully, to assert his claim over her against her wishes, he could have allowed the tradition of the bedding ceremony to proceed. He could have stood aside and let his brother and his lecherous friends strip her bare, carrying her to the marriage bed in a public display of humiliation and degradation. But he hadn’t. He had opposed it, not just for her sake, but his own.

The idea of anyone–least of all Aegon–laying hands on her, seeing her exposed and vulnerable, had ignited something dark and volatile within him. The very thought had kindled a rage so fierce it had nearly burned through his restraint. He had felt it clawing at the walls of his chest, threatening to break free, the beast inside him roaring to life. It had taken every shred of his self-control to keep from striking his brother down at his wedding for the mere suggestion.

The idea of such force sickened him as much as it pained him to imagine she believed him capable of it. He may bend her will, but he would not break it completely. And he wanted her–but only if she came to him willingly.

He swallowed both the liquid and her accusations, feeling them burn together in his chest. It wasn’t as though he expected her to keep up the pretense, not when they were alone. He didn’t expect her to warm his bed or fulfill the duties of a wife when they were behind closed doors—he hated the very thought of it. The idea that she would feel forced to play a role, to pretend for him, sickened him. It twisted in his gut, just as her bitterness did, leaving a foul taste in his mouth that even the wine couldn’t wash away.

He despised the pretense as much as she did, perhaps even more, but he couldn’t escape the fact that it clung to them, binding them in ways neither could control.

The wine brought Aemond no comfort. It churned uneasily in his stomach, a bitter warmth that did nothing to soothe the knot of frustration and weariness tightening within him. He set the glass down with a soft chime on the table, its sound almost lost in the crackling of the hearth. His hand reached for the pitcher, pouring another glass, though he knew it wouldn’t ease the turmoil building inside him.

Out there, in public, they both had to pretend. They both wore their masks, painted on with careful precision, maintaining the façade expected of them. But he had hoped–foolishly, perhaps–that when they were alone, they could drop those masks, at least a little. Even if she hated him, even if her words were sharp and her gaze colder still, he had imagined they could find some kind of partnership in their solitude. That they might share a space where they didn’t have to pretend, or at least where they could pretend less.

It was a vain hope, he knew. But in the quiet of their chambers, away from the eyes of the court, Aemond thought they could be something more–something truer. Even if it was built from their bitterness and anger, it would be honest, and that, he thought, would be better than the hollow pretense they both loathed.

“Why?” Her voice was low, almost swallowed by the soft crackle of the hearth, the question slipping into the heavy silence between them.

Aemond exhaled, the sound more resigned than he intended, his muscles tight under everything left unsaid. His gaze flickered towards her but never reached her before he drew it back.

“Why what?” He asked, though he had a sense of what she meant. Still, he waited for her to say it, to give voice to the question that hung between them like a blade, poised to cut through whatever fragile peace remained in the room.

The horrors of his actions–of the boy he had killed–crept into his mind, seeping between the stones of the rooms like blood in the mortar. The thought of Lucerys lingered at the edges of his consciousness, a ghostly presence he couldn’t shake, clinging to him like a shadow. His jaw clenched, the tension there spreading down his neck and into his shoulders as the thoughts stirred.

He didn’t want to discuss her brother–not now, not tonight.

He almost feared the question stretching in the silence, feared that she would demand an answer he wasn’t ready to give and she couldn’t bear to hear. The thought of facing it–what happened in the sky above Shipbreaker Bay–now, filled him with dread. Would she believe him if he told the truth?

Aemond reached for another glass, his hand steady as he poured the wine. The soft clink of the pitcher as he set it aside punctuated the silence, a subtle sound that seemed louder in the tense stillness. His movements were deliberate, careful, as he picked up both glasses and finally turned to face her.

She stood before the hearth, the firelight casting a soft glow against her figure. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself, the long dramatic sleeves of her nightgown spilling out through the long, draping sleeves of the robe he had gifted her. The rich red velvet framed her in a way that made her seem almost otherworldly, a creature of fire and blood. A thick strand of her dark hair fell over one shoulder, while the rest flowed down her back, waving gently in the light.

She looked beautiful–fragile, delicate, like something that could break with the wrong word or touch.

Their eyes met, if only for a fleeting moment. Her expression flickered, her eyes widening slightly as though she hadn’t expected him to confront her so directly. But just as quickly, she turned herself away, her gaze shifting back to the fire.

Aemond watched her intently, his gaze never leaving her as he moved slowly towards her. She lifted a hand to her lips, brushing her fingertips against them as though she needed to feel the weight of the words before giving them life. That simple, thoughtful gesture drew his attention, his eye tracing the path along her long, slender fingers as it grazed her bottom lip. He remembered the softness of them, plump and rosy–sweet, and yet devastatingly ruinous.

He came to stand beside her, the flickering glow of the hearth casting a soft, golden light over her features. The warmth of the fire curled against his side, a subtle heat that contrasted with the chill lingering between them. His gaze drew over her profile, her eyelashes fluttered, long and dark, as she blinked,the fire’s reflection burning within the cool cornflower blue of her eyes, tracing the gentle slope of her nose, the soft valley of her lips, and the elegant curve of her jaw. Stray curls grazed against the side of her neck, haphazardly tucked behind her ear, framing her face.

“Why did you insist on this marriage?” Her voice, barely more than a whisper, finally broke the silence, fragile and tentative, as though unsure if this was really what she wanted to ask.

Aemond stood still for a long moment, his agitation prickling beneath the surface, twisting in his chest like a knot. He clenched his jaw, fighting the rising tide of frustration.

“You know why,” he answered, his voice quiet but firm.

A derisive scoff curled at her lips, cruel and biting, as she turned her face back to the fire. The orange glow flickered across her features, casting shifting shadows that accentuated the tension tightening her jaw. It was as if she were chewing on her words, tasting the bitterness of them before they spilled from her. Her long, dark lashes fluttered as she looked away, her gaze shifting upward, then downward, before returning to the fire. She blinked rapidly, as if forcing back the threat of tears.

Then it came–strained, exasperated. “No.”

Her voice was thick, and her head shook with frustration. “I don’t.”

The denial pierced through him, sharp and unforgiving, lodging deep in his chest like a slow-moving arrowhead, twisting with each breath. It wasn’t just her words; it was the rejection of everything he had done, every word spoken, every gesture that had laid his love bare before her. It was all refused, unacknowledged. He felt the weight of the rejection settle heavily, a wound that festered quietly beneath the surface, a silent rebuke of the love he thought he had made so plain for her to see, and yet, she denied it.

“I’ve told you before,” Aemond said, his voice weary, the edges softened–wishing to ease her into a truth she already knew. His gaze lingered on her, searching her face for any sign of understanding, of anything that was an acknowledgement of his feelings towards her. His eye latched onto the tears glistening at the corners of her eyes, barely held back. The subtle downward tug of her lips, the way her brows knitted together–signs of the emotional turmoil simmering beneath her calm exterior.

But before he could say more, she cut him off.

“You want me.” Her words were flung out, sharp and scornful–they sliced through the air, seeking to wound, exposing only the part she wanted to acknowledge, leaving the deeper meaning buried beneath her bitterness. She said it as though his desire for her was something vile, something to be ashamed of, and the sting of the rejection hit him harder than he cared to admit.

“It is more than that,” Aemond replied, his voice quiet but firm, unwilling to let her reduce everything between them to a single, shallow emotion.

Daenera let out another derisive scoff, her lips curling in disbelief as she shook her head, her arms tightening around herself like she needed to hold something together. Her jaw clenched and unclenched, as if she were struggling against his words. Stubborn as always, she refused to meet his gaze, her eyes set on the fire.

And then she spoke, the words harsh and dismissive. “That’s all it is. Desire.”

But Aemond knew better. He could feel it in the way his heart pounded in his chest, in the way the ache gnawed at him whenever she stood just out of reach. As much as she wished to deny it, it was more than mere desire. Yes, it may have started that way–an attraction, a spark of something dangerous and thrilling, like a game they both played. But what had once been a small flame had grown, slowly and persistently, like a creeping vine taking root.

Love had grown, even if neither of them had intended it to.

Perhaps the seed had always been there, buried beneath the lust and desire, and over time, it had been watered by their shared moments, their connection, until it bloomed into something more.

But now, it was undeniable, no matter how weak or wretched it made him feel to admit it.

Her denial was like another arrow piercing him, this time sinking deep into his gut, twisting as it tore through him. His patience, already worn thin, frayed even further. “It is more than that,” he insisted, his voice laced with quiet intensity, his gaze burning into her. “And you know it.”

Aemond extended the glass of wine towards her, a small, bitter consolation–the gesture was tentative, an offering of comfort, even if it felt hollow.

Her gaze snapped to him, sharp and wary, wide with indignation. For a moment, her eyes flashed with something fierce, searching his face. She seemed to study him intently, tracing the bare planes of his features–the parts of him that were usually so guarded. She’d see the places where the invisible mask he wore had chafed at him, where it had clung to his skin, leaving raw edges now exposed, if only slightly.

He was cautious, though, reluctant to remove the mask completely. Vulnerability was dangerous, and Aemond had never shown it easily. It was something he kept guarded, hidden beneath layers of control and cold detachment. But now, as he stood before her, offering a fragile attempt at connection, he was painfully aware of the sting of her earlier rejection.

Her disbelief in him had cut deeply, more than he cared to admit–when she had refused to acknowledge his feelings, when she had not believed him about what truly transpired in the skies above Shipbreaker Bay. That moment had lingered like a raw wound, reopening each time she had dared to let his guard slip around her. He had bared himself, had tried to explain the terrible mistake, but she hadn’t believed his words–hadn’t believed him.

It still burned within him, a slow ache somewhere behind the sapphire in his eye socket, where her words had pierced him deeply. He was trying, but the wound was fresh, and he wasn’t ready to bare those soft, fragile parts of himself again–not fully. Not when she looked at him with such scorn.

Her gaze drifted from his remaining eye to the sapphire embedded in the other socket, her brows knitting together as if she were searching for something buried deep within his stare–as if she saw something within its depths. Her gaze then dropped to the glass of wine he led out for her.

In an instant, the tension snapped.

With a sudden, violent motion, she slapped the glass from his hand. The wine sloshed over the rim, splashing onto his fingers and soaking the cuff of his sleeve. The force of her strike sent the glass tumbling from his grip, and it shattered against the stone floor at his bare feet.

The sound of breaking glass rang out, sharp and piercing in the silence, shards exploding across the floor. He felt the wine spilling against his skin, cold and sticky, and the jagged pieces of glass skittered across the stone, some grazing his feet. The smallest of shards threatened to nick the skin, catching the firelight as they spun to a stop, and the bitter scent of the spilled wine filled the air.

Fury blazed in her eyes as she snapped her hand to the other glass, knocking it roughly from his grip. It slipped from his fingers, and in the same motion, she pushed hard against his chest, forcing him back a step. The wine soaked into the fabric of his skirt, the deep stain spreading across the material just moments before the glass shattered against the floor. The sharp, jarring sound echoed through the room, a harsh punctuation to the rage crackling between them.

The crunch of glass grinding beneath the soles of her slippers filled the air as she continued her assault, slapping violently against his chest with a sneer twisting her features. Her strikes were wild, frantic, fueled by the rage she had swallowed throughout the day–throughout the days of compliance. Each push sent him back, but every time she shoved him, Aemond stepped forward again, refusing to retreat. His feet found the shards of broken glass, and he could feel the threat of them biting into his skin, but he remained unmoved.

He accepted her rage. He let her fists pound against him, let the blows land without flinching, like a sinner seeking repentance. He welcomed it–the violence, the scorn, all of it. Her rage was a storm he would weather, her hatred a fire he would endure. Anything was better than the oppressive silence, better than the cold void of her refusing to acknowledge him. He would bear every strike, every bitter word, as long as it meant she was still with him, still within his reach.

“No, no you don’t get to claim it’s more than that!” Daenera spat, her voice trembling, caught somewhere between fury and anguish. Her eyes burned with unshed tears, her body shaking with the force of her emotions.

“Daenera…” Aemond murmured her name softly, his voice a gentle plea as he tired to soothe her. But it only seemed to enrage her further, her anger consuming her. She struck at his chest again and again, each blow resonating inside him, though he barely felt it. He absorbed each hit with a quiet reverence, almost as though her touch–violent as it was–was a kind of communion he didn’t deserve.

“No!” She sneered, her breath ragged and sharp, her voice cracking under the strain. “It’s not more than that–it is not–” Her words faltered, her fury giving away to something more fragile, more vulnerable. The corners of her lips pulled downward, her composure breaking as she choked out, “it is not love! You don’t love me, you can’t. You don’t even know what love is!”

Her words pierced him like arrows, each one embedding itself deep into his gut, his chest, his back. They burrowed into him, unforgiving as they sank deeper, their sharp edges tearing at his insides. Aemond could almost feel the jagged tips twisting with each breath he took, as if the pain were a physical presence, something which he couldn’t escape.

Aemond had never truly known love–at least, not this kind of love.

It was foreign to him, something he had never witnessed growing up, never felt within the walls of his childhood. Love was not something that thrived in the Red Keep. It had not bloomed in the chambers of his mother and father. Their union had been one of duty and desolation, a cold, barren space where affection had no root. His father had never loved his mother, and though his mother had tried, her love had gone unanswered, leaving only the chill of disappointment and isolation in its wake.

Nor had he seen it in the marriage of his brother and sister. That, too, was a bond forged of duty–a weary, unspoken agreement between two who had no choice in their fate. Aegon and Helaena’s chambers were places of resignation, where love had no room to grow amidst the heavy burden of expectation and the bitter weight of obligation–no love beyond that of siblings.

Love was a rarity in the Red Keep, a flower that withered before it could even take root in the cold, stone halls. It was not something he had been taught, not something had ever truly witnessed. It was an ideal spoken of in stories, in songs, but never a truth he had known.

So how could he ever have been expected to understand it now, to recognize it, when all he had known was duty, bitterness, and the hollow echo of unmet desires?

And yet, somehow, he knew.

This was love–what else could it be? It had to be. Love was a weakness, and oh, how weak it made him for her. He had never wanted it, had tried to deny it, to uproot it from within himself, but no matter how fiercely he tried, he had been powerless against it. It had taken root deep inside him, growing around his heart.

Was this not love? A weakness that made him bare his soul, that made him strip himself of his armor and lay everything before her, vulnerable and exposed. It was the feeling of pressing the blade into her hand and bearing his neck for her, daring her to strike, and yet hoping she wouldn’t. It was savoring the bite of steel, reveling in its cold caress against his skin. Love was both agony and ecstasy, destruction and devotion.

What was love if not a matching set of bleeding wounds?

And no matter how much this love pained him, how weak it made him feel, he would never let it go–he could never let her go. He couldn’t.

He reached for her, desperate to feel her beneath his hands, to show her how deeply she affected him, how much he needed her. But the moment he moved, she flinched–her lip curled into a sharp sneer, teeth bared in silent warning as though daring him to come closer, threatening to sink them into his wrist if he touched her. Her defiance burned with the same ferocity as a dragon poised to strike, her eyes blazing with a dangerous light. The flames of the hearth danced in the blue of her gaze–a field of cornflowers set ablaze.

His hand froze, hovering in the space between them, his heart pounding violently in his chest, bludgeoning itself against his ribs. The sting of her rejection hit him like the crack of a whip, fresh and raw on his skin. His throat tightened with the ache of it, hurt that she’d recoil from him, that she’d flinch as though he were a danger to her, as though she feared him. The thought twisted in his gut, the idea that she saw him in the same way she had once seen her husband–as someone who could hurt her.

It gnawed at him, twisted something bitter inside of him.

Swallowing hard, Aemond shifted, reaching for her again with the tentative caution of someone approaching a scared animal that might snap its jaws at any moment. His fingers brushed against her cheek, and the contact sent a trail of fire up his arm. Her skin was soft beneath his calloused fingers–the touch was both soothing and tortuous. Slowly, he let his other hand follow, brushing against her other cheek, slipping beneath the wild curls of her hair until his hands cradled her face.

His thumb traced the curve of her ear, while the tips of his fingers grazed the back of her head, gentle but firm. He held her with a reverence, as if he held something sacred in his hands, something he both longed for and feared losing.

Her eyes widened slightly, her breath catching sharply as though she had not expected him to come this close, to venture past the barrier of her warning. And yet, despite her defiance, despite the anger that burned in her gaze, she allowed it. She didn’t pull away.

Her hands found to his wrists, slender fingers curling tightly around them, her nails biting into his skin with enough force to leave a sharp sting in their wake. She held him in place, her grip unyielding, as if she wanted to both push him away and hold him there.

Aemond’s brows furrowed, his heart twisting painfully in his chest, frustration rippling through him. Couldn’t she see what she had done to him? How deeply she affected him?

“You’ve poisoned me, don’t you understand?” He rasped, his voice low and raw, thick with the anguish that was admitting to such weakness. He searched her gaze, willing her to understand what he had tried so hard to deny. He had fought against it, buried it deep inside, and refused to acknowledge the hold she had over him. But the truth was undeniable now–she had poisoned him, and her poison was sweet. It was intoxicating, all-consuming, and he had grown dependent on it, on the taste of her lips, the warmth of her touch, the very air she breathed.

His hunger for her had become insatiable, a constant, gnawing ache that plagued his every waking moment.

“You’re in my veins,” he breathed, his voice strained with the weight of the admission. His grip tightened just slightly, enough for her to feel the desperation in touch as her hair brushed against his skin. “A poison I can’t purge without bleeding myself dry.”

He had told her this before–when she sought to leave him, when she had denied the love between them and chosen to return to her family. Back then, he had felt the same desperation, the same ache deep within him. Would she demand he bleed himself dry just to prove his devotion, to prove that he loved her beyond reason?

There was no escape from her, no way to rid himself of this torment without losing everything. She had woven herself into him, and though her touch burned and her words cut, he craved her still–needed her, even if it destroyed him.

Aemond shifted his hold on her, his touch softening as he brushed his thumb over her skin. He felt the subtle shiver that ran through her, a reaction she couldn’t hide, and his heart fluttered in his chest for it. There was a warmth now, creeping into the pit of his stomach, as if her very presence had the power to both soothe and torment him.

His thumb continued its slow, deliberate caress, lingering against the delicate curve of her cheek, relaying the feel of it to memory. Her pupils dilated ever so slightly, a faint sign that betrayed the depth of tension between them, the pull that neither of them could fully escape even if they wanted to.

Her gaze flicked down to his lips, just for a moment, and her own parted in a shuddering breath before she tore her eyes away, meeting his once more. He swallowed thickly, his voice hoarse when he spoke again.

“I killed your husband for you,” he rasped, a flash of anger stabbing through him at the memory. His grip tightened just slightly, the thought of that man laying his hands on her twisting something dark inside him. He’d do it again–he’d kill anyone who touched her, anyone who dared to harm her. “For laying his hands on you.” The words came out low, barely restrained, his chest tight with the intensity of it. “I’ve spilled blood for you.”

His thumb brushed softly against her cheek, softer this time, pleading with her to understand, to see how far he was willing to go. He would spill enough blood to drown the world if it meant keeping her safe, if it meant she was his.

The tenderness of his touch contradicted the violence of his words, his need for her tangled with the desperation to protect her, to claim her, to make her see how much he loved her.

“I cut my palm for you,” Aemond murmured softly, his voice barely above a whisper as his thumb brushed down to her lips. His hold on her shifted, fingers cradling her face more gently now, his thumb tracing the soft curve of her lips. Her breath, warm and trembling, curled against his skin as her lips parted beneath his touch, pliant yet resistant. He tugged gently at the plump flesh, the temptation to taste their sweetness nearly overwhelming him, the need to close the distance growing unbearable.

But he held it back.

“I bleed for you,” he rasped. His gaze burned into hers, filled with a desperate need for her to see the depths of his fervor. He had bared his soul, had laid everything before her, bleeding out his vulnerability, his love, in ways he had never known he could.

And yet, despite the hunger that gnawed at him, despite the overwhelming desire to close the distance between them, to taste her and claim her, he waited, hovering on the edge, waiting for her to see–waiting for her to understand.

Aemond tilted his head slightly, his gaze never leaving her face as he searched her expression. The inner corners of her brows lifted, her expression softening into something that looked almost pained. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, a sheen of emotions she fought to swallow down. Her bottom lip trembled slightly before she pressed it together, her resolve hardening. Her nails bit into the skin of his wrists, the sting sharp, promising to leave behind crescent-shaped marks as her grip tightened.

His voice was soft, almost a whisper, as he spoke again.

“I have you my vows, ñuha jorrāelagon,” he murmured, the endearment slipping from his lips like a caress.

His hands cradled her face gently, his thumbs brushing against her cheeks, wiping away the tears that hovered on the brink but had yet to fall. He could feel the tension in her body, the way she fought against his words, resisting them with everything she had.

Her scorn burned against his skin, but he welcomed it, feeling it as sharply as he felt the breath between them, hanging in the small space that separated their lips. It was as though her every breath was a reflection of his own, the closeness between them warming him more fervently than the dying fire in the hearth.

“You are my wife,” Aemond murmured, his voice soft but insistent, as he shifted his grip, pulling her closer, closing the space between them. Her fingers tightened around his wrists, her nails scraping across his skin, leaving faint lines in their wake–the sting sharp, as though burning a trail of fire across his skin.

He could feel the slickness of her palms against him, the tension in her body as she leaned back, trying to maintain the distance between them. But despite her resistance, despite her fragile reluctance, her feet betrayed her, inching closer, the soles of her slippers scraping the broken glass across the stone floor as she moved towards him.

Her gown brushed against his chest, the delicate frills grazing his shirt, a teasing reminder of just how close she was. The heat radiating from her seeped through the fabric, warming him in a way that made his pulse quicken.

Aemond let one hand slip further behind the dark curtain of her hair, his fingers gently tracing the nape of her neck, brushing against the curls that framed her skull. His touch sent a shiver through her body, and he could feel the hairs on her skin rise in response, betraying her reaction to him.

“You are mine,” he whispered, his voice low, a quiet, possessive hum that reverberated in the small space between them. He held her close, so close that he could feel the steady rhythm of her breath, the rise and fall of her chest brushing against his own. The familiar scent of spilled wine and burning wood that had filled the air was now overwhelmed by something far more intoxicating–her.

The earthy fragrance of her hair, sweet and nutty, mingled with the heady aroma of flowers, like roses and something richter, more decadent. It flooded his senses, clouding his thoughts, making it harder to keep control. The desire to close the distance, to lean forward and capture her lips, surged within him, a hunger he fought to restrain. His pulse thrummed, his heart hammering as he felt her heat radiate through the fabric of his shirt, seeping into him.

The wine he had drunk throughout the evening churned warmly in his stomach, coursing through his veins like fire. It dulled the sharp edges of his restraint, blurring the lines between reason and desire, making it harder to think clearly. His focus narrowed entirely on her–the softness of her skin beneath his fingers, the scent of her surrendering him, filling his lungs, the warmth of her so close and yet still not close enough.

He wanted nothing more than to give in, to lose himself in her touch, her kiss, her very presence. But still, he held back, his hands lingering, waiting, even as the pull between them grew unbearable.

“That isn’t love,” Daenera spat, her voice trembling, thick with something sharp and raw that Aemond couldn’t quite place but which burrowed beneath his skin, needling at him with every word. Her grip on his wrists shifted, nails digging deeper into his flesh with all the force she could muster.

“Was it love,” she continued mercilessly, “when you chased my brother through the sky?”

Her words hit him like fresh arrowheads, lodging deep within him, each one striking a different wound. The bitterness churned in his stomach, twisting like a blade, and for a moment, the familiar ache in the hollow of his eye socket flared, sharp and cold, stabbing through his skull with prevision. His scar burned, aching with the memory that refused to leave him.

“Was it love,” she sneered, lips curling downward as she bared her teeth at him, “when you murdered him?” The accusation dripped with venom, burrowing deeper into him. “When you forced me into this marriage?”

Aemond’s jaw clenched, the anger and frustration rising within him. He leaned back slightly, his gaze hardening as he stared down at her, the eight of her words pressing against him like a suffocating fog.

“You married me willingly,” he ground out, his voice tight, fighting against the storm inside him. “You cut your palm as I did mine–we shared our blood, and we bear the same scars.”

His tone was firm, unyielding, though beneath it, there was something more–a plea, a need for her to remember, to see that their union was not just forged in violence but in something deeper. The blood they had spilled together, her husbands and their own, bound them in ways she could not deny–no matter how much she might try to.

Yet, the sting of her accusations lingered, twisting the arrowheads she had loosened upon him.

Aemond lifted his hand from her face, revealing the pink scar that slashed across his weathered palm, a reminder of the vows they had shared. The scar stood out against the pale skin, a mark etched in blood, forever binding them to one another. He held his hand there for a moment, allowing her gaze to fall on the scar, to remember what it symbolized–what they had both done willingly.

After a brief pause, his hand moved again, sliding back to her face with a firm but gentle insistence. His fingers curled around her cheek, cradling her as something precious, even in the midst of their storm. His thumb brushed slowly over her skin, the soft caress at odds with the tension crackling between them, as he tilted her head back to force her to meet his gaze directly.

“You chose to become my wife.”

He hadn’t forced the cold dragonglass arrowhead into her palm that night, hadn’t made it bite into her flesh until her blood spilled freely. He hadn’t coerced her to trace the ancient glyphs on his brow, or to utter the binding vows that would forever tie their fates together. She had done so willingly, her voice steady as she recited each word, her hand unwavering as she drew the symbols that sealed their union.

And he had not forced her to taste his blood, to drink the crimson drop from the gash in his palm that had mingled with her own. Nor had he compelled her into their bed afterward, to consummate what had already been forged in blood and ritual.

They had both known what it meant, even then, even if they hadn’t spoken it aloud–an invisible thread that tied them together, bound in blood and scarred flesh.

She had chosen to become his wife. The scar on her hand, like his, was a testament to that choice.

“You were mine from the moment you made that choice,” Aemond continued, his voice soft but filled with an undeniable intensity. He needed her to remember it as clearly as he did, needed her to acknowledge it, to accept what they both knew deep down. His thumb brushed against her cheek again, gentler now, as though trying to coax the memory from her.

“And you loved me then,” he added, voice barely a whisper, gaze searching hers desperately for recognition. “I know you did.”

He believed it–needed to believe it. And he needed her to admit it too.

“I was a fool,” Daenera muttered, tugging lightly at his wrists.

The subtle movement felt like a shift in the world, as though she was slipping through his fingers like smoke. Aemond’s heart twisted, panic blooming in his chest as he felt her fading from him–like a mirage, a dream eroded by the harsh light of day. She had haunted him, consumed him, and now she was slipping away. Desperation clawed at him, tightening his grip as if holding her would make her real, keep her tangible beneath his hands.

“I was a fool to think you were capable of love,” she continued, her voice low and laced with a biting edge that cut through him like a blade. “But you’re not. You don’t even know what love is–how could you? You don’t have a heart.”

Her words tore into him, deep and raw, like old wounds being reopened. Aemond stood frozen, his grip tightening as though he could hold her in place, keep her from drifting away with the harshness of her words. The echo of her accusations reverberated in his mind, words like venomous barbs sinking deeper into his soul: You have ruined her. Your heart is even blacker than I thought. You are a plague sent to destroy me.

If he could rid himself of his heart, if he could tear the weakness from his chest and be free of the unbearable weight of it, he would. If becoming invincible, untouchable, meant being free from this torment, he would do it, he thought. But deep down, he knew the truth–his heart was bound to her. The moment he severed it, the moment he tore himself free of its burden, he would lose her forever.

Her accusations pierced him, but the thought of losing her–the only person who had ever truly made him feel–gnawed at him even more fiercely.

Without her, he would be nothing but a hollow shell, an empty vessel of power, invulnerable but utterly alone. The desperation to keep her there, real and present, throbbed through him with every pulse of his wretched, bleeding heart.

Your heart is even blacker than I thought. His fathers words echoed in his mind, cruel and unrelenting. Indeed, his heart was black–black with rot, festering within his chest, pumping out nothing but bitterness and venom. And yet, it was still there, was it not? Beating wretchedly, thumping with wounds and weakness, a grotesque thing in all its decay and ruin.

Aemond twisted his wrist free from her grasp, her nails scraping bitterly across his skin, leaving behind more trails of red, the burn of her touch stinging in their wake. The pain barely registered, overshadowed by the greater ache she’d lodged in his chest with her words. He released his hold on her, but only to firmly grip her hand. He could feel the delicate bones beneath her skin shift, the soft lines of her long, lithe fingers trembling slightly as she brought her palm to his chest.

He pressed it there, firmly, holding her hand against the rapid, uneven thrum of his heart. He covered her hand in his, caging it against his chest as though he could force her to feel what he felt–force her to acknowledge that his heart, black as it was, was there, beating for her.

“Can you not feel the beat of my heart?” Aemond asked, his voice low, as he dipped his head closer to hers, his gaze remaining intently locked with hers. He refused to let her escape it, to look away and deny him once again. The press of her palm against his chest burned–it was as if her touch was searing through him, branding itself upon his flesh.

Even with the undeniable thrum of his heart beating beneath her hand, she resisted. He could feel the tension in her fingertips the way her nails grazed his skin, curling in a futile attempt to dig deeper, to hold onto her anger. But her anger seemed to falter, slipping away as her fingers trembled against him, unable to find purchase in the very thing she sought to deny. She could feel it–she had to–but still, she tried to reject it.

“Black though it may be,” he continued softly, thumb moving gently along the curve of her jaw. He tilted his head slightly as he regarded her, expression softening. “Wretched with sin and monstrous as it is, it belongs to you. My heart is yours.”

It is there, beneath all the ruin and decay. It is yours. You make it beat.

The words burned on Aemond’s tongue, tasting of weakness and something he loathed to admit–and still here he was, admitting it. They felt pathetic, soft, an admission that stripped away the hardened exterior he clung to so fiercely. He despised how she made him feel–frivolous, poetic, vulnerable, and romantic in ways that grated at him. Yet, despite his hatred of it, she drew the words from him, pulling them out like a confession he was desperate for her to hear. Desperate for her to accept.

But her reaction cut through him, twisting a blade into his gut.

“I do not want it!” She sneered, her voice trembling, the edge of her vision blurred with unshed tears. Her nails dug deeper into his chest, as if trying to claw away the love he had laid bare before her.

“And I do not believe it,” she spat, her voice tight, the words strangled by the tension that thrummed between them, and with a sudden burst of defiance, she wrenched her hand free from his grip, pushing back against him. Her voice rose, sharp and scathing, her eyes burning with anger and disbelief. “This love you claim, it is not love. It is possession. It is desire. You want to claim me like you did a dragon, like something you can own,” she continued, her voice trembling. “You want me–you desire me. That’s all this is–lust, a desire to possess, nothing more. It has always been that. And that’s why you insist on this marriage, to claim me as yours.”

Aemond stood there, staring at her, the words sinking like talons seeking to tear him apart. Anger and frustration flared within his chest, bitterness swirling in his stomach like a corrosive poison–not the poison he wanted to be drunk upon. Why couldn’t she see? Yes, he desired her. Yes, he wanted her, wanted to claim her, to possess her. He had never denied that. But why was that so wrong?

His hand tightened into a fist at his side, the tension coiling through his body like a spring ready to snap. Had he not just exposed his heart to her? Bared a vulnerable, fragile part of himself, laying it at her feet? He had shown her more of himself than he had ever shown anyone, had admitted the love he had struggled to understand, the love that twisted so painfully around his desire for her.

“What you want is for me to warm your bed,” Daenera continued, her voice biting, her nails digging into the flesh of his other wrist. The sting was there, sharp against his skin, but Aemond hardly felt it anymore–her words cut deeper. “What you want is for me to spread my legs for you and welcome you back into the heat of my cunt.”

Her words sent a shudder down his spine, the accusation settling in the pit of his stomach like wildfire. His blood seemed to ignite, a sharp wave of heat coursing through him, twisting the desire that had always simmered beneath the surface into something more volatile, something far more dangerous. The fire she stirred in him, though she spat her accusations with venom, only blazed hotter.

“What you want,” She continued, her voice trembling with fury and something more fragile, “is for me to forget what you’ve done–forgive you for it, and pretend it never happened. So that you can pretend you’re not the monster you are. So you can fool yourself into thinking you’re human, that your hands aren’t dripping with my brother’s blood. So we can play husband and wife, and you can fuck me like nothing has changed.”

Her words landed on him like fresh wounds, each one tracing over the previous wounds she had lathered him with. The ache within the hollow of his missing eye flared, a sharp, stabbing pain that throbbed with every word she uttered.

But then her hand moved, and his breath hitched, not just in shock but in something far darker–desire. Her fingers grazed his thigh, confidently, before slipping up to cup him through his trousers, her touch brushing against his half-erect cock.

He had been like that since he entered their chambers, a tight coil at the bottom of his stomach. The fire there flared, fierce and consuming, as her touch muddled his mind, clouding everything else. He clenched his teeth, a sharp hiss escaping his lips as arousal surged through his veins. A shudder rolled down his spine, his control fraying as her hand lingered there, toying with him–reigniting the hunger that had never really left him.

Her touch, her words–both tore at him in different ways, and yet he wanted her still, desperately.

He caught it then–her gaze flickering down to his lips–and a fluttering stirred in his chest. His heart hammered as his breath hitched, his lips parting as he released a ragged, shuddering exhale. Her hand moved slowly, deliberately, palm pressing down against him, stroking him. The heat of her touch seeped through the fabric of his trousers, branding him with her warmth. Beneath her hand, he grew harder, more needy, each stroke sending a pulse of desire that coiled deep within him.

He had missed her touch–longed for it in the night.

Her lips parted too, and Aemond’s sole focus narrowed to the sight of them, the temptation of her so close. His own lips ached with the need to close the distance, to claim hers and swallow her breath, to taste the sweet poison he knew lingered there. He craved her, craved the intoxication she offered, the way she could unravel him with just a touch.

“This is what you want, isn’t it?” She drawled, her voice dropping into something lower, smoother, the words curling around him like a seductive caress. Her gaze lifted to meet his, eyes gleaming.

Her hand continued its slow, maddening movement, and he could barely think past the need she stirred in him, and her name slipped past his lips like a prayer, filled with quiet reverence. “Daenera…”

There was a warning woven into it, subtle but undeniable, warning her that she was getting too close–tugging at his strings, unraveling the carefully maintained control that held him back.

His grip on the side of her head tightened slightly, not with force but with a tender, possessive need. His thumb brushed just below the curve of her jaw, the soft skin beneath his calloused fingers warm to his touch. He could feel the rapid flutter of her pulse beneath his thumb as he tilted her head upward, guiding her to look at him. The tension between them crackled in the air, heavy and thick, as though the room itself held its breath.

Aemond’s gaze dropped to her lips, and he felt the ache in his chest intensify. Her lips were like rose petals, soft and red, delicate yet tempting. He was utterly captivated by them, by the thought of pressing his own against them, tasting their warmth. Temptation gnawed at him, his body trembling with the effort it took to hold back–to not take what wasn’t freely given. He could feel her breath, warm and shallow, mingling with his own, filling his lungs as he drew in a breath.

Her hand slid deliberately up the bulge in his trousers, adding just enough pressure to send a flutter through his eyelid, his breath stuttering in response. She moved slowly, teasingly, dragging her palm further and further upward until she abandoned the bulge entirely. The sudden loss of pressure left a sharp ache in its wake, his cock straining painfully against the fabric, throbbing with need.

The heat of her touch burned against him as her fingers grazed his bare skin, slipping beneath the soaked fabric of his shirt, trailing a searing path along his stomach as she moved downward, inching closer to where he ached for her the most. Her touch was deliberate, slow, teasing in a way that made his muscles flex, the anticipation making every second stretch.

When her fingers finally brushed the waist of his trousers, Aemond felt a surge of heat course through him, his breath hitching as she neared the edge of his restraint. His cock throbbed harder, aching for her touch, every nerve on edge as she grazed the head of it. His response was immediate, a low, shuddering breath escaping him as he fought to keep control. His body wanted to move, to roll his hips into her touch, to give into the desire she was deliberately–cruelly–stirring within him.

But he forced himself to remain still, every muscle tight and coles, the tension humming through him like a taut string ready to snap. Her fingers curled around his cock, and he felt himself twitch at her touch, the sensation sending another jolt of arousal through him.

Aemond’s free hand shot to her wrist, his fingers curling around it with just enough pressure to keep hold of her, though neither guiding her nor pulling her away. He just held her, feeling her pulse beneath his fingers as they pressed into her skin.

The soft tickle of her hair at the nape of her neck brushed against his fingers where he still held her, a delicate sensation that seemed almost at odds with the fire coursing through his veins. He caressed her there, his touch gentle, loving. He needed the grounding, something to focus on besides the way her hand moved up and down the length of his cock, her warm palm sending pulses of pleasure through him with every stroke.

She held his gaze defiantly, her eyes locked onto his as she continued to stroke him with deliberate slowness, each movement calculated–meant to make him tremble. His breath grew more ragged with each passing moment, each drag and squeeze of her hand. He watched her in return, captivated by the slight flush that colored her cheeks, the way her eyelashes fluttered when her gaze dropped to his lips, then lower, lingering on his throat as he swallowed thickly, before lifting back to his eye.

His own gaze traveled downward, following the line of her throat to the vein that pulsed just beneath her skin, the sight of it stirring something primal within him. The gentle curls that framed her face seemed to tickle against her neck, drawing his attention to the collarbones that peeked from beneath the wide neck of her clothes.

The robe she wore was tied at her waist, its neckline exposing less than the nightgown she wore beneath it–the frills that peeked out beneath the robes neckline hinted at the presence of the nightgown beneath, hinted at more exposed flesh. Still, the robe revealed the gentle curve of her chest, the subtle swell of flesh that teased him from behind the fabric, hinting at more than it revealed.

Her hand twisted at the head of his cock, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure through him. A low hum escaped his chest, his breath catching as the sound hung in the air between them. His fingers curled into her chair as she clung to the fragile thread of control he had left, every part of him aching with the need to close the distance, to taste her, to claim her. Yet he held back, watching her as she continued, knowing he was on the verge of unraveling completely.

Aemond’s grip tightened, pulling her closer as if by doing so, he could make her feel the intensity of what she stirred within him. His need for her, raw and overwhelming, pulsed through every fiber of his being. A low, frustrated rumble escaped his throat as her thumb tranced the sensitive vein running along the underside of his cock, the pressure making his breath catch.

His forehead dropped to hers, his nose brushing lightly against her skin as he nuzzled against her, seeking some semblance of comfort in her closeness. A low moan escaped his lips, ragged and desperate, his voice coming out in a raspy, broken drawl. “What do you want from me?”

For a moment, her hand stilled, fingers wrapped around his throbbing cock, holding him in place as she seemed to pause, her brows furrowing slightly. Her eyes flickered back and forth, as if weighing something heavy in her mind. Then, a subtle shift came over her, and Aemond saw something dark and alluring settle in the blue of her gaze. It was a look that sent a shiver down his spine and made the coil in his stomach draw tighter.

“I want you to kneel.”

Aemond leaned back slightly as he regarded her, watching her intently, measuring her words. The heat of her hand remained around him, the sensation of her touch, so close yet unmoving, sent a shiver through him. The soft tickle of her hair brushed against his fingers as he caressed the side of her neck, feeling the delicate thrum of her pulse beneath his touch. She met his gaze with equal intensity–challenging him and his pride.

He tugged gently at her wrist, pulling her hand out of his trousers, dragging it slowly up the length of his throbbing cock. His breath hitched in his throat, feeling the heat of her touch, every inch of her fingers pressing against him, sending sparks of pleasure through his body. His jaw tightened as her fingers grazed him one final time before slipping away entirely, leaving him aching for more, his cock straining beneath the fabric, twitching desperately for her touch again.

And then, without a word, Aemond lowered himself before her. His descent was slow, purposeful as he sank to his knees. His gaze remained on her–unflinching, unwilling to let her escape the moment. The act of lowering himself, of bending the knee before her–to her–should have chafed at his pride, should have made him feel small and diminished, but it didn’t.

Instead, it felt like an offering–an act of devotion.

Lowering himself before her felt like a sacred act, as though he were kneeling before an altar in reverence to a god.

As his knees touched the cold, unforgiving stone of the floor, shards of broken glass dug into his skin with bruising force, threatening to tear through the fabric of his trousers and embed themselves in his flesh. How fitting, he thought, to worship her with bruises and blood–a sinner seeking absolution at the altar of her will.

Aemond had never been allowed to be holy–he was born with a hunger gnawing at him, a need that no one ever forgave him for. He had never been pardoned for wanting, for desiring more than what was handed to him. But no matter how he tried, he could never stop himself from wanting. And now, as he knelt before her, gazing up at her with the same insatiable hunger, the want tore through him, gnawing at his soul.

She stood above him, her figure bathed in the flickering glow of the dying fire, the flames painting her into something both beautiful and terrible. She was a vision–something to be worshiped, something to be feared. The light danced over her skin, casting shadows that made her seem untouchable, and yet, Aemond ached for her–felt the need to reach for her itch at his fingertips.

He was no closer to the divine than the baser man, and yet, on his knees in front of her, there was divinity.

His nose was level with her navel, mere inches away from her.

The proximity made the air between them feel thick, suffocating, every breath he took was filled with the scent of her. It flooded his lungs, making his mouth water, drowning him in a wave of desire so strong he could scarcely think.

He could smell the sweet, intoxicating scent of the flowers on her skin–roses and that elusive something, richer and darker. Beneath that fragrance, though, was something more primal, something raw–the scent of her, the subtle yet unmistakable fragrance that betrayed her own desire for him.

It filled him, made his cock strain painfully against the tight fabric of his trousers, pulsating with a desperate need for her. The ache had grown unbearable, a sharp, constant throb that demanded relief. His hand slid from his thigh, pressing against the bulge in his trousers, shifting his cock in a futile attempt to ease the mounting pressure. The angle had become uncomfortable, almost painful, and as he adjusted himself, pressing his palm harder into the fabric, a soft hiss of pleasure escaped his lips.

His gaze never left her as he traced the gentle planes of her face, his eye roaming over the delicate flush in her cheeks, the way her lips were slightly parted as her breath came quick and shallow. He lingered there for a moment, captivated by the subtle beauty of her features bathed in the flickering light of the fire, before his attention ventured further down.

His eyes drank in the pale skin of her neck, framed by curls that grazed her skin with each small movement, delicate and teasing. His gaze followed the curve of her collarbones, etched out in the shifting shadows, rising and falling softly with each of her breaths. The exposed skin of her chest beckoned him, alluding to the body that had haunted his nights, a sweet torment that filled his mind with images of her pressed against him, her kisses burning his skin, her body writhing beneath him, her cunt fluttering around him as she reached the edge of her pleasure.

He swallowed hard, his breath quickening as his gaze fell lower, settling on the tie that held the robe together. It was the only thing keeping him from revealing more of her, from exposing the body he so desperately craved. His fingers twitched with the urge to untie her, to strip her of the fabric that stood between them.

Tentatively, Aemond reached for her, fingers parting the robe to grant him entry beneath it, the soft fabric caressing his wrist. As his fingers grazed the delicate skin of her ankle, his gaze lifted to meet hers. She stared down at him, unmoving, but not pulling away. He felt her release a slow breath, her chest rising and falling in a way that made his heart tighten.

With measured confidence, his other hand found her other ankle, slipping beneath the hem of her nightgown. His fingertips grazed her skin as they traveled upward, exploring not only the smoothness of her legs but the boundaries of her resolve. Gooseflesh rose beneath his touch as he inched further up her calves, her body responding to the soft, delicate caresses.

As he reached her knees, his breath caught in his throat, the fabric of her nightgown draping over his forearms like a delicate curtain as he drew his hands even further up. His fingers spread, kneading the soft flesh of her thighs, reveling in the way her body reacted to his touch. She was warm, pliant, her muscles tensing under his fingers.

Wetting his lips, Aemond shifted closer, the scrape of shards of glass sounding beneath him as they shifted under his weight, burrowing deeper into his skin. The sharp edges bit into him, but he hardly noticed the pain. It was insignificant at the moment.

With a deliberate breath, he closed his eye, letting his head fall forward in a gesture of reverence, pressing his forehead against her stomach. The warmth of her body seeped through the fabric of her nightgown and robe, filling him with a sense of closeness that both soothed and tortured him. His breath hitched as he inhaled deeply, her scent–earthy and floral, mingling with was uniquely her–flooding his senses.

For a moment, he stayed like that, unmoving, as though seeking some kind of absolution in the simple act of resting his head against her. His hands, still cradling her thighs, squeezed gently, as if grounding himself in her, feeling the rise and fall of her abdomen with each breath she took. His lips parted, a soft exhale escaping him, almost a sign of surrender, as the weight of everything–the want, the worship, the hunger–settled over him.

Aemond was no longer the fierce, unyielding prince. In this moment, at her feet, he was something else entirely. He was raw, open, vulnerable.

And he was hers.

His heart thundered in his chest, the rapid beats crashing against his ribs, each pulse so fierce it felt as though his very bones might crack under the strain, as if it were trying to break free–to tear through flesh and bone and throw itself at her feet. Would she understand him then? Would she see the mangled, raw truth of it, the ruined, blackened thing that still beat so desperately for her? He could almost imagine it, his heart laid bare before her–broken and wretched, throbbing with a devotion he could never fully articulate.

Would she accept it? Would she even care for the offering? The gnawing ache inside him deepened, twisting and curling into something hungry, something relentless. This wasn’t just desire–it was a need that corroded his insides, leaving him weak, hollow, exposed. It was love, or what remained of it after everything he had done. Love that had reduced him to this–a man brought to his knees, consumed by the weight of wanting her in a way that felt both unbearable and utterly inescapable.

His love for her was a sickness, a gnawing ache that clawed at his every thought, every breath, a feeling that stripped him down to the rawest, most pathetic part of himself. And despite how it festered inside him, he still wanted her to see it, to see him as he was–ruined and yet wholly hers.

Lost in the feeling of her, there was nothing else for Aemond but her presence, her warmth, her scent. He nuzzled his head against her abdomen, the simple touch filling him with a sense of reverence that bordered on desperation.

The scent of her was intoxicating, making his mouth water with desire as he inhaled deeply, wanting to drown in her essence. His fingers traveled higher, grazing over the soft skin of her thighs before reaching back, where he squeezed the supple flesh. His fingertips brushed against something slick–her arousal.

Warmth filled his stomach, but before he could revel in it any further, he felt her shift. Her fingers slipped through his hair, her nails scraping deliciously over his scalp. For a moment it felt like a caress, until her grip tightened, and suddenly, with a forceful yank, she pulled his head back. His neck strained with the movement, the muscles in his thighs and abdomen flexing instinctively to keep him from losing balance.

His breath hitched, pulse quickening as he looked up at her, his eye wide with a mix of surprise and arousal. Her sneer was sharp, cutting through the haze of his reverence like a blade, her lips curled in anger as she glared down at him.

“I said, let go.”

The muscles in Aemond’s throat tightened against her hold, his neck exposed as he swallowed thickly, his jaw clenched in an effort to restrain himself. He gritted his teeth, fighting the primal urge to resist, to take control, to meet her defiance with his own. The sneer that threatened to curl at his lips remained trapped behind his tight expression, his chest rising and falling as he stared up at her.

For a moment longer, he savored the warmth of her beneath his hands, the way her skin had felt as his fingers traced over her thighs. But with her command still lingering in the air, he withdrew, releasing his hold and allowing the fabric of her nightgown and robe to fall back into place. The robe hung loosely now swaying with the movement, teetering on the edge of revealing more.

His palms burned with the memory of her skin, the sensation imprinted there as though it had seared into his flesh. He sat back on his heels, his breath ragged, trying to steady himself as his hands restlessly rubbed up and down his thighs, seeking some relief from the itch to touch her again.

Aemond gazed up at her through the dark lashes of his remaining eye, a frown marring her features as she stared down at him. Her eyes–those cornflower blue eyes–were now ablaze, reflecting the burning embers of the dying hearth. It was as though a field of blue had been set aflame, something both beautiful and terrible.

His eye drifted lower, settling on her lips. They parted slightly, red like wine–red like the shade of madness, a dangerous allure. And oh, how he wanted them. He craved their bite, the way they could be both gentle and cruel, the soft press of them hiding a merciless edge. He longed for their sweetness, for their decadence–the poison that lay beneath, the temptation that threatened to ruin him and heal him all the same.

He hungered for those lips, even if they pressed the metallic tang of blood to his own, even if they cut him open and made him bleed. He would welcome the pain if it came from her, would drink it in like it was the sweetest wine, the most intoxicating spring. He wanted to consume her, to feel the taste of her linger on his tongue, to know her in the way that left marks–physical or otherwise.

The need in him was palpable, a gnawing ache that twisted in his gut, urging him closer, always closer, even as he remained on his knees, looking up at her in silent reverence, waiting for whatever she would choose to give him.

With a sharp tug, Daenera yanked his hair again, and Aemond hissed through his teeth as the strands were pulled tight, the sting sharp and satisfying–a sweet kind of agony that he didn’t mind. He had always liked when she hurt him a little.

“You don’t get to touch me,” she sneered, her voice thick, laced with something he couldn’t quite name–a tremble that betrayed her. “You don’t get to touch me unless I tell you to.”

A low, raspy hum escaped from deep within him, a sound that seemed to rise from his chest and escape through his lips like a barely restrained growl, almost a purr. It was instinctual–something primal and raw. He could feel the need clawing at him, desperate for release, and he dug the heel of his palm into the throbbing bulge in his trousers, grinding against it to soothe the maddening need for friction.

Her eyes followed his movement, flickering with a dangerous spark, the intensity of her gaze twisting something dark and vicious inside her. She burned with desire, though she fought against it, her expression betraying the struggle within her. She wanted him, even as she tried to will herself not to, and he could see the war raging in her eyes.

And then, as though scorched by the desire he had inspired with his needy, desperate display, she released her hold on him. Her fingers slipped from his hair, leaving a lingering sting behind, and she stepped back, retreating out of his immediate reach.

The sudden distance between them was jarring, like a frigid wind sweeping through the room and snuffing out the warmth the embers in the hearth provided. It left a hollow, punishing cold in its wake, one that settled into Aemond’s bones the moment she pulled away. The heat of her presence had been the only thing sustaining him, and without it, the space between them felt chilling in its vastness.

A frown tugged at Aemond's lips as he watched her, his chest tightening at the flicker of disgust that crossed her features. It cut through him, sharp and visceral, setting like a thorn in his heart. But then, something in her expression shifted, the disgust morphing into something far more dangerous–measured, deliberate, and cruel.

His breath came in labored, heavy pants, his chest rising and falling with an effort to control his impulses. His gaze followed every movement, unable to tear himself away from the sight of her, even as she stood just out of reach, as though deliberately punishing him for his need.

Slowly, she reached for the flimsy knot of her robe, the half-undone tie that had taunted him since he’d knelt before her. Her fingers pulled it loose with ease, the red fabric falling open, revealing the enticing expanse of the nightgown beneath. The rich color of the robe bloomed open like a flower, slipping down her shoulders as she lifted her hands, pushing against the fabric. It cascaded down, revealing the wide neckline of her gown in its entirety, the frills framing her collarbones, delicate beads shimmering faintly in the glow of the firelight.

The robe caught at her elbows, still covering most of her, but what was revealed sent a fresh wave of desire crashing over him. His gaze drank her in, tracing the path of the fabric as it slipped, his hands itching to reach for her again.

Aemond’s eye trailed the exposed skin of her chest, tracing the delicate planes of her collarbones and down the smooth line of her breastbone. His gaze lingered on the inner curve of her breasts, just visible beneath the nightgown, the fabric so thin that he could have almost seen through it if not for the layer of frills that artfully covered her nipples.

The sight of her–so close, yet just out of reach–drove him to grind the heel of his hand into the bulge of his trousers again. He released a tight, strained breath, hips shuddering in a barely restrained show of need.

And then, without a word, she turned away from him. The heavy fabric of the robe trailed along the floor as she moved, the soft sound of it brushing against the stone mingling with the faint chime of glass shards being disturbed. Her movements were measured, each step calculated–a taunt.

He could do nothing but watch, his breath catching as the last remnants of her robe slipped away from her. The red fabric pooled on the ground behind her, like a dark, spreading puddle of blood.

As she walked towards the bed, her silhouette became even more tantalizing through the thin material of her nightgown. The outline of her body teased him–the gentle curve of her hips, the dip of her waist, the slight sway of her step. Her curls spilled down her back in wild, cascading waves.

Aemond was utterly lost in the sway of her hips, each subtle movement making his cock strain harder against the fabric of his trousers, throbbing beneath the palm of his hand. He could feel the tightness coiling within him, knowing that he wouldn’t last long–already a few droplets of seed soaking into the fabric. His breath came in shallow pants as he watched her, transfixed, unable to tear his gaze away as she slowly turned back towards him.

The firelight cast a glow around her, outlining the curves of her body in soft shadows and golden hues. His eye traced the dip of her waist, the gentle rise of her breasts beneath the thin fabric, and then lower–where the dark curls at the apex of her thighs were barely visible through the nightgown. She was breathtaking, every part of her taunting and out of reach, yet pulling him deeper into his need.

For a long, excruciating moment, Aemond watched her, the distance between them growing with each step. A sharp, visceral tightness gripped his heart, a dread that twisted like a blade lodged between his ribs. The ache spread, cold and heavy, as the thought slithered through his mind–what if she left him there, kneeling before her, yearning, aching, abandoned?

The dread settled deep in his gut, a gnawing fear that she would slip through his grasp like smoke, intangible, untouchable. He feared the unbearable weight of silence returning, the oppressive void that would stretch between them, colder and more distant than ever before. It clung to him, that awful fear–fear that she would turn away, leaving him desperate and empty.

With deliberate grace, she settled herself on the foot of the bed, her movements fluid and confident, framed perfectly by the tall, spiral bed posts that rose from each corner like sentinels.

She leaned back leisurely on her arms, every movement deliberate, teasing, her posture relaxed yet commanding. The soft heels of her feet had slipped free from her slippers, her toes still resting lightly on the ground, the arches of her feet lifted slightly as she sat on the bed. Her body, draped in the delicate fabric of her nightgown, was framed by the spiraled bedposts like a portrait of serene power.

The neckline of her nightgown dipped dangerously low, drawing his gaze to the swell of her breasts, heavy and full, rising and falling with each slow, measured breath she took. The exposed skin, lit by the flickering firelight, gleamed with an allure that left him breathless, hands twitching with the need to touch, to claim what was being so mercilessly dangled in front of him.

She looked like a goddess–beautiful and cruel–perched on an altar made for worship.

The image of destruction and ruin loomed behind her, the flames painted on the wall seeming to dance in the flickering light of the hearth, echoing the fire that burned inside him.

Her head tilted to the side, her expression one of playful cruelty, like a god surveying their creation with a mocking, knowing gaze–waiting to see how they would react to the challenge laid before them.

With deliberate slowness, she parted her legs, the silk of her nightgown falling like a thin, teasing veil between her thighs. The movement was subtle, yet the intent was clear, undeniable. The hint of what lay beneath, the promise, the provocation, sent a shudder down his spine, settling deep in the pit of his stomach. She didn’t need to say a word; the silent command was woven into the very fabric of her presence.

Aemond shifted, lifting himself to his knees again, ready to rise–desperate to close the distance between them, to feel her beneath his touch. But before he could move further, her voice sliced through the silence, smooth and sharp, like the graze of a blade across his skin.

“Crawl.”

The single word lingered in the air between them, heavy and unyielding.

The fire in the hearth crackled, the wood popping and hissing in the silence that followed, its warmth reaching out to lick at his skin, but did nothing to quell the cold tension that gripped his body. He stared at her, his eye searching hers, feeling the weight of his pride bare down on him.

The slow burn of humiliation spread across his skin, stinging like a fresh wound. His body tightened, every muscle tense, as if poised to react, yet he remained still. The silence stretched on, thick and suffocating, the crackling flames the only sound to cut through it. His chest rose and fell with controlled breaths, but the simmering emotions beneath–anger, shame, and the ache of wounded pride–made his restraint feel precarious.

It wasn’t far–only a few paces that separated them–but in that moment, the distance between them felt vast, as though it stretched into an endless expanse. The ground between them became a barren, cold stretch of stone, a desolate wasteland where nothing could flourish.

It was a place where pride withered and died, where pitifulness took root and thrived in the cracks. In that landscape, a man like him could be left to perish–abandoned, starving for dignity and honor, dying of thirst for the promise of her sweetness.

And there she remained, lounging back leisurely–provocatively–legs spread before him, her head tilted slightly as she watched him with the detached amusement of a cruel goddess, who found satisfaction in watching him lower himself, in making him crawl like a dog to her, commanding him to come worship at her altar of flesh.

The sight of her–brutal in her beauty, merciless by nature–lodged itself deep between his ribs, twisting, burrowing into him, cutting through his pride like a blade.

Aemond’s breath came in shallow, strained pants as he watched her fingers trace up the length of her parted tights, drawing up the hem of her nightgown with agonizing slowness. Each inch revealed more of her divine skin, the curve of her legs, the soft, pale flesh that he craved with a hunger that gnawed at him, unrelenting. She tugged her nightgown higher still, offering teasing glimpses of what lay between her thighs–a promise of what he so desperately sought, a spring, a feast for a starving man.

And how could he not obey when she looked like that–a vision of cruel divinity, a goddess demanding tribute. And he, a sinner on his knees, knew only the burning hunger that gnawed at him, the desperate need to repent for the sins of his desire. His pride seemed but a small price.

She was both salvation and damnation, and he–helpless in his need–could only submit, knowing that he would give anything, everything, to touch her, to worship at the altar she so mercilessly offered.

With slow, deliberate movements; Aemond obeyed, lowering himself onto his hands. The cold stone beneath his palms sent a shiver through his body. Shards of glass embedded themselves in his skin, the faint chiming sound mingling with the soft crackle of the hearth as they bit into him. Pain bloomed in small bursts, bruising and cutting as he began to crawl towards her, inching closer, feeling every sharp edge burrow deeper as he pushed himself forward.

Each scrape of his knees against the rough surface was a reminder of his abandoned pride, but he twisted the act into something else, something more primal. He moved with a predator’s grace, his muscles shifting as he turned the crawl into something more deliberate.

He bent to her will, but it was wholly his choice–a dragon obeying its rider.

A small, wicked smirk tugged at the corners of Daenera’s lips as she seemed to revel in the sight of him crawling towards her, the thrill of power gleaming in her eye as she watched him, utterly captivated.

As he drew closer, she raised her foot with deliberate slowness, pressing it firmly against the curve of his shoulder, just enough to halt his approach. Aemond obeyed, pausing, settling back onto his haunches as her foot kept him at bay. His hands moved instinctively to his thighs, brushing away the dirt and shards of glass that clung to his palms.

For a moment, she kept her foot against him, savoring the tension that hung thickly between them. Her eyes never left his, even as she slowly lowered her leg. The air was cloyingly thick with anticipation. She looked wholly delectable, like something forbidden and irresistible.

And there he knelt before her once again.

Gripping the hem of his ruined shirt, Aemond tugged the fabric over his head in one swift motion, muscles rippling beneath his pale skin. The shirt bunched in his hands as he took a moment to brush away the last remnants of glass from his palms, his fingers moving methodically to ensure nothing remained but the small cuts and the wellings of blood that had already begun to bead. The sting of the wounds was a dull sensation compared to the sharp edge of his desire.

Once satisfied, he tossed the ruined shirt aside without a second thought, letting it fall haphazardly to the floor. He could feel her eyes roaming over him, the heat of her gaze like a physical touch that made a shudder run down his spine. His chest rose and fell with heavy, deliberate breaths, gaze finding hers.

With measured daring, Aemond reached for her, his fingers curling around her ankle as they had before, but this time there was something different–a deeper, more intentional reverence in the way he held her. He inched forward on his knees, never breaking eye contact, his gaze locked with hers as he leaned down, bringing his face closer to her skin, a quiet plea.

He felt it then–the subtle shudder that ripped through her, the delicate tremor of her body responding to his touch. Her breath hitched, just slightly, but it was enough for him to notice. The way her chest rose and fell in that moment, the way her muscles tightened beneath his fingertips, all betrayed the effect he had on her.

The warmth of her skin against his lips, soft and yielding, sent a rush through Aemond that made his heart swell in his chest. That simple, tender contact stirred something deep inside him, heat spreading from his core and settling like a flame in the pit of his stomach. He pressed his lips to her knee again, nuzzling it gently with a reverence that words could never capture. It was an act of quiet devotion, a silent offering of everything he could not express aloud–a prayer whispered with his touch, worship hidden in each lingering kiss.

He savored the delicate moments of connection between them, as fleeting as they might be, each one precious. As he felt her breath hitch and the subtle tremor in her body, the tension beneath her calm exterior, it only fueled the fire in him further. He could sense her restraint, feel it in the air, and it drove his need to worship her in the only way she would allow, to show her what his words could not–his longing, his reverence, his unspoken love.

Suddenly, she lurched forward, her palm meeting his cheek with a sharp crack that resonated through the room. The force of the slap rang in his ear, a sharp sting spreading across his skin, the heat of it immediate, burning, and prickling beneath the surface.

“Did I say you could touch me?” She hissed, her voice tight, hovering between a sneer and something that sounded almost like shock–shock at her own reaction. Her chest rose and fell sharply, breath heavy, and Aemond could feel the tension vibrating in the air, sharp as a blade.

Her fingers weaved into his hair and then twisted harshly, yanking with a force that sent a sharp jolt of pain rippling through his scalp. The sting bloomed into something darker, twisting into a perverse pleasure that made his eye flutter shot, and a raw, guttural moan escaped his lips.

He reveled in it–the sharp tug of her grip, the stinging that shot through his scalp and down his spine. It fanned the fire already burning low in his belly, his breath coming in ragged, needy gasps. His body responded instinctively, a shudder rolling through him as he tightened his hold on the throbbing bulge in his trousers. His cock strained painfully against the fabric, so hard it ached, a pain that bordered on agony. His hips jerked forward involuntarily, desperate for relief, for more of that deciduous agony and bliss.

“Please…” His voice was hoarse, ragged, a broken plea that slipped from his lips with no thought behind it.

Pride had long since abandoned him, scattered to the wind as she knelt at her feet, consumed by the need for her touch, for any scrap of her attention.

His eye, dark with hunger, flickered up to her, silently begging for more, for anything she might deign to give him. “Please… Let me touch you…”

Let me show you.

Her hold tightened, and he could feel the sharp pull of his own desperation unraveling him, inch by inch, the fine threat of his control fraying with every heartbeat. The sensation of her fingers twisting in his hair was an exquisite torture, and Aemond, for all his carefully cultivated restraint, found himself teetering on the edge, powerless beneath her hands, lost to the raw, brutal desire that coursed through him.

“Why?” Daenera chided mercilessly, her voice sharp as a blade, cutting through the tension. “Hm? Why should I let you touch me after all you’ve put me through?”

The words dripped with venom, but there was a power behind them, a control that twisted the knife already embedded in his chest.

Aemond swallowed thickly, his heart hammering so violently it felt as though it might burst from his ribs, each beat a relentless thud that reverberated through his entire body. What was he to stay? That he was sorry for pushing her into this marriage? No. That would be a futile lie, she already knew the truth. He wasn’t sorry for binding her to him.

The thought of apologizing for her brother’s death flickered briefly through his mind, but he dismissed it just as quickly. He refused to dwell on that now–refused to give in to the guilt she likely wanted to see in his eye, refused to feel any guilt for it at all.

No apology, real or feigned, would come to his lips. He had none to offer. And yet, the words she demanded from him hung in the air, suffocating him as her grip tightened in his hair.

“I want you to suffer,” she said, her voice sharp and cold, her gaze sweeping across his face like a blade. There was a cruel gleam in her eyes, a glint of satisfaction as she watched him kneel before her. Her fingers twisted deeper into his hair, the tension in her grip relentless, sending sharp stabs of pain through his scalp.

Aemond hissed through his teeth, the raw sensation twisting in his gut, making him ache in ways that he both craved and despised.

“I want you to feel what it’s like to lose something,” she continued, her voice low, deceptively soft. “I want you to know what it feels like to want and never have. To need something, but have it just out of reach.” She tightened her grip, her nails scraping against his scalp with a deliberate cruelty that sent shivers down his spine. The searing ache in his scalp merged with the storm of emotions roiling inside him–humiliation, lust, frustration, bitterness, love–each one fueling the fire that burned in his chest.

“And I want you to admit that you desire me,” she demanded, her lips curling into something that was almost a sneer as she leaned closer, her breath brushing his cheek. “That’s all this is.”

Aemond’s jaw clenched tight, muscles straining as he fought against the onslaught of conflicting emotions that surged through him. Her words lashed at him, each one a whip crack against his pride–against his heart–and yet, beneath the sting of her cruelty, desire coiled like a snake, tightening with every second. He wanted to deny her, to resist her, to insist that it was love, but the words died on his tongue, mind muddled by desire. The need twisted inside him, dark and relentless, threatening to consume him whole.

His single eye flicked up to meet hers, and the intensity in his gaze was raw, unyielding. He looked at her with something deeper than anger, deeper than lust–a need so profound it bordered on agony. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, his chest rising and falling with the effort to control himself. He was on his knees before her, at her mercy, a prince brought low by the force of his own desire. His silence was an answer in itself.

Without words, his gaze seemed to say it all: Look at me. I am here, kneeling before you. What more could you take? I am already yours.

Aemond’s pride had long since fractured under the weight of her cruelty, but he refused to surrender fully–not yet. His teeth ground together, a stubborn resistance flickering in the storm of his emotions, even as his body betrayed him, trembling with the tension of her grip, with the yearning that gnawed at his soul.

“I want you to feel the weight of your choices and what they cost you.” Her free hand slid almost tenderly across the skin of his neck, fingers brushing against the taut muscle there as if she was testing how fiercely his pulse raced beneath his flesh. The touch sent a shiver down his spine, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard, trying to steady his breath. Her touch was deceptively soft, like a blade sheathed in silk.

For a brief moment, something flickered in her eyes–something that looked almost like pain. The storm that raged within her seemed to break free, the blue of her eyes–once soft like summer cornflowers–darkened, turning into the turbulent depths of a stormy sea. The same sea that had swallowed the remnants of her brother whole, a sea of vengeance and grief, pulling at her, drowning her.

Aemond saw it, that flash of torment behind her cold facade, and it struck something deep within him. But before he could fully grasp it, her expression smoothed out, her gaze sharpening with the kind of cruelty that twisted the knife she had already driven into him.

“I want to see you grovel,” she whispered, the words laced with venom, yet spoken in the sweet cadence of someone who knew they held all the power in the palm of their hand.

Aemond’s breath hitched at the word, grovel. He had already bent himself before her, knees digging into the cold stone, the shattered remnants of his pride scattered at her feet. Her demand clawed at him, both humbling and infuriating. But that flicker of pain he’d seen in her eyes remained etched into his mind, pulling at the small part of him that still longed for something other than the chaos between them–longed for her heart, her soul.

He felt the weight of her words press down on him, crushing his defiance. The choices he made–the blood he had spilled, the bond he had forced–hung heavy on him like a chain. And still, he ached for her, every fiber of his being drawn to her, even as her words struck at his soul.

Then, with a sudden, sharp tug, she pulled him closer, until their faces were mere inches apart. Their breaths mingled, her scent filling his lungs as he inhaled raggedly. Aemond’s hands, shaking with tension, gripped the edge of the mattress with a desperate strength, his knuckles white, the skin stretched tight over bone.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and raw, the plea falling from his lips with quiet desperation. He hated how the word tasted, how it settled so heavily in the air between them, but he couldn’t stop himself.

His mind was a haze, clouded by the wine coursing through his veins and the intoxicating mixture of her scent, her touch, and the unbearable closeness. Each breath he took was filled with her, each sensation heightened to a maddening degree.

He would take her scorn, gladly. He would welcome the sharp sting of her cruelty if it meant she would stay, if it meant she would give him the smallest piece of herself. Every barb, every sneer, every cruel word–he would endure it all if it meant being near her, if it meant feeling her presence just a moment longer. He was willing to suffer, to bleed if that was what it took.

If she would only allow it, he would show her. He would show her that this was not just raw desire or base need–it was love, something that had taken root deep inside him. His heart, dark and broken as it was, beat only for her–he would prove it if she’d let him.

She leaned back, studying him, seemingly taking a slow, deliberate pleasure in his suffering. The corners of her lips curled into a cruel, wicked smile–something beautiful and devastating, a forest fire, the earth opening up, a storm unleashing on the shore.

The tension that had coiled in his body was released only for a moment as she let go of his hair. Without a word, she spread her legs for him, as though she were inviting him into something sacred, urging him towards the altar for worship. The fabric of her nightgown draped loosely around her, teasing at what lay beneath, and Aemond’s breath hitched, his mouth suddenly dry. He was so close–so agonizingly close–but still, he remained on the floor, gazing up at her like a man starved, the pulse of his own need thrumming through him like a second heartbeat.

Daenera lifted her foot, letting it trail slowly up his arm, the soft curve of her ankle brushing against his skin. Her head tilted to the side, her expression playful, almost daring, as if she was challenging him to prove his worth. Her lips curled into a faint smirk, eyes glinting with amusement as she watched him.

Aemond leaned into her touch, the warmth of her foot igniting a fire in his chest. His gaze flickered up to meet hers, tentative and seeking approval, his breath shaky with anticipation.

Slowly, he pressed his lips to her skin, kissing up her leg with reverence. His fingers, trembling at first, gripped her calf, his touch growing firmer, bruising in his eagerness as he realized she was allowing him this small indulgence.

His kisses trailed higher, pressing into the side of her knee, his breath hot against her skin as he exhaled slowly, nuzzling his cheek against her like a man seeking forgiveness at an altar.

The scent of her–sweet and earthy–filled his senses, driving him deeper into his desire, the heat of her body drawing him in, consuming him. His fingers slid further up, bunching the fabric of her nightgown as he pushed it higher, exposing more of her soft skin, inch my inch.

His lips found the inside of her thigh, lingering there with open-mouthed kisses, tasting her skin as though it was something sacred. Every touch, every caress, was offered with reverence and need. When his lips brushed over the small pink scar near the top of her thigh, he paused, his breath catching as he pressed a kiss there, lingering on the mark–had it been love, then?

The scent of her arousal filled the air, heady and intoxicating, making Aemond’s pulse quicken. He could feel the tension in his stomach, his need for her growing unbearable, but he moved slowly, savoring every moment, every inch of her skin as he kissed his way higher. Each kiss was a plea, a wordless promise for mercy–for understanding, for acceptance that she was his as much as he was hers.

Her fingers tangled back into his hair, this time tugging more gently, guiding him with slow insistence to where she wanted him the most. There was no need for harshness now; they both knew he would obey her every command–lost in the haze of lust.

The fabric of her nightgown bunched higher around her waist, revealing the slick curls at her center, her cunt glistening in the dim glow of the firelight. Aemond’s breath hitched, his mouth watering at the sight, a deep, primal need surging through him as she urged him closer.

A low moan escaped him, a sound of desperate hunger, as her hand tigged insistently at his hair, urging him to her. He obeyed without hesitation, lowering his head to press his mouth to her, his lips parting as he locked a slow, deliberate line along the slick seam of her cunt.

The taste of her flooded his senses–sweet like the nectar of forbidden fruit and salty like the sea, intoxicating and all-consuming. He groaned against her, the sound reverberating through his chest as he savored the feel of her on his tongue, his hands gripping her thighs more firmly.

Her breath hitched sharply above him, the sound of it filling the space between them as her fingers tightened in his hair, tugging at it more insistently. The small, delicious sound that slipped from her lips–a soft, breath moan–sent a shiver down his spine, the weight of her pleasure heavy in the air. It was a sound that stirred something deep inside him, a spark of satisfaction that ignited into a burning need to hear more.

The sharp tug of her fingers weaving into his hair sent a brief sting through his scalp, but instead of discomfort, it sparked something deeper within him–a strange, intoxicating satisfaction. His heart gave a sudden flutter, almost embarrassingly eager for it. The pain was not simply pain–it was a tether, a silent pull drawing him closer to her, binding him to her need as if, for a fleeting moment, she wanted him as much as he craved her. That closeness, the sense of being wanted, even in this twisted dance of control, filled him with a warmth that spread like wildfire through his chest.

As Aemond savored the taste of her on his tongue, all he could think of were his vows–the promises he made to her, now binding him to her in a way that felt both sacred and primal. He lathered her slick cunt with slow, deliberate kisses, each one a silent oath, his lips moving against her as though sealing the promises he could not speak aloud.

Isse aōha perzys nyke rijībagon.

In your fire I worship.

He dragged his tongue down through her folds, feeling her tremble beneath his touch, swirling around her quivering entrance with a devotion that bordered on reverence.

Isse se vāedar hen aōha prūmia mazeman lyks.

In your breath I find life, in the beating of your heart I find peace.Then, with a low groan deep in his chest, he ran his tongue back up, pressing it flat against her swollen clit, sending a shiver through her body. Every stroke of his tongue, every breathless kiss, was an unspoken testament to his need for her, to the depths of his desire.

Isse aōha ondos, iā egros lēda skore kostā gaomagon naejot nekēbagon hen skoros iksis aōhon.

In your palm, a blade, with which you may use to carve out what is yours.

His cock throbbed painfully against the confines of his trousers, twitching in response to the moan she gifted him, the ache in his groin intensifying with every passing second. But he pushed his own needs aside, focusing entirely on her, on the taste of her, on the way her body responded to him. He licked her again, slowly, reverently, as if she was the only thing that existed in the world at that moment, the only thing that mattered.

Ondoso aōha prūmia rests ñuhon.

By your heart mine rests. Her thighs trembled beneath his touch, soft and quivering as Aemond’s fingers pressed into the delicate flesh, holding them apart with a firm, possessive grill He kept her spread wide, ensuring she was fully exposed to him, and his tongue moved with greedy precision through her slick folds. He lapped at her with desperation, as though her desire was the sweetest nectar, and he couldn’t get enough.

Nyke tepagon ao ñuha jorepnon.

I give you my prayer.His tongue circled her swollen clit with purpose, teasing it with the flat of his tongue before closing his lips around it, sucking gently but with just enough pressure to draw a sharp, involuntary jerk of her hips against his face. Her hand tightened in his hair, tugging him closer, as if she couldn’t stand even an inch of distance between them.

Isse aōha nesh, morghon kesan gīmigon, se isse aōha perzys kesan zālagon.

In your embrace, I will welcome Death; in your fire, I shall be consumed.Another moan spilled from her lips, louder this time, as Aemond sucked harder at her clit, his tongue flattening firmly against the sensitive nub. The sound of her pleasure unraveled him, and a deep, guttural groan escaped his throat, vibrating against her in a way that made her hips twitch in response.

Ñuha jorrāelagon, bisa nyke vow naejot ao ondoso Perzys Ānogār.

My love, this vow I make to you with fire and blood.

Aemond’s stomach tightened, a fierce fire burning low within him, an inferno that roared with each moan she gave him, each tremor he felt through her body. His grip on her thighs tightened, desperate, as though he needed to hold her close to anchor himself against the tide of his own desire. Everything about her consumed him–her scent, the taste of her slick heat, the soft tremble in her voice as she gasped for air. He burned for her, for the need to please her, to make her fall apart in his arms.

“Ah, fuck,” she breathed, her voice low and thick with pleasure, the sound of it making his cock throb. “Mmmh…”

Aemond devoured her like a man starved, as though the taste of her could finally sate the hunger that gnawed at him since birth. The hunger was deep, insatiable, something he had always carried, and in this moment, he willed it with all his being that it would be enough–that she would be enough. His tongue moved with desperate fervor, drinking her in like a man who had wandered a desolate, barren landscape, only to fall to his knees before a spring of clear, life-giving water.

His hands roamed her body greedily, fingers digging into her tender flesh with bruising intensity, needing to hold onto her, to feel her warmth beneath his grasp. He was oblivious to the sharp sting as the shallow wounds on his palms reopened, streaks of blood smearing across her thighs where he touched her.

The crimson stains mingled with the salty sting of her perspiration, painting her skin with his mark, as though he were a sinner tainting the pure. But Aemond didn’t care–he wanted to leave his imprint on her, wanted her to bear the evidence of his devotion, his desperation.

Each movement was raw, primal, as he worshiped her with his mouth, licking and sucking at her folds with a feverish need that bordered on reverence. The taste of her, the sound of her breathless gasps, only spurred him on, driving him deeper into his own madness. He felt the blood warm on his hands, the proof of his sacrifice mingling with the pleasure he gave her, and it thrilled him–made him want more, to take more, until she was wholly his, stained with his touch, marked by his desire.

The stillness of the room was punctuated by the wet, intimate sound of her arousal, the squelch of her cunt and their labored breaths filling the air as Aemond devoured her. Every swipe of his tongue was deliberate, unhurried, wanting to commit each taste, each texture, to memory. HIs tongue moved through her folds, tracing the slick heat of her, savoring every inch of her–oh, how he had missed her taste.

His hands slid along the insides of her trembling thighs, his touch tender–soothing. He pulled back slowly, his lips left her wet heat, the taste of her still thick on his tongue, her essence smeared across his lips and dripping down his chin. A string of saliva connected them for a brief moment before it broke apart.

Aemond’s gaze locked onto her, watching the way she bloomed under his touch. He spread her folds open with his hands, exposing her fully to his hungry gaze. The soft pink of her flesh deepened into a rich red, the slick wetness glistening in the dim light as her cunt clenched, pulsing with need, aching to be filled. He groaned at the sight. Even if she refused to voice it, her body betrayed her, silently begging for release she so desperately craved.

Aemond leaned forward again, his hunger insatiable, and dragged his tongue slowly through her slick folds, savoring the way her body responded to him. He circled her swollen clit, teasing it with gentle, precise strokes before dipping back down, thrusting his tongue deeper inside her. The warmth of her engulfed him as her walls fluttered at the intrusion, clenching tightly around his tongue, as if her body were trying to pull him in deeper.

A sweet, guttural moan slipped from her lips, a sound that sent a thrill through him. Her hips rose instinctively, meeting the thrusts of his tongue. Her head fell back, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps, her body moving on its own–seeking more of the pleasure he gave her, desperate for the release that hovered just out of reach.

Her hips rocked against his face in perfect rhythm, each movement more frantic than the last, as if her body craved everything he could give her and more. Aemond’s tongue thrust in and out of her with practiced precision, his nose pressing against her swollen clit with each push, sending shudders through her. The soft curls of her cunt brushed against his face, tickling his skin as her scent surrounded him, filling his senses completely, drowning him in her essence.

Aemond groaned into her as her hips bucked harder against his face. His hands gripped her thighs tightly, fingers digging into her soft flesh as he held her steady, keeping her spread open for him as he worshiped her with his mouth. Every sound she made, every tremble of her body, only fueled his need to give her more, to bring her to the edge and watch her fall apart in his hands.

“Oh, mmh, fuck, r-right there,” she muttered, her voice breathless and raw, her grip tightening in his hair. Her nails scraped across his scalp, sending sharp tingles down his spine, and the sensation made his hips jerk seeking friction. The prison of his trousers became unbearable, the fabric constricting painfully around his throbbing cock, offering him no relief, only intensifying his desperation.

“Ah, oh… Sh–fuck,” she gasped again, her voice trembling with the tension building inside her.

The heel of her foot pressed firmly between his shoulder blades, digging into his spine with enough force to push him closer, to keep him trapped exactly where she wanted him. There was no escape from her now–not that he wanted to. Aemond could feel her drawing closer to the edge, could hear it in the breathless way she moaned, in the quiver of her body beneath his hands. Her thighs trembled against his grip, her slick heat clenching tighter around his tongue with each thrust, as though her entire body was winding up to shatter.

Her breath came in short, ragged pants, her body tightening, and he knew she was moments away from falling apart. He leaned into her, his tongue moving with increasing fervor, desperate to push her over the edge, to taste the full extent of her pleasure as it spilled over him.

Aemond felt the shudder ripple down her spine, her body trembling and jerking beneath his mouth. Her hips bucked involuntarily, her legs twitching in his grasp as her cunt fluttered and tightened around his tongue, the pressure almost intoxicating. Her breath came out in stuttering, broken moans, each sound more desperate than the last.

“Hmm–hmm–ah, mmhp–mmm,” she gasped, the soft whimpers escaping her lips as her body gave in.

A long, breathless moan hung heavy in the air as she came around him, her release flooding over his tongue. She gushed, and Aemond drank down every drop she offered, his mouth never leaving her. He soothed her through the waves of her pleasure, his tongue lapping at her gently now, dragging it slowly up through her folds before flattening against her sensitive clit, sending another shiver coursing through her.

She collapsed onto the bed, her body spent, her chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. Her grip on his hair slackened, the intensity of her hold fading as she panted above him, her muscles trembling in the aftermath. But Aemond didn’t stop. He continued to lick at her, dragging his tongue slowly over her still-sensitive skin, savoring the last remnants of her release. He swiped his face along the inside of her thigh, smearing her slick onto her own skin, his cheeks, chin, and lips wet with the evidence of her arousal.

Releasing his grip on her thigh, Aemond’s hand drifted down, desperate for relief. His fingers wrapped around his painfully hard cock, the touch sending a shudder through him. A broken, needy sound escaped his throat as his hips jerked instinctively into his own hand. Even as he stroked himself, he couldn’t tear himself away from her, his face still buried against her thigh. He nuzzled into her skin, smearing the wetness of her release across his cheeks, dragging his lips and chin along the crook of her hips and the bunched fabric resting against her lower abdomen.

His mind was hazy, swimming with the scent and taste of her, his senses dulled as though he were drunk on her alone. His breaths came in ragged pants, and he rolled his hips into his hand, each movement a futile attempt at finding some reprieve from the ache that consumed him. He clung to her, nuzzling like a pitiful dog, desperate for any attention she might offer him.

But then her fingers tightened in his hair, gripping hard enough to yank him back. His face was dragged from her, his neck craning as she forced him to look up at her. Her gaze burned into him, fierce and merciless. Her pupils were blown wide, like dark blots of ink consuming the pale sea-blue of her irises.

“Did I say you could touch yourself?” She hissed, her voice cold and commanding.

Aemond’s breath hitched, his hand stilling as she tugged harder, forcing a sharp gasp from his lips. Her grip on his hair was unforgiving, ruthless as she glared down at him.

“Get on the bed.”

With her command delivered, she released him abruptly, her grip leaving his scalp stinging from the roughness of her touch. She scooted back on the bed, then shifted to the side, swinging her legs over the edge before rising to her feet. The pale ivory of her nightgown cascaded down her legs, flowing around her like water, the candlelight casting her in an ethereal glow, catching the gold string weaved into the fabric.

Aemond remained sitting at the foot of the bed, his knees ached, bruised from kneeling on the cold stone floor, the chill still lingering in his skin. He sat there dazed, breathless, his mind swimming–drunk on her. It took a moment for him to collect himself, to ground his senses enough to move. Slowly, he rose to his feet, feeling the pull of the fabric around his cock, tightening painfully.

He crawled onto the bed, muscles tense with anticipation, each movement careful and deliberate as his heart pounded in his chest. She had moved to stand where he had knelt only moments ago, staring at him with an intensity that made his pulse quicken. Her gaze was dark, calculating, as she took in his disheveled form, his every breath, every flicker of need exposed for her to see.

Without warning, she climbed onto the bed again, her hand pushing against his chest urging him back onto the mattress. She wasted no time, her hands immediately going to the laces of his trousers, roughly undoing them–the sight of her making his cock twitch. The sharpness of her movements made him suck in a breath, each tug of the laces sending a jolt through him.

Her fingers hooked into the waistband of his trousers, tugging them down with no care for gentleness, pulling them only to his knees before abandoning the effort entirely.

As Aemond’s cock sprang free from the confines of his trousers, it slapped hard against his abdomen, the sudden release drawing a low, guttural moan from his lips. His hands clenched into the covers beneath him, knuckles white with the force of his grip as his cock throbbed, slick with his leaking seed. The thick, white fluid dripped down from the swollen head, droplets pooling on his lower abdomen as his body trembled with need.

Daenera settled herself beside him, her head tilting slightly, watching him intently. Her lithe fingers reached out, curling around the shaft of his cock, and Aemond couldn’t suppress the sharp intake of breath that followed. Her hand was warm, soft, yet commanding, and he was sure she could feel how his cock pulsed and throbbed beneath her palm, desperate for her touch.

The sensation of her hand wrapped around him sent a jolt of pleasure through his entire body, forcing a hiss from his lips as his hips bucked, driving himself deeper into her grip. He couldn’t stop himself, the need for her overwhelming, his body reacting without thought, pushing her palm lower along his shaft, craving more of her touch–more movement as he teetered dangerously close to the edge of release.

“This is what you want, isn’t it?” Daenera murmured, her voice low and teasing as she dragged her hand slowly up the length of his cock. Her grip was loose, deliberately ghosting along his skin, letting the heat of her palm tease him with every agonizingly slow stroke.

“For me to wrap my hand around your cock,” she continued in a musing drawl. The way her hand moved, the deliberate teasing, left him aching for more, his hips twitching in response, chasing the friction she so cruelly denied him. His breath hitched, and every nerve in his body was attuned to her, waiting for her to give him the release he so desperately craved. “This is what you want, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Aemond answered through gritted teeth, his voice strained with the effort of restraint. Every muscle in his body was pulled taut, trembling as he fought to stay still, to hold back the overwhelming urge to surrender completely to her touch.

“For me to play your sweet little wife,” Daenera continued, her voice laced with something he had no mind to decipher. She dragged her hand slowly down his length, her grip tightening at the base of his cock, sending a shiver through him. “So that I can fulfill your desires–”

“No–” Aemond choked out, the protest barely forming before it was stolen from him. His teeth dung into the inside of his cheek, trying to ground himself as she dragged her hand back, twisting wickedly around the sensitive head of his cock. The sensation ripped his denial from his lungs, leaving him breathless, silenced by pleasure.

A low, helpless hum escaped from deep within his chest, his lungs straining as he fought the instinct to buck his hips into her hand, to seek more friction. “P–please,” he gasped, his voice rough and broken as his hips bucked uncontrollably into her touch. She swiped her thumb over the tip, smearing the bead of seed that gathered there, then slowly dragged her hand down his shaft again, the deliberate slowness of it making his body tremble. “Fuck, I–I can’t fucking think–”

Her gaze remained measured, dark with something cruel and vicious. “Do you think this is what you deserve?” she mued, her voice laced with quiet mockery, ignoring his pleas. Her hand continued its slow stroking, testing his length as if his words were beneath her notice. “To be touched like this after everything you’ve done?”

“No,” Aemond muttered, his breath coming in quick, ragged gasps as he edged closer to his breaking point. His eye fluttered closed, lost in the overwhelming sensation of her hand wrapped around him–the softness of her palm, the heat of her touch, the way her fingers glided up the length of his cock before twisting at the tip, teasing the sensitive head. Each movement drow him further towards the precipice, the pleasure clouding his mind, blurring the edges of his control.

“No?” Daenera hummed, her voice deceptively sweet, laced with a cruel undertone.

Aemond struggled to respond, the words slipping away as his head swam in a haze of lust. “I–fuck,” he gasped, his body trembling under her touch. “I only want what you give me.”

Her lips curved slightly, her expression mocking as she tilted her head, drawing closer to him. “And what if I decide to give you nothing?”

The question hung in the air, sharp and cutting, but Aemond couldn’t focus on anything other than the excruciating pleasure and the fear of losing it. He was at her mercy, and he knew it–desperate for any scrap of what she might offer, even as the threat of denial lingered between them.

“Please, don’t–stop,” Aemond begged breathlessly, his voice rough and desperate. The muscles in his lower abdomen tightened, his entire body coiling with the fiery warmth that spread through his lower stomach, teetering on the edge of release. “Please–”

“Look at you, begging for me,” Daenera chided, her voice dripping with mockery. She leaned down, her lips hovering just over the head of his cock, her tongue darting out to tease the slit where his pearly seed beaded. The sensation sent a sharp jolt through him, his breath catching in his throat. Her hair brushed against his skin, a delicate, tortuous tickle that only heightened his torment, while her warm breath fanned over his length, making him tremble beneath her.

“Do you think begging will make me forgive you?” She murmured, her voice a soft, cruel whisper as she dragged her tongue along his tip. “That I’ll forget the blood on your hands?”

No, Aemond didn’t think she’d forgive him. He knew better. His hands fisted tighter in the covers, the fabric straining beneath his grip as a desperate moan tore from his throat. Her breath, hot and teasing, curled over the head of his cock, so painfully close but still withheld. His hips jerked instinctively towards her, seeking more, but she withdrew, tightening her hold at the base of his cock and pushing him back down against the bed.

“Daenera…” Aemond moaned, her name falling from his lips like a fragile prayer, trembling with reverence. Her tongue flicked out once more, swirling around the sensitive head of his cock, and the sensation sent a violent shiver up his spine. His breath hitch, stolen from his lungs in a broken, needy moan.

Her long, dark lashes fluttered delicately against her flushed cheeks as she licked at him, teasing, torturing. When her eyes slowly opened, her gaze locked with his, and Aemond felt his breath hitch in his throat. He stared down at her, utterly mesmerized by the sight before him–her red lips glistened, her tongue darting out to wet them as her hand remained wrapped firmly around his cock, stroking him in a slow, torturous rhythm.

Her hair, dark and unruly, brushed softly against his skin, the sensation almost too much to bear. She looked impossibly wicked and innocent all at once, and when her tongue darted out again to lick him, the sensation sent a jolt of pleasure through his entire body. She was every bit a temptress, holding him in thrall, and he was powerless against the pull she had over him.

The heat of her mouth closed around him, a sensation so overwhelming it forced a ragged gasp from Aemond’s lips. Her tongue swirled around the sensitive head of his cock before pressing flatly along the length of him as she sank deeper, taking him fully into her mouth. Every inch was enveloped in her warmth, while her hand gripped and caressed what her lips couldn’t reach, making quick work of him as she bobbed her head once, twice–

A long, breathless moan escaped him, a sound so broken it bordered on a whimper as the pleasure crested. He couldn’t hold back any longer, spilling himself into the wet heat of her mouth. The muscles of her throat tightened around him, heightening the sensation, while her free hand teased the sensitive flesh of his testicles, sending sharp ripples of pleasure through his entire body.

A shudder coursed through Aemond’s entire body as Daenera slowly dragged her lips up the length of his shaft, her touch leaving him trembling in its wake. She pressed her lips into him, kissing the sensitive skin as her tongue swirled languidly around the head of his cock, teasing him with that final flick of heat before she slipped off, her lips closing softly at the tip as though sealing the moment with a kiss.

She sat up beside him, resting on her knees, her hair spilling like dark silk over the front of her chest. Her cheeks were flushed a soft pink, the remnants of their shared heat lingering on her skin.

A gleam shimmered on her lips, wet with the evidence of him, and her eyes glinted mischievously, a wicked satisfaction dancing in her gaze–the sight made his stomach churn, his heart fluttering against his ribs.

Aemond lay panting, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he swallowed thickly, trying to steady himself. Aftershocks of pleasure trembled down his spine, warmth spreading through his limbs, leaving him feeling both weightless and utterly spent. Her hand remained wrapped around the base of his cock, moving with a soft, unhurried rhythm, coaxing it to say hard even though he had already given her his seed. The sensation teetered on the edge of pain and pleasure, an overwhelming mix that left him groaning softly with each stroke.

She leaned over him, straddling his thighs with effortless grace, her body pressing down just enough to pin him against the mattress. Her hand continued its relentless, teasing motion, working him even as his body protested with a sharp hiss. His brows furrowed, back aching as if trying to escape her touch, but there was nowhere to go–he was trapped beneath her, at her mercy, and the mattress offered no reprieve.

Did he even want her to stop?

His breath came in quick, uneven gasps, his gaze flickering to her hand as she stroked him. His eye traveled upwards, taking in the way her nightgown draped over her thighs as she straddled his legs, the fabric gathering around her hips. He caught a tantalizing glimpse of her nipple as the gown slipped slightly, teeterning dangerously on the edge of her shoulder, threatening to fall. His gaze finally met her face, the wicked gleam in her eyes still burning with the same intensity as before, merciless, unfinished.

She leaned over him, her lips parting slowly as she released the seed he had given her. It fell in a thick, wet splatter onto his stomach, gleaming in the flickering candlelight. For a brief moment, a delicate string of saliva connected them, an intimate tether between them before she spat out the last remnants, licking her lips with deliberate slowness before rising back up–a gift unwanted and returned to him.

A memory flickered at the edges of Aemond’s mind, something elusive and fleeting, almost like a dream lost to the haze of the moment.

“You can keep your seed,” Daenera murmured, her head tilting slightly, her voice a cruel drawl. “I do not want it.” As she spoke, her hand tightened around him, stroking him with a newfound intensity, pulling a strangled whimper from his lips. His body trembled under her touch, the sharp mix of pleasure and pain overwhelming him, and all he could do was lay there, helpless beneath her control, at her mercy.

“I’m not done with you yet,” Daenera mused darkly.

For a fleeting moment, Aemond thought she was about to crawl over him, imagined her sinking onto his throbbing cock, her lips parting and her eyes fluttering closed as she took him fully. The thought sent a surge of heat through his body, his breath catching in anticipation.

But instead, she shifted off him, moving to the side, her eyes never leaving his as she murmured, “You’ll take what I give you, won’t you?” Her tone was cold, taunting. “You’re at my mercy, and I want you ruined.”

Aemond swallowed hard, nodding, his voice reduced to a low, needy hum, “Mmhmm,” the sound slipping past his lips as his chest rose and fell with the weight of his desire.

“I do not wish to look upon your fucking face,” Daenera spat, her voice dripping with disdain as she turned away from him, straddling his hips with her back to him.

Aemond’s breath hitched at the sudden shift, his muscles tensing beneath her as her nails scraped over the skin of his thighs, sending jolts of stinging pleasure-pain up his leg to burn in the pit of his stomach. His body reacted instinctively, muscles flexing under her touch, heart pounding.

Her hands slid up his legs, fingers teasingly brushing the insides of his thighs before finding their target. She took him in her hand again, the familiar grip making his breath catch, and pressed the head of his cock against the slick, searing heat of her wet folds. The sensation made him groan low in his throat, hips twitching towards her, desperate for more.

Without a word, she sank down onto him fully, the wet heat of her enveloping him completely in one slow, agonizing descent. His eye fluttered shut as a broken moan escaped him, his mind blanking under the overwhelming pleasure of being buried inside of her–oh, oh how he had missed her. She took him fully, her body pressing down until there was nothing between them, and for a moment, all he could do was tremble beneath her, consumed by the feeling of her wrapped around him.

Aemond’s hips jerked off the mattress, a guttural grunt escaping him as his hands found her hips. He tugged at the bunched fabric of her nightgown, feeling it tease against his lower abdomen, brushing through the slick pool of seed and saliva that ran down either side of his abdomen, trailing between the contours of his muscles as they flexed beneath his skin.

His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her hips, desperation driving his grip as he sought to still her movements–just for a moment. He needed that brief pause to regain control of himself, to hold on to the feeling of her wrapped around him before the inevitable rush of release overtook him. Every nerve in his body was on fire, his sensitivity overwhelming him, each shift of her hips sending sharp jolts of pleasure through his core. He knew he wouldn’t last much longer, his body trembling beneath the intensity of her heat and the way she clenched around him, pushing him closer and closer to the edge.

But Daenera was not so forgiving.

“What did I say about touching me?” She sneered, her voice dripping with cold authority. She balanced herself on one hand, fingers pressing into his thigh for support, while the other hand latched onto his. Her nails dug sharply into the pliant skin of his hand with enough force to leave crescent marks behind.

A groan tore from his lips, a breathless whimper as her cunt clenched around his cock with an unbearable tightness, her heat searing him from within, leaving his head swimming, dizzy with the feel of her. She tore his hand away, forcing him to clutch at the fabric of her nightgown instead, bunching it in his hand.

Her hand slipped between his legs, fingers tapping at his testicles with a maddening precision. Each tap sent a sharp jolt through Aemond’s body, making him twitch beneath her, hips wiggling involuntarily–pushing closer, then retreating, arching into the mattress, then bucking against her, his body struggling to decide what to do. Every tap reverberated through him, stealing the breath from his lungs and causing his heart to stutter in his chest.

“Fuuuck,” he ground out through clenched teeth, his voice strained, a mixture of desperation and pleasure. His other hand tore away from her hip, barely able to resist the urge to touch her, to claim her. Instead, he gripped the fabric of her nightgown tightly, the material bunching in his fist as if holding it together was the only thing keeping him from completely unraveling. He could feel the fabric threatening to tear under his grip, his body trembling with the overwhelming pain-pleasure she continued to inflict on him.

Aemond panted heavily, his breath ragged as it struggled to fill his lungs as she lifted herself off of him with excruciating slowness, the torturous drag of her heat pulling away from his throbbing cock sending waves of pleasure and frustration through him. The withdrawal felt like agony, each inch stealing a bit more of his breath–and then she sank back down onto him, slow at first, making him feel every second of it. His hands trembled, gripping the fabric beneath him, the feel of her almost unbearable.

As her hips began to roll, grinding herself against him, Aemond’s head fell back against the mattress, a low groan escaping his lips. He felt her nails dig sharply into the flesh of his thoughts, her grip tightening to steady herself as she continued her slow, deliberate pace.

A low, appreciative hum slipped from her throat, a sound she seemed to hold back from him, as though she refused to let him fully hear her pleasure. Yet even that restrained hum made his heart race, fluttering uncontrollably against his ribs.

The rhythm she set, the grinding and lifting, made his body strain beneath her. His gaze drifted downward, watching her body rise and fall above him, her movements both deliberate and tormenting. Her wild curls cascaded down her back, tickling his lower abdomen with each roll of her hips–dark against the pale ivory of the nightgown.

The urge to reach out, to bury his hands in her hair, to take control and thrust up into her, forcing those sweet, breathy moans from her lips, burned fiercely within him. It tugged at him, burning at the center of his chest. But that desire felt agonizingly out of reach. She held the power, and he was wholly at her mercy, trembling beneath her.

A breathy moan tore from his throat, his fists tightening in the fabric of her nightgown–damn that fabric, the very thing hiding the sight of her sinking onto him again and again. He wanted to see it all, wanted to watch her take him fully, to lose himself in the sight of her body joining with his, but even that was denied to him.

Every moment felt like a cruel test of his resolve, his will stretched taut beneath the mounting tension in his body. His head swam, his thoughts narrowing to a single point of focus–her. The desperate need to see her consumed him, to witness the way she moved above him, the way her lips parted and her eyes fluttered in pleasure.

Pushing himself up onto his elbows, Aemond gritted his teeth as her tight cunt clenched around him, her hips rolling against him in maddening waves. The lewd, wet sounds of her slick folds wallowing him filled the room, intensifying the fire coursing through his veins. He longed to watch her, to see the expressions on her face as she took him deeper–longed for the blackened blue of her eyes and how the burned.

Then, movement caught his eye.

A glint from the corner of the room–the mirror. His gaze latched onto the mirror, and there she was–her brows lifted in pleasure, eyes fluttering closed, long lashes brushing against her cheeks as she sank onto him. Her lips were parted, a breathless moan escaping them, her body moving with such devastating grace. The shoulder of her nightgown, which had been hanging precariously, finally slipped down, exposing the soft, pale skin of her shoulder and revealing the heavy swell of her breast, her pink nipple taut and perked.

The sight of her was utterly mesmerizing as she rode him, every movement of hers drawing his attention, his pulse quickening in response. It throbbed within his ears, his neck, his chest–an insistent beat deep in his stomach. He could feel it beneath his skin, growing more intense with each passing second. His breath hitched as he watched her through the mirror, unable to look away from the image of her body writhing above him. His hips rolled up to meet hers, instinctively matching her rhythm, pressing into her as she sank onto him again and again.

“Fuck, mmh, fuck,” Aemond groaned, his voice a guttural moan as he gritted his teeth and thrust up into her, his hips rolling with a desperate urgency. Her slick, warm cunt clenched tightly around him, sending waves of pleasure through his body. She was leading him to the edge, teasing him mercilessly towards the brink of madness, his mind muddled and pitifully blank, unable to focus on anything but the feel of her.

Each time she ground down against him, her soft, sweet moans filled the air, her nails biting deeper into the flesh of his thighs as though anchoring herself to him. His gaze remained on her reflection, mesmerized by the sight of her, her body moving with such intoxicating grace as she pleasured herself on his cock. He was helpless beneath her, clawing at her nightgown, watching her every move, entranced by the image of her body rising and falling, her skin glowing in the low light.

“Please,” Aemond moaned, his voice low and raw with desperation, a pathetic plea slipping from his lips, “please, let me–ah, mmph, fuck–please let me see you.”

Her response came without hesitation, sharp and teasing. “Why should I?”

“Because I want to see you–’m so… I can’t–fuck,” he chocked out, his breath in ragged gasps. His cock throbbed painfully inside of her, his need for release intensifying with every agonizing moment that passed. Her cunt gripped him tightly, like a velvet vice, her walls soft and slick, holding him in place as she continued to ride him.

“Are you close, hm?” Daenera teased, her voice a sultry hum as she rode him, lifting herself up and down, grinding against him each time she took him fully. “Are you going to gift me more of your seed?”

Aemond’s response was immediate, breathless. “Y–seven hells, yes,” he panted, his head falling back against the bed, his hips jerking up to meet hers in a sloppy, desperate rhythm. The tension inside him coiled tighter and tighter, each thrust bringing him agonizingly close to the edge. He could feel it everywhere–coursing through his body like fire, burning in his bones, tingling in his teeth, a pressure so intense it threatened to consume him. His testicles tightened, his whole body taut, straining, needing–begging–for release.

He was so close, so painfully close, his hips moving erratically beneath her, driven by sheer instinct as he chased the peak she teased him towards, the pleasure cresting higher–

A desperate whimper tore free from his lips as Daenera lifted herself off of him, her slick warmth slipping away, leaving his cock throbbing, slapping helplessly against his lower stomach. The sensitivity was unbearable as the cool air met his heated flesh, only for the sensation to heighten when her nightgown brushed over him like a cruel tease.

His body tensed as she shifted, turning to straddle his hips once more, but instead of sinking back onto him, she brought her soaked folds down against his length, pinning his aching cock between her heat and his stomach. The pressure was maddening as she kept still, her hands splaying on his stomach, nails grazing his skin as she towered over him.

There was something dark and wicked in the way Daenera looked down at him, her eyes gleaming with a mischief that both terrified and enthralled him. Her head tilted slightly to the side, causing her hair to spill over her shoulder, exposing the pale column of her neck, the curve of her collarbone, and the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. The neckline of her gown had slipped further, fully revealing the soft swell of her breast, the dusky pink of her nipple making his mouth water with a need to wrap his lips around it. She looked like a goddess poised above him, untouchable and unforgivable.

“I told you,” she said softly, her voice laced with cruel amusement, “I do not want your seed.”

Daenera began to roll her hips, dragging her slick folds along the length of Aemond’s cock, the slow friction igniting every nerve in his body. He hissed through clenched teeth, his fingers fisting in the fabric of her nightgown and twisting the sheets beneath him as his head fell back. His entire body trembled with the effort of restraining, the overwhelming need to reach out and grab her, to feel her soft flesh under his hands again, to anchor himself in her, burned at his fingertips–needled at him. His hands shifted closer to her, knuckles brushing against the side of her legs as his grip tightened.

“What was it you once told me?” She mused, the click of her tongue adding to the note of mockery in her tone. Her hips continued their agonizingly slow rhythm, dragging her wet heat over his throbbing length without granting him the mercy of release. “That your seed should not be wasted–that it belongs only in my womb, isn’t that so?”

Aemond couldn’t form a coherent thought, let alone a response, as her words filtered through the haze of his mind. They echoed somewhere deep, but he was too far gone to truly comprehend them. It was, indeed, a waste–but in this moment, none of that mattered. His hips moved on their own accord, rolling up to meet hers, a desperate, instinctual movement, driven by the overwhelming need to be closer to her. Every muscle in his body was tense, straining as he bucked against her with a raw urgency that bordered on madness.

“But I do not want your seed,” Daenera continued, her voice calm, almost mocking as her fingers danced along his abdomen. She smeared the remnants of seed and saliva across his skin, dragging it in lazy circles, painting him with his own release. He should have been revolted by it, humiliated, but his mind was lost in the heat of her cunt, to the friction of her dragging her wet folds over him. “I have no use for it, and I do not want it quickening inside of me.”

She dragged her nails lightly over his chest, her hands ghosting over him in a way that was as infuriating as it was tantalizing, a slow drawl falling from her lips. “Shall I cease, so your precious seed isn’t wasted where it has no purpose?”

“No, he choked out, his voice breaking as he bucked his hips against her, needing more–so pathetically close. “No–fuck, please–don’t stop,” he begged, his voice a broken whimper. He was lost, utterly and completely, drowning in the sensation of her body, the heat, the pressure, the intoxicating drag of her wet folds along his cock.

Daenera rolled her hips with deliberate slowness, dragging the scorching heat of her cunt up the length of his cock, teasing him with each movement. Her fingers splaying on his chest, gripping onto him tightly as she ground down against him, lips falling open as her head tilted back. Her own low moan joined his, a sound so intimate, it sent a shiver up his spine. His hips jerked upwards, meeting hers, desperate for the friction, for the feel of her.

Every slow, deliberate drag of her hips sent another surge of pleasure coursing through him, the tension in his lower abdomen tightening to a painful degree. His testicles pulled taut, and the pressure within him mounted–building to a breaking point, each shallow breath of his accompanied by soft, helpless whines. His brows knitted together, mouth falling open as he teared on the edge of release.

When the coil finally snapped, it was a sudden, overwhelming rush of warmth spreading through his entire body. Aemond gasped as he spilled what little seed he had left in him, pale streaks spurting across his stomach as his cock throbbed and twitched beneath her. His back arched off the mattress, a violent shudder wracking through him as his body succumbed to the intense release. He collapsed back onto the bed, utterly spent, breathless, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

Daenera kept her cunt firmly pressed to him, pinning him down as she milked him dry. He felt her folds slick against him, warm and tight, as the last drops of his seed dripped from him. The white droplets trickled from the head of his cock, nestled between her folds, pooling onto his already smeared stomach, joining the mess of seed and saliva spread across his skin. The puddle was smaller this time, insignificant compared to the earlier flood.

A soft, tingling sensation prickled at the base of Aemond’s skull, a haze of bliss filling his mind, leaving him wonderfully vacant. The only thought that lingered, that anchored him to the moment, was her. He could feel her thumb gently stroking against his wrist, grounding him, soothing him through the last remnants of his release. At some point, her hand had wrapped around his wrist, and he hadn’t even noticed until now, lost as he was in the moment.

With effort, he loosened his grip on her nightgown, his fingers slowly uncurling, each joint creaking as if they’d forgotten how to move. He was stiff, but he brought it to her leg, brushing his fingertips slowly against her skin–tenuous, daring.

His gaze lifted, meeting hers.

Daenera stared down at him, her chest rising and falling in quick breaths, a flush blooming across her skin, spreading down her neck to her chest. She held his gaze as she began to move again, dragging her hips up and down his length with agonizing slowness.

A sharp hiss escaped his lips, brow furrowing. The sensation was teetering on unbearable–his cock overly sensitive, nerves alight as though exposed to the raw air. Each deliberate roll of her hips teetered dangerously close between agony and pleasure, his body recoiling and responding all at once. His hips instinctively bucked into her, seeking more even as the overstimulation urged him to pull away, breath stuck in the back of his throat.

From her lips spilled the sweetest sound–a soft moan that completely captivated him. She looked hauntingly beautiful above him, her hair spilling over one shoulder, wild curls tickling his skin with every movement. Her fingers splayed across his stomach, and his gaze was drawn to the lewd display of his seed smeared between her fingers, glistening against his abdomen in a way that should disgust him–but instead, it only made him ache for more of her.

The night gown hung loosely off one of her shoulders, revealing the soft curve of her collarbone and the heavy swell of her breast, her nipple perked and teasing the air as it swayed above him with her movements. Her head tilted to the side, mouth slightly open in a way that stole his breath, her brows lifting in pleasure as she continued to roll her hips against him.

She looked as if she were savoring every inch of him, as though taking pleasure in his torment–and Aemond couldn’t deny her that, not when the overstimulation made him grit his teeth, muscles tightening as he tried to hold back. Even then, all he could do was watch her, mesmerized–heart fluttering in his chest.

There was a devastating beauty to her–it stirred something deep within him.

The sight of her above him, glowing with satisfaction, only intensified the sweet torture he flet in every slow roll of her hips. Every breathy moan that slipped from her lips felt like a dagger carving into him with a blend of pleasure and desperate need. Each sound she made left him feeling more vulnerable, laying him bare before her, exposed and aching in a way that was both tortuous and intoxicating. His heart hammered against his ribs, every nerve alive and raw, responding to the rhythm of her movements, the sound of her pleasure, the press of her heat against him.

She lifted off him slightly, the sudden loss of her warmth making him ache. Her hand slid down his stomach, fingers grazing the smeared remnants of his release as she reached for his cock, wrapping her lithe fingers around it with a gentle but sure grip.

The sensation sent a shudder through his body, and he hissed through gritted teeth as she swiped the last lingering bead of seed from the head, her touch achingly tender.

Aemond gritted his teeth, pulling in a ragged breath as he felt the searing heat of her press against him, her slick folds giving way as she took him in again–a soft gasp leaving her lips as he breached her. His head lifted from the mattress, eye locking onto her as she sank down onto him, inch by inch the tightness of her cunt almost unbearable–mercilessly tight, squeezing him so perfectly it stole the breath from his lungs. It was too much, too quickly. His body was too sensitive, his nerves alight and raw, already spent from what he’d given her. And yet, he couldn’t refuse her–didn’t really want to.

As she settled fully against his pelvis, rolling her hips in slow, measured circles, his mind swam with the overwhelming sensation, torn between pleasure and the brink of madness.

Was this not love? This aching need, this desperation to stay close, to be one with her in whatever way she’d allow?

Aemond’s heart pounded furiously within his chest, each a beat heavy, desperate thrum. Helpless beneath her, tormented and intoxicated by her in equal measure–the sweetness of her cruelty drawing him deeper into her grasp. “Ah, fuck–mmph, you’re so fucking tight.”

He released his grip on her nightgown, his hands trembling slightly as he peeled his other hand free from the fabric, only to reach for her thighs. His fingers dug into the supple flesh as he bucked his hips into her, a sharp hiss escaping through gritted teeth. His gaze was riveted to the sight of her cunt swallowing him whole, each thrust accompanied by the wet squelch of their bodies meeting, filling the spaces between their shared moans and breathless pants.

He let his hands wander further up her thighs, kneading the soft skin with growing urgency. His eye flickered from where their bodies connected up to her face–her eyes fluttered closed, head tilted back as she rode him.

Daringly, he trailed his fingers higher, gripping her hips tightly. He guided her down onto his cock, holding her so tightly it would brand her with the imprints of his fingers–would leave a mark that would remain long after the night had ended. The thought made his heart flutter–perhaps leaving those small bruises would be the only way to prove this moment had been real, that it hadn’t been a dream, for the both of them.

He could feel her drawing closer to the edge, the tightening of her walls around him sending a wave of pleasure rippling through his own body. The way her cunt sucked him in, squeezing and releasing, made it impossible to think of anything but her–how she felt, how she sounded, how she looked as she rode him with such intensity. That fluttering deep inside of her pulled him in, drawing him closer to the precipice, to the same edge she was so desperately racing toward.

Aemond released his hold on one of her hips, his fingers trembling as they left the warmth of her skin. He pressed his hand into the mattress, using the leverage to push himself upright. As he rose, his other arm snaked around her waist, pulling her down onto him, locking her firmly in place as her wet walls quivered around his cock, squeezing him tighter with every breath she took.

The sensation was overwhelming, a perfect storm of heat and pressure, but he craved more–craved her. He buried his face in her chest, lips brushing across the soft curve of her skin, tasting the salt of her sweat. His mouth moved in a slow, reverent path, trailing kisses up her breastbone, his lips ghosting over the spot where her heart beat wildly beneath. He could feel the pulse of it, thundering beneath his lips, an intimate rhythm that matched the frantic pounding of his own chest.

He inhaled deeply, taking in her scent–sweet, yet now tinged with the musky intensity of their exertions. It was intoxicating, maddening, filling his head until nothing existed but her. Her body, her scent, her heartbeat. Every part of her claimed him, enslaved him to the desire that roared through his blood. His arm tightened around her waist, holding her impossibly closer, as if he could fuse her to him, as if he could never bear to let her go.

Releasing his grip on her hip, Aemond’s fingers dragged reluctantly over her skin as he pressed one hand into the mattress for support. He pushed himself upright, muscles straining as he moved, the overwhelming sensation of her slick heat still gripping him tightly. His other arm slipped around her waist, securing her against him as he thrust upward, locking her body to his. The way her wet walls quivered and clenched around his cock nearly drove him mad, but he needed to feel more of her–needed to taste her, wanted to capture her lips, to taste their sweet poison.

His lips found the soft curve of her chest, pressing desperate, heated kisses into her skin. He moved slowly, tracing a path up her breastbone, mouth hovering near the beating pulse at the center of her chest. He could feel the quickened rhythm of her heart beneath his lips, pounding in time with his own. Each beat sent a wave of heat through him, settling low in his stomach.

Drawing in a breath, her scent filled his lungs–sweet, intoxicating, but now saltier, mixed with the musk of their shared exertion. It only intensified his desire, the scent of her sinking into his bones like a poison he could never be free of. His face pressed deeper into her skin as if he could bury himself within her chest–within her heart.

A soft moan fell from her lips urging him on. The more she trembled around him, the closer she came, the deeper his need became, consuming him from the inside out.

Aemond anchored himself to her, bracing his weight against her body as he freed one hand, his fingers dragging slowly up her leg, the heat of her skin searing his palm. His grip tightened around the flesh of her thigh, kneading it as his hand traveled higher, fingers pressing into the curve of her hips before sliding up to the exposed breast that brushed against his chest. He groaned softly, squeezing the supple weight of her breast in his hand, his thumb grazing over the hardened peak of her nipple, earning a sharp gasp from her as her hips ground into his, her cunt clenching tighter around him.

The feel of her made his own breath hitch, his focus momentarily split between the warmth of her body and the way her cunt gripped him greedily, sucking him in. He kneaded her breast for another moment, savoring the feel of her in his grasp, before his hand moved again, tracing a slow, deliberate path up her side, past her shoulder, and beneath her hair. His fingers cradled the back of her skull, holding her firmly, ensuring she wouldn’t pull away.

He needed her close, as close as possible.

“Ozudligon kostā, yn ñuhon iksā, Daenera,” Aemond muttered, his voice low and rough, the words spilling from his lips like a vow. He pressed his mouth against the flushed skin of her collarbone, tasting the salt of her on his tongue, savoring the faint taste of her. He kissed a path to the crook of her neck, where her pulse throbbed wildly beneath the fragile skin.

You may deny it, but you are mine, Daenera.

His lips lingered there for a moment, feeling the quickened beat of her heart against his mouth, before he buried his face in the hollow, letting his teeth scraping teasingly over the tender flesh.

A sharp shudder ran through her, her fingers tightened their hold on him, nails digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders with a force that sent a jolt of both pain and pleasure straight to the pit of his stomach–he rolled his hips into her, savoring the feel of her cunt clenching around him. The sting of her nails undoubtedly left deep impressions in his skin, each one a silent, feeling mark of possession.

Aemond reveled in it–the way her touch left him marred, marked, claimed, just as his teeth grazed her skin in a primal mirror of that desire. He liked that idea, that exchange of marks, of unspoken claims etched into each other’s flesh.

Even as her nails bit into his skin, leaving behind crescent marks, he wanted her to mark him more, to etch her presence into his very flesh. If she left nothing else behind, these scars would be his–testaments to his love and suffering, to his desire that consumed him entirely, and a reminder that it had all been real.

His lips left her pulse, brushing over the curve of her jaw, his mouth barely hovering over hers. He was almost kissing her, but not quite–just close enough to feel the heat of her, the scant distance between their mouths nothing more than a panting enclave of shared breath.

“iksā ñuhon,mazōregon ziry iā daor,” Aemond murmured possessively against her skin, his grip tightening around her as though fearing the moment he loosened his hold, she would slip away like smoke through his fingers. “Se aōhon iksan. Iksi ozletagon, jorrāelagon ñuha. Lanta perzyssy hae mēre, ozudligon ao daor. Mēre ñelly, mēre prūmia, mēre gīs, ābrazȳrys.”

You are mine, whether you acknowledge it or not.

And I am yours. We are bound together, my love, intertwined in ways you cannot deny. One flesh, one heart, one soul, my wife.

The words lingered in the air between them, as fragile as spun glass, trembling under the weight of their meaning. Aemond could almost see the tension coil around them, feel the precarious thread of hope stretch, taut and brittle. His breath caught as the last of his words slipped from his lips. But in the silence that followed, he felt it–the cold snap of rejection cutting through the delicate moment.

“Don’t call me that,” Daenera’s voice trembled, but not with weakness–with barely contained rage. Her nails pressed harder into his skin, the sting of her grip a painful reminder of the divide between them–and yet he welcomed it.

Her teeth were bared in a snarl, lips curling back into something feral, something wild. Her brows were knit together, her expression twisted in fury that smoldered like a fire barely contained. The rage in her eyes was a blaze that threatened to consume them both, yet she couldn’t tear herself away from him. “You don’t call me that!”

She shoved him back onto the mattress, her hands splayed against his chest, firm and unyielding as she forced him beneath her. The weight of her pressed into him, pinning him there, trapped beneath her as she straddled him with a commanding force. Her movements were fervent, rocking her hips in a rhythm that was maddening–his head swimming as she glided up and down the length of his cock, taking him over and over again.

“You don’t get to call me that!” Her hand struck his face, the sharp crack cutting through the air, his skin immediately stinging under the blow. The heat from the impact spread across his cheek, a burning flush creeping over him as the ringing in his ears drowned out everything but the pounding of his own blood. He barely had a moment to process the first slap before the second came, harder this time, the sting more intense. His skin prickled, red and raw, the fire of it shooting down to his core.

His body reacted instinctively–his hips bucking up into her, desperate, wild, as her cunt clenched tightly around him, intensifying the sensation.

The searing blend of pain and pleasure shattered the clarity of his thoughts, unraveling him piece by piece. His mind felt distant, blurred, as though submerged beneath waves of sensation, each surge pulling him closer to the brink of madness.

“You know it’s true–” another slap landed across Aemond’s cheek, silencing him mid-sentence. A guttural moan groan tore from his throat as the sharp sting spread like wildfire across his skin, making his face burn from the force of it. His teeth clenched together, a low growl rumbling deep in his chest as he instinctively turned his head back toward her, meeting her gaze with a defiant, wild glint in his eye.

She ground down against him, her hips rolling with calculated cruelty, her slick heat gripping his cock so tightly that he could feel his entire body tensing, every muscle drawn taut with need.

His breath hitched as he fought to remain focused, the muscles in his lower abdomen tightening as the pressure in his spine coiled tighter, threatening to snap at any moment. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding as the words spilled from him, raw and fractured. “You make me sick with love,” he gritted out, his voice hoarse, desperate, every word wretched from deep within him. “Sick with a desire to possess you–”

“I don’t want to hear it,” she spat, her voice laced with venom as she pressed her palm over his mouth, cutting off his words.

But even beneath her hand, muddled and desperate, Aemond continued to mutter, “To have you around me, always–” His words became a muffled, broken sound beneath the pressure of her hand. His lips pressed painfully against his teeth, the sting of it sharp and burning as her palm pushed harder against his mouth, attempting to silence him completely.

Still, he continued, even through the suffocating press of her palm against his mouth, “You are m–mmh–mine,” he grunted, words barely escaping through the pressure, his breath hot and ragged. “Mmph… fuck, mmph… my sweet poison…” His words broke off again as her hips ground harder into him, his mind burring, thoughts unraveling as his body wound tighter and tighter beneath her.

His chest rose and fell heavily, breaths shallow and frantic as his fingers dug into the flesh of her hips, needing something to hold on to. His muscles coiled with each movement, his body taut, his breath hitching as he teetered on the precipice, every inch of him attuned to her–the woman who was both his destruction and salvation.

The slap of skin against skin echoed through the room, the raw, primal sound filling the space as she ground herself against him, rolling her hips in quick, demanding motions. Her movements grew more intense, body rising and falling on him with a furious rhythm–unforgiving as he writhed beneath her, the only sounds escaping him now reduced to pathetic, broken whimpers. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps as she took him again and again, cunt fluttering around him.

Daenera’s touch was languid, almost idle, her hand slipped from his lips, his mouth open beneath her touch, to the space just below his jaw. She applied just enough pressure to keep him pinned beneath her, completely under her control–enough to send a rush of dizzying heat through his body. He gasped, a low, guttural sound rumbling in his throat as she squeezed just the right amount, his pulse thundering beneath her palm, drumming loudly within his ears.

The pressure inside of him became unbearable, like a tightly wound coil ready to snap, every inch of his skin sensitive to her touch. His breath hitched as his hips bucked, the friction of her heat driving him closer, closer–until she lifted off him.

The sudden loss was excruciating. His cock, swollen and throbbing painfully, slapped back against his abdomen, slick with both her arousal and his own. The cool air hit him like a punishment and he drew in a breath through clenched teeth, brow furrowing.

Then she slid back down against him, pressing her wet folds along the length of his cock in a slow, tortuous drag. His fingers dug into her flesh, kneading the soft curves of her hips, unable to do anything but respond to her rhythm, powerless under her. She moved with deliberate cruelty, rolling her hips with that maddening pace, her slick cunt teasing every nerve in his body.

“Fuuuck, please–please–please–mmh,” Aemond panted, words strained and raspy from the pressure she exerted on his throat. “Ple–pleeease…”

Every breath came out in ragged pants, his heart hammering in his chest as she mercilessly ground against him. His stomach clenched, his cock twitching violently as she dragged herself over him again and again, the sensation overwhelming. His hips jerked, bucking up against her with a mind of their own, seeking relief that seemed just out of reach.

He felt the last remnants of his release approaching–drops of clear liquid beading at the tip of his cock, his body convulsing in futile spasms as his testicles tightened, drawing up painfully close. And then, with a final grind of her hips, he broke.

The last of his seed spilled from him, barely more than a thin, watery trickle, nothing compared to what she had already wrought from him. His entire body surrendered violently, wracked with tremors as the overwhelming sensations washed over him, leaving him drained, utterly spent.

Daenera’s hand remained wrapped around his throat for a few fervent heartbeats longer until he stopped grinding himself against her. He could feel his pulse racing beneath her fingers, the thud of his heartbeat echoing in the silence of the room as though his heart had truly burst from his chest.

It was only when she decided to release him that the tension eased, the sounds of her rapid breath growing stronger as the throb of his pulse subsided. Her fingers dragged slowly down his neck, teasing the sensitive skin, then down his chest as she rose above him, looming over him like some cruel deity who had taken her fill–who wasn’t finished yet.

Aemond’s breath hitched in his throat as she lifted herself off of him, her wet cunt dragging slowly over his softening cock. The friction, though minimal, still made him hiss through gritted teeth, his body too sensitive, too raw from the brutal pleasure she had wrought from him.

The brief reprieve was over as quickly as it had begun.

He watched with a half-lidded eye as she climbed further up his body, the mattress shifting under her weight as she moved above his shoulders. Her knees pressed into the battress of either side of his head, her drenched cunt now hovering just above his face–her cunt fluttering in view, revealing just how close she was to her own end.

Swallowing thickly, Aemond felt a sudden rush of heat flood back into his veins despite his spent body. His gaze flickered upward, meeting hers for just a moment–half-lidded with desire, a flush clinging to her skin. She fisted her hand in his hair again, the sharp pull sending a shiver down his spine, making his lips part in a soundless moan. He could feel the heat radiating off her, her arousal slick against her thighs.

There was no denying her, no denying the way his mouth watered at the sight of her above him, her cunt so close to his lips, dripping with desire. Without hesitation, Aemond leaned up, the delicious tug of her grip guiding him, pulling him into her. His hands trembled slightly, moving to her thighs, fingers gripping the soft flesh as his mouth latched onto her, his tongue immediately seeking out a taste of her.

The moment his tongue slid through her folds, he could hear her exhale sharply, the sound a soft, breathy moan that made his heart flutter. He dragged his tongue up, flattening it against her swollen clit before dipping back down, greedily lapping at her. Her grip tightened, her nails scraping against his scalp, urging him to give her more, to take her apart again as he had done earlier.

He obeyed without a question, his mouth worshiping her, each movement of his tongue a silent plea for her to use him, to take her pleasure however she wanted.

She pressed herself down against his face, her thighs caging him in as she ground her slick heat against him–his mouth, his nose, his chin–coating him in her desire. The hand in his hair tightened, bringing him closer–impossibly so–as she moaned loudly.

Aemond groaned against her, his tongue thrusting into her eagerly, swirling inside her before he dragged it up through her folds, his nose brushing her sensitive nub as he nuzzled into her. His hands clutched at her, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her arse, kneading the supple flesh, branding it as his. He could feel her slickness spreading over his face as he pressed her onto his mouth, feasting on her like a man starved–a man who couldn’t get his fill.

Her fingers tangled tighter in his harp, pulling sharply as she settled more of her weight onto him, suffocating him in the best possible way. He dragged his lips to her clint, sucking at the sensitive bundle of nerves, eliciting a sharp hiss from her as her hips bucked against him, the pleasure rippling through her, her thighs trembling.

A shudder reverberated down her spine, her whole body trembling as he flattened his tongue against her, dragging it down to her clenching hole again. His hands grabbed at her hips, holding her steady as she moved against him.

Aemond felt her body tense, her thighs trembling against his face, her breath catching in her throat. Then, with a final, deep shudder that rocked through her entire body, her cunt clenched tightly around his tongue, quivering uncontrollably. He felt the hot rush of her release spill across his lips, a sudden gush of fluid flooding his mouth and wetting his chin. She moaned, low and broke, as she came undone above him, her hips rolling involuntarily against his face, grinding into him with the last waves of pleasure.

His grip on her tightened, fingers digging into her hips, holding her there as he greedily lapped at her, swallowing every drop she gave him. Her slick coated his lips, smeared across his face, but he didn’t stop–he couldn’t. He could feel the tremors still coursing through her, her body quaking with the aftershocks of her pleasure, and it only fueled him further. He pressed his tongue flat against her sensitive clit, drawing another sharp gasp from her, feeling her shudder once more, her thighs squeezing his head as if to trap him there.

Her release was his reward, and he savored every moment of it, the taste of her still heavy on his tongue as he nuzzled against her, leaving soft kisses along her trembling inner thighs. His mind was a blur, lost in the haze of her pleasure, in the feel of her quivering body against his, the way her slickness coated his skin.

Aemond felt her grip in his hair loosen, her nails shifting from sharp tugs to gentle, almost absentminded caresses over his scalp. As her fingers withdrew, he heard the dull thud of her hand finding the headboard, seemingly clutching it to steady herself. He remained where he was, nestled between her thighs, his breath warm against her as he continued to lick away the last remnants of her release, pressing soft, reverent kisses along the tender skin of her inner thighs. Her body trembled above him, her breath coming in shallow, rapid bursts, but she gave no further sound.

For a moment, he allowed himself to linger there, relishing the closeness, the intimacy of the moment, his lips trailing over her skin as though worshiping her. Her thighs were still quivering, her skin slick with the evidence of what had passed between them, and the sensation only deepened the ache within him. But then, as quickly as she had taken him, she lifted herself off, her warmth slipping away. Her leg swung over him, and she slid to the edge of the bed, her movements stiff and hurried

Aemond felt the sudden coldness of the air where her heat had been, and a quiet emptiness settled in his chest. He felt the shift of the mattress beneath him as the weight of her body lifted away, leaving an absence that made the space feel suddenly vast. He didn’t follow her with his eye, his gaze remained fixed on the ceiling, where light and shadow danced over the stone as the candles flickered faintly.

The faint sounds of movement filtered through the haze that clouded his mind–soft footsteps, the splash of water, the steady drip breaking the stillness of the room.

He lay there, breathless, his chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm, the soft rustle of her movements was the only sound that tethered him to the present, anchoring him as his mind threatened to slip away into the haze of spent desire.

His body still thrummed faintly with the lingering echoes of their intimacy, a low hum that settled into a sweet, bone-deep weariness. His muscles, once tight and coiled, now felt loose and spent, heavy with the exhaustion that came after being pushed to the brink. The warmth that had radiated from his skin began to fade, slowly giving way to the creeping chill of the room. It cooled the thin layer of sweat that clung to him, leaving him shivering slightly, his body beginning to ache in the absence of the heat they had shared.

Aemond heard her footfalls approaching again, the faint shuffle of her bare feet against the stone floor. The corvers shifted roughly as she tossed them aside, the corner brushing against his arm, sending a brief gust of air across his face. The movement stirred his hair, tickling his skin and causing a shiver to creep up his spine, but before he could fully react, a pillow was unceremoniously dropped–no, smacked–right onto his face.

The fabric smothered his view, plunging him briefly into darkness as the pillow hit with a soft thud. His senses buzzed with the sudden disruption, and he quickly grabbed it, pulling it away and tossing it aside. He forced himself up on his elbow, his gaze immediately locking onto her.

Her face was illuminated by the flickering candlelight, but it wasn’t a soft expression that greeted him. She was scowling, her lips pressed into a thin line, eyes sharp and unforgiving. The sharpness of her gaze cut through the fog of his exhaustion, drawing him back into the moment, the briefest flicker of frustration passing over him as he met her eyes, her expression filled with something far from tenderness.

She roughly tugged at the covers, her movements quick and impatient as she yanked them further open. Her hair fell messily over her face, as she shoved it behind her ear with an irritated huff, her hands busy adjusting the bed, pulling a pillow into position. “Sleep on the chaise or on the floor–I don’t care which,” she uttered, her voice clipped and icy, “but I will not share a bed with you.”

You already have, Aemond thought bitterly, the words pressing on the back of his teeth with his tongue.

She slid under the covers with a forceful determination, muscling beneath them even as he remained in the middle of the bed, watching her in frustrated silence. Her legs knocked against him as she wiggled into place, shoving him in the process, forcing him to sit up further, muscles tightening beneath his skin. Her gaze finally met his, and what he saw twisted the knife deeper. Fury radiated from her, her cheeks flushed with anger, but there was something more–a hint of shame and regret in her eyes that sank beneath his skin, stinging more than her words did.

“Savor this memory, Kinslayer,” she spat, her voice like the edge of a blade, sharp and cold. “There will not be another.” Her words cut through him with brutal finality. “I may be your wife in name and by law, but that is the extent of it.”

Kinslayer.

The word cut through him like a blade, sharp and cold, the sound of it echoing in his mind. It wasn’t just a title–it was a condemnation, a brand seared into his flesh, a scar brandished on his face, a curse that clung to him no matter what he did. It burrowed beneath his skin, needling into the very essence of him, clawing along his bones and etching itself there as though it belonged. The venom in her voice, the contempt, twisted it deeper.

Kinslayer.

Her lips, which had moaned so sweetly just moments before, now dripped with vitriol. The sting of the word festered inside him, sinking into the marrow of his bones, poisoning him from the inside out. His entire body tensed under the weight of it.

Kinslayer. Kinslayer. Kinslayer.

The word pulsed through him, relentless, eating away at whatever fleeting pleasure he had felt only moments ago. The memory of her moans, her touch, the way her body had responded to him–it all seemed distant now, corroded by her coldness.

I may be your wife in name and law, but that is the extent of it.

The ache that settled into him was unbearable–an emptiness that gnawed at his insides, demanding something he could never have.

It felt like a bitter jest, as if the gods themselves were mocking him–punishing him. She was his, bound to him by name, by law, by the vows they had spoken. And yet, she was always just beyond his grasp. No matter how close he came, she remained distant, her heart lost to him. She haunted him, a ghost lingering at the edge of his reach, present enough to torture him with the illusion of closeness, yet forever slipping away, like smoke between his fingers.

Aemond remained where he was, his body still pressed to the lingering warmth of the bed. His breath was shallow, his chest rising and falling in slow, controlled movements as he tried to steady himself. The taste of her lingered on his lips, a reminder of the closeness they had shared just moments before, yet the memory already felt distant. The tenderness of the moment, the way her body had trembled above him, seemed like a cruel trick now, a fleeting mirage that had faded as soon as it appeared. He felt the distance between them stretch wider, like a gaping wound that swallowed the intimacy they had just shared, erasing it from existence.

He pushed himself to the edge of the bed, feeling the weight of exhaustion pulling at his body. His muscles ached, tight and weary from the tension of the night, and yet there was a hollowness within him that gnawed at his insides.

With a heavy sigh, he rose, his movements measured as he moved with an air of detachment. He loosely hiked his trousers back up around his hips, his mind drifting elsewhere, swallowing the disappointment, the frustration that clung to him. He supposed he shouldn’t have expected anything different.

His bare feet met the cold stone floor, and the chill bit at his skin, but it did little to rouse him from the hollow emptiness that had settled deep in his chest. His heart pounded heavily, a dull thud that echoed inside him. It thumped against his ribs insistently, as though the ache within was determined to make itself known, to demand attention.

The soft padding of his feet echoed faintly in the room as he walked across the cold floor as he made his way to the water basin. His gaze fell to the cloth she had carelessly abandoned there, hanging off the edge of the porcelain, half submerged in water, the end dripping slowly onto the wooden table beneath, the soft patter of water hitting the wood the only sound in the room aside from his own breathing and the low crackle of the hearth.

Aemond stood there for a moment, staring at the cloth, the dampness a reflection of how he felt–half submerged in his emotions, half left to dangle in a bitter state of unfulfillment.

He cupped his hands in the cool water, gathering enough to splash against his face. The shock of it needled at his skin, sharp and biting, the chill sinking into his bones. The water stung as it hit the edges of his scar, the tight, sensitive skin prickling, burning under the touch. The familiar ache returned, a dull throb that had always been there, always present, reminding him of everything that had made him into this–a man more monster than not, a kinslayer. But it was more than that now. He had been unaware, in the gaze of their intimacy, how the pain had subsided, softened beneath her touch.

And now, with her rejection, it had roared back to life. The scar burned as though aggrieved by her absence, as though it, too, knew that she had closed herself off from him, denied him in ways that cut deeper than flesh.

The sweet taste of her that still lingered on his tongue had turned bitter, acrid, a taste he found impossible to swallow. It sat there, thick and heavy, a remainder of what had been–of what he had been so close to. His throat tightened as he swallowed against it, trying to push it down, to rid himself of the sour aftertaste that lingered not only on his tongue but in the hollow ache that had settled in his chest.

He splashed more water on his face, the cold droplets clinging to his skin as they dripped down his cheeks and jaw, trailing down the column of his neck in slow, torturous rivulets. Straightening to his full height, he inhaled deeply, the coldness of the water doing little to soothe the heat that still burned beneath his skin. His body felt raw, exposed–vulnerable in a way he loathed. He whipped at his face with a rough hand, smearing the water across his scar, the ache sinking deeper, gnawing at him from within.

Aemond’s seed clung to his skin, smeared across his stomach and chest, sticky and growing cold in the air. He dipped the cloth into the water basing, wringing it out slowly before wiping it across his skin, each stroke deliberate as he cleaned himself. His breath came steady, controlled–his body still trembling faintly from exhaustion, but his mind retreating, lingering on her presence behind him.

As he worked, movement flickered in the mirror above the basin. His gaze lifted, settling on the familiar specter–a boy with dark, damp curls plastered to his head, pale skin almost luminous in the dim light.

Aemond felt the weight of the boy’s gaze, his hollow eyes fixed on his sister, staring at quietly as though willing her to open her eyes, to see him, to know that he was there, haunting him. But she remained still, unmoved. The boy didn’t move either, just stood there, an embodiment of all that haunted him, of the blood that stained his hands and the sins that marked his soul.

His jaw clenched. He could feel the boy’s silent accusation hanging in the air, thick and oppressive, like smoke curling into his lungs. His grip on the cloth tightened, his knuckles whitening as he dragged it across his skin once more, scrubbing it clean.

The phantom wasn’t real–he knew that. And he tore his gaze away from the reflection, refusing to look at the boy again. He finished wiping himself down, his grip on the cloth tight as he squeezed the last droplets of water from it. He stood before the basin for a moment longer, staring at his reflection in the rippling water, the cool air of the room biting at his damp skin.

With a measured breath, turned away, abandoning the basin as he moved quietly through the dimly lit chamber. He blew out the candles as he passed, plunging sections of the room into shadow, his footsteps soft against the stone floor.

Reaching the chest, he pulled out a clean shirt and trousers, the fabric cool beneath his fingers. He placed them carefully over the chaise, and with a sense of detached routine, stripped off his trousers and smallclothes, folding them neatly and placing them on the floor. The cool air kissed his skin as he changed into fresh undergarments, the soft rustle of fabric the only sound in the stillness of the room.

Settling down on the chaise, he allowed himself a brief moment to close his eye, rolling his neck. His knees ached from where they had pressed into the shards of glass earlier, the sting a dull throb that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. He lifted the wet cloth once more, bringing it to his knees, wiping away the blood that had snared across the skin. The small cuts peppered his knees, the remnants of shattered glass embedded there. He could feel the tiny shards, and with a grimace, he began to pull them out one by one, each piece glinting faintly in the dim light as he dropped them onto the side table.

Blood welled in the wounds, but the pain barely registered. It was nothing compared to the ache that thrummed behind his sapphire, the ever-present reminder of what he had lost–of what he could never reclaim.

He propped one ankle over his knee and began working at his feet, carefully removing the smaller shards embedded there, each one making a soft clink as he placed it alongside the others. His hands worked methodically, cleaning the wounds with the wet cloth, the blood soaking into the fabric, dark blots spreading through the damp cloth. The cloth was stained now, like everything else–like him.

Once he finished cleaning himself off, Aemond toasted the damp cloth onto the side table, its weight landing with a quiet thud. He rose from the chaise, pulling on fresh trousers and a new shirt with an air of quiet detachment, each action a distraction from the gnawing thoughts in his mind.

He crossed the room to the desk in the corner, his bare feet silent against the floor, and pulled open the drawer, revealing a small porcelain jaw he had placed within–one of the few things he had brought with him to this chamber, their chambers. The cool surface was smooth against his fingers as he lifted it out and gently pushed the drawer closed again.

Settling back onto the chaise, Aemond unscrewed the lid, and the earthy, herbal scent of the salve immediately filled the air, surrounding him like a familiar ghost. The mixture was form but malleable under his touch, and as he dipped his fingers into it, memories stirred, unbidden. Daenera had made the salve for him long ago, back when there had been something else between them–before it had all unraveled into the bitter, tangled mess they lived in now. The jaw was half-used–often he had used it on the scratches and cuts he’d received during training.

He began dabbing the salve onto the fresh cuts on his feet and hands, the cool balm stinging at first before settling into a soothing warmth. The stinging didn't bother him, though. It was a brief, sharp pain that faded, unlike the ache that lingered inside him. He screwed the lid back on and set the jar aside, and leaned back against the chaise, staring at the ceiling as the earthy scent still lingered in the room, a faint reminder of her lingering presence in his life, even in absence. He rested on his back, the quiet of the room settling heavily around him, but his mind remained restless.

His gaze drifted towards her, drawing irresistibly to her form beneath the covers. She lay facing the hearth, her back to him, but the irregular rise and fall of her shoulders betrayed her pretense of sleep. She was awake, just as he was, the tension between them still thick in the air.

The distance between the chaise and the bed felt immeasurable, though it was just a few paces from where he had knelt not long before. His heart felt heavier now, weighted down by a familiar ache–an ache that never seemed to leave him. It settled in his chest like a thorn, burrowing deep and festering there, always reminding him of the things he couldn’t have, that was denied him, the things that slipped further from his grasp the more he yearned for them.

The gnawing hunger clawed at him again, that deep-seated need for something more–more than the physical, more than the fleeting moments of passion. He longed for something far out of his reach, for something softer, gentler, something that might soothe the raw, bleeding edges of his soul. He wanted her heart, but she was determined to deny him that–to deny he had held hers too. He clenched his jaw, the frustration, and longing twisting inside him, coiling like a serpent as he lay there, unable to quell the storm that churned within him.

To Aemond, love was a poison–corrosive, festering, rotting from the inside. It left one weak, vulnerable, and utterly at another’s mercy, and yet, despite the bitterness, he drank deeply from it. How sweet it was when it chose to be sweet, intoxicating and filling him with warmth. And how bitter it was when it turned, sharp and acrid, cutting at his very soul. But he drank it all the same. Sweet or bitter, it was her. It was him.

Even now, as it burned in his veins, as the bitterness overwhelmed him, he still craved it–still craved her. He wanted her with every fiber of his being, even when she clawed at him, when her words sank deep into his skin, venomous and scathing. He wanted her even in her hatred, her scorn, her cruelty.

Wasn’t this what love truly was? Holding onto something that had the power to wound so deeply? Or was it merely madness?

It didn’t matter how much he bled for her, how she pressed her words to his neck like a blade. As long as she haunted him, as long as she was tethered to him in some way, he could endure the pain. He welcomed it.

Aemond lifted his hand, holding it before his face, his fingers splayed, feeling as though he could still feel the ghost of her touch, the bite of her nails sinking into his skin. The crescent-shaped marks were stark against the pale flesh, raw and red, a physical reminder of her–of her fury, her desire, her hold over him. He turned his hand slowly in the dim light of the hearth, watching as the flickering firelight played over the small ridges of those marks, casting tiny shadows along his palm.

His gaze shifted to the scar that ran wider and deeper than the others, cutting a clean path across his palm–a wound that had healed, an echo of what was, a vow. The scar was pink and slightly raised, different from the other jagged scars that littered his palm and was slowly healing and fading out of existence. This remained–always would remain.

He clung to the faint, fleeting satisfaction that came with the marks she had left on him–the evidence of her touch, a scar etched into his skin, a loving claim.

It was something tangible, something real to hold onto. In this scar he found proof that what had passed between them hadn’t been a dream, nor an illusion–it hadn’t been solely desire. It had been real. It was real. A stolen moment that shouldn’t have been, but was. Something they had shared.

The scar beneath his fingertips felt like scribbles left in the margins of a book–thoughts hastily written down, fragments of a story that would never fully be told but still remained. The moments they’d had, fleeting as they were, seemed to live in the quiet spaces between their shared agony, in the creases of his memory, where he could revisit them again and again. This mark, this scar, held meaning, for it carried within it the weight of all the things he could never say, all the things he could never fully have.

It was lasting in the only way that mattered, meant to be carried with him like a secret, hidden in the deepest parts of himself, in the creases of his soul where he kept all the unspoken words and unrealized desires. Her touch, the wounds she inflicted both out of rage and passion, were all he had now. The marks she left on him were his alone, remnants of the fleeting grip he had on her–even as she slipped further away from him with each passing breath, with each scathing word she uttered.

Aemond's jaw tightened as he lowered his hand again, as if relinquishing her entirely would undo him. He could still feel her there, in the aching sting of the scars she left, in the phantom warmth of her skin against his. But he knew, deep down, that these marks were all he had left–momentary, fleeting, like her affection. And yet, he held onto them as though they could somehow keep her tethered to him, as though the memory of her touch might prevent her from slipping through his fingers entirely.

#aemond targaryen #a vow of blood #hotd aemond #prince aemond #aemond one eye #prince aemond targaryen #house of the dragon aemond #aemond x oc #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond smut

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penvisions · 1 year ago

Text

garnish {chapter 3}

Pairing: Chef! Joel Miller x Bartender! Reader

Summary: Thoughts about Joel Miller have you desperate for something you hadn't sought out in quite a while: human touch. So when your friends suggest a girls' night out, you readily agree. It's just your luck that the very man plaguing your thoughts happens to be at the bar picked out for the night.

Word Count: 6.5k

Warning: alcohol consumption, drunken interactions, creepy flirthing, unwanted attention, fighting, bar fights, nonconsensual touching (not joel), protective joel, injuries, blood, degrading talk, power dynamics, abuse of power, restaurant lingo, triggers associated with the food industry, smoking, cigarettes, joel miller is a conflicted man, kissing, drunk makeout session

A/N: this story is literally keeping me from climbing the walls in my apartment, i've applied to over 20 jobs the last few days and made even more calls to see if places were hiring. the issue isn't finding something, it's finding something willing to pay me for my experience and skill set. but i found out a local coffee shop is opening a new location and i should be getting a call back with interview times for that today, they need cooks and bakers and i can definitely do that

ao3 || series masterlist || main masterlist

It was Wednesday, your normal day off for the week, but Joel had scheduled you two hours of prep, the shift reminder notification early that morning. It had woken you up, having allowed yourself to sleep in after the rather busy shift the night before. It had been a record-breaking sales day, the concert downtown only blocks away bringing increased foot traffic. It had been a week and a half since that terrible Sunday shift where you had finally given into hunger and had ordered food only to be told you had messed up. You had gone hungry that night, nothing in your kitchen at home.

You hadn’t spoken to Joel beyond confirming that dishes were ready to go out and helping to take updated pars out to the servers’ board for them to be aware of throughout services. Lists were left atop the sandwich prep station, and you completed it every shift you had before making your way toward the bar. They were in his writing, some things new with recipe page numbers for the guidebook stored on the expo line.

You had completed a few things on your list and were moving onto the next thing when his booming voice sounded from the walk in.

“Where are the rest of the yellow onions?”

Everyone in the kitchen looked over their stations, including you. The yellow onions you had chopped up for the red lentil soup were sitting in the pot you had atop a portable burner on the left side of your station. Cutting board beside it as you chopped the carrots that were to be added next.

“Whose used yellow onions today?” His brow was furrowed, lips downturned as he gazed around the kitchen. The three confirmations of ‘here, chef’ had him moving intimidatingly through the space, the first two seemed to come out of their interaction unscathed. But you felt like you weren’t about to be so lucky.

“When did you start the prep for these? They look nearly caramelized already.” He stirred the wooden spoon resting in the deep pot, getting a feel on the state of the onions cooking inside. You had stepped aside, hands behind your back as you let him inspect your station. He turned to watch as you answered, professional air about you as you briefly met his eyes with your own. You spoke in an even tone, worried about how he was going to react. He had already proven himself comfortable with cutting you off and denying you food that you had paid with your own money. And that was when you hadn’t actually done anything to warrant that type of reaction.

“I started this half an hour ago, gathered them from the walk in as I gathered everything else, chef.”

“Did you happen to notice that you grabbed the last ones? There are none in the box, left empty on the shelf. That you too? Don’t understand the way things work here, do ya?” He turned with a sharpie held tight between his fingers and he jutted it at the dray erase board beside the walk-in door where things low in stock were to be written down. “In case anyone is unclear on how this kitchen operates: things low in stock are to be written on that board there BEFORE we run out. Boxes or containers that are emptied while grabbing items are to be discarded or put into dish, not left on the shelf for the next person to find.”

“Yes, chef!” The chorus rang out evenly throughout the room.

He turned back to the portable burner and clicked it off, turning the nob off and the whoosh of gas going out was loud in the slight hum of busy work that the kitchen returned to once he had finished speaking.

“Why don’t you go clock yourself out.”

“Chef, there-“ You tried to talk to him, let him know that you had left nearly three pounds of onions left in the box. It wasn’t empty when you left the walk-in. You had been too wrapped up in your work to notice who else had gone in afterwards, though you wouldn’t have sold them out to begin with.

“Go. Clock out, now.”

“Yes, chef.” You wouldn’t raise your face to meet his look. Trying to keep your anger in check lest you give him a real reason to go off on you. Instead, you moved to grab your sharpie laid out over the recipe binder. The small field notes pad of paper beside it with the notations for a double batch written neatly on the page it was open to. Joel blocked your movement with a sidestep, his broad figure blocking your reaching hand.

“Now means now.”

“My-“

“Is now mine. Go.”

Your eyes flicked up and you tried your best not to pin him with the annoyance that was humming through your very blood. This man was nothing but a nuisance, you had only agreed to come into the kitchen because they were short staffed. But it was degrading work, to be around this man who deemed nearly everything below par and had extreme standards for the way things were to be done. The two instances of common decency he had offered you had to have been a fluke, maybe he had been extra tired and worn out those days, didn’t mean to let his guard down. Either way, you were quickly getting over the fluctuating temperatures of his attitude. At first it had been jarring, but you weren’t about to let it get to you any longer. You were determined to face it head on or dish it back out in what ways you could safely do so without risking your job.

You were lagging outside of the back door, standing with the bar back, whose name was Millie and a server who were both on break. You each had a cigarette in hand, swapping stories about the worst pick up lines that you had been approached with. You had removed your apron, it was folded carefully in your crossbody bag to be washed when you got home, simple black long sleeve Henley along with it. That left you in your black denim with that kitschy cute heart belt buckle and a dark green racerback. You had left your hair up in its normal fashion of low buns on either side of your head, short black beanie atop your head.

“You gotta admit,” Your laughter ringing through the air accompanied by the giggles of the two girls in front of you. “He was honest, what better way to start a conversation, though I could’ve done without the-“

All the laughter cut off as the backdoor opened and Joel appeared with a bag of trash. The two younger girls snubbed out their waning cigarettes and scurried inside, deeming breaktime over with his sudden arrival. You watched as Joel tossed the bag over the lip of the nearby dumpster before removing his gloves and tossed them in as well. He removed a pack of his own cigarettes from the breast pocket of his chef’s coat, and you could see the spiral wiring of your notebook peeking out over the top of it. His eyes took in the way your lips moved as you took a long drag from your own, bringing your phone out to ignore him.

The snick snick snick of his lighter resulted in a deep grunt, and you looked at him out of the corner of your eye. The cigarette he had pulled out was between his plush lips and his dead lighter was being pushed back into the pocket of his chef’s pants. When his eyes flicked to you, your attention snapped back to your phone. He cleared his throat, and you cocked an eyebrow up at the sound, turning to give him the barest hint of attention. He was leaning heavily against the side of the building, his hands stuffed in his pockets as he regarded you.

“Do you-

“Nope.” You took the last drag before snuffing out your own cigarette and tossed the butt into the pail beside the door. You started walking toward the parking lot, your truck beeping with a press of the control in your hand. The strap of your bag over your shoulder caught the man’s eye as you began to move away.

“You’re just gonna walk off from your shift?”

“Today’s my day off, chef.” You didn’t look back at him but could tell that your words had affected him.

“Shit, I-“ He straightened up and moved away from the wall, taking a step toward you, his hands coming out from his pockets to take the unlit cigarette from between his lips.

“Don’t worry about it. Now you don’t have to worry me using up all your inventory, right?” You pulled another cigarette out from the pack still in your hand along with your phone and brought a lighter out from your own front pocket. You took a long drag and blew the smoke in his direction over your shoulder, aware of his gaze on your back and you hopped into the cab of the truck.

The next day, everything that was on your prep list had been completed and the one for today had instructions on where to find the mise for each recipe. Everything was already prepared for you and were just combining and finishing the last few steps of each one.

“Hi there, what can I get started for you?” You placed a coaster down on the bar top before a glass of water, eyes coming up as you smiled at the new guest. Your smile faltered a little when the face of your biological evolution professor beamed back at you, but you didn’t let your surprise show other than that.

“I heard a rumor that the bartender here made the best whisky drinks. Here to test out that theory.” His voice was smooth, something you had often spoken aloud to your friends that made the class lectures rather easy. His baritone deep and the ways in which he spoke with such passion and interest in his material was an added bonus to understanding the class subject matter than most.

“Let’s get to testin’, what your preferred whiskey?” You busied yourself making the drinks that had been rung up the last couple of minutes, the man having sat to the side of the well in the last seat along the right side of the bar.

“I’m a Bullet man, myself. But I’m up for whatever you think is best.”

“Oh, well, of course the one I think is best is our top shelf.” You tossed the man a playful smirk, aware that it was a possible line being crossed. But neither of you were on campus, you were at work, and he was one of your bar guests. His laugh was beautiful as he knocked his head back, the line of his throat catching shadows from the strong lights over the bar.

“I actually prefer Woodford, it’s not too expensive but its leagues above some of the stuff on the shelves like Evan Williams.”

He was funny, quick-witted. Matching your jokes as fast as he could. Bringing up documentaries he had recently seen.

“No, but like that’s the thing! There’s been no discovery of this caliber ever before, its unprecedented in nearly every aspect.” You were making a round of lemon drops for a group of girls on the other end of the bar, loading up the shaker and then securing the smaller component over it before lifting your hand and shaking it. As you did so, you reached over to grab the coup glasses you would need for the pour. A figure appeared at the well, taller than the servers and barback, who had gone on break a few minutes ago.

You glanced over at Joel, the man had his hands atop the plastic mats, eyes taking in the organized garnish container and the jars of small straws and picks for the servers to complete their drinks. You nodded at him to let him know you saw him and would be with him as soon as possible before you held the shaker tight in one hand and used the heel of your palm to knock the smaller part loose. Your hand was steady as you parted the two components enough to strain the bright pink liquid from the ice, not looking up from it.

“To actually have fossil evidence of not just any Hominid species, but of a newly discovered hominid species, with a crafted tool in their fuckin’ hand! Like, I got chills, and I was pretty sure my attention was plastered to the screen. Didn’t even touch the food I made that night. I immediately started just taking notes throughout the whole thing.”

“To be fair, it was just as intriguing to find out that the child’s body had been in the cavern wall, not even properly buried like the rest of the bodies in the Dinaledi chamber.”

“Oh my gosh, I know! That opens a whole plethora of questions about what that child was even doing, was he the one carving those symbols into the wall, was he alone- hold on one moment.” You moved over to the other side of the bar, two coup glasses cradled carefully in each hand, and you took the four of them over to the girls who had been watching you make them. They were all bright smiles and excited giggles as you told them you used Meyer lemons for a sweeter drink and added a bit of cherry juice for the color.

“She’s a busy one, guests seem to love her.” Your professor smiled over at Joel, who was watching you flit around behind the bar much like he had been admiring all night. Joel’s eyes snapped to the man beside him and he just nodded, crossing his arms over his chest.

“She knows what she’s doing.”

“Not much of a talker in class, but her papers are beyond wonders. The way her mind makes connections is amazing. And the way she uses her words so carefully, so eloquently.”

“You go to school with her?” Joel questioned, mind going over the small interactions he’s had with you recently. You tended to stutter over your words around him, as if you were hesitant to speak in the first place. He didn’t like the comparison, now, seeing you in your element and recalling the way you had always been professional around him. But this, you behind the bar and completely enthralling as you entertained so many people and mixed drinks like it was second nature. Firing back jokes and conversation as if it was the easiest thing in the world. Your laughter ringing through the space of the dining room. He felt the pull of a frown, not liking the shift he was causing in you lately.

“Oh no, school is way behind me. I’m her professor.” The grunt Joel made seemed to display his trepidation at the revelation and the man was quick to jump into defense mode. “It’s not what it looks like, she’s at work and I’m just here on a friend’s word that it’s a good place. Didn’t even know she was here until I sat down.”

“Sure.” Joel said in a tone that said he didn’t buy a word the man was saying.

You were back with them by the well, professional smile in place as you addressed Joel. You were busy tucking a receipt and some bills of money into your server’s book, secured underneath the counter and atop a cooler beside the drink station.

“Yes, chef?”

“Bourbon for the steak sauce. And whatever amber you have on tap.” He tried to muster up the courage to lighten up his face from a frown, but the way your eyes flashed away from him told him it didn’t work.

“Heard, chef.”

You busied yourself with retrieving the bottle of bourbon he had asked you to tack onto your order. He hadn’t wanted to deal with the liquor vendors himself and sure you would find a better deal than him anyway.

“It’s gonna be a 6.7 percent amber, it’s smooth and the notes of pecan to cut the malt. Only one I have on tap at the moment, that okay?” You talked over your shoulder, picking up on the waves and attention from the other patrons of the bar top, reaching to get more than the one glass needed for just Joel’s request. You poured two blondes, an IPA, and a stout and placing them in front of those who had been nursing them all night before going to pull the tap for the amber. It poured for maybe two seconds before it sputtered and compressed air forced itself out of the spicket.

“I told Millie to change out the keg last night, I’m sorry, chef. It’s gonna take me a minute before I can step away and replace it.” Your brows were furrowed in a worried expression, not wanting this to be something he used against you. You were really hoping to get something to go later, needing to finish a paper that was due tomorrow before class. He must’ve clocked the rising panic in your eyes because he squared his shoulders before shoving off the drink station.

“I gotcha, which label am I looking for?”

“Oh, um, Riverbank Red.”

“Heard.” He turned to move toward the small walk-in just behind the bar, the heavy door opening easily underneath his hands. You could hear him rustling around inside, the hiss of him removing the empty keg and then the clunk of him placing the new one in its place. The two knocks on the wall alerted you that it was all set and you pulled the tap, compressed air working its way through the hook up before foam began to stream. Letting it run for a few seconds, you turned around and grabbed a fresh pint glass for Joel’s drink. You used the previous one and filled it, cutting off the tap and took a long pull from it.

When you lowered the glass after your drink, you found two pairs of eyes on you. You looked between your professor and Joel, both on each side of the corner of the bar. Some of the foam from the outside of the glass when the tap died out had run down your chin and settled on your chest. The cut of your shirt was a little low, your simple, silver chain necklace catching the soft glow of the bar lights much like the foam.

You avoided meeting either of their gazes as you poured a second pint for Joel and walked it over. Before you could place it atop the drink station beside the bottle of bourbon already waiting, he reached out for it and his thick fingers brushed yours. His beautiful, brown eyes flashed down and caught yours, full of something you didn’t recognize, prompting you to pull your hand away as you struggled to catch your breath.

His teeth clicked with the clenching of his jaw, his hands tightening around items he came over for and he turned to make his way back to the kitchen.

“He’s not much of a charmer, is he?”

“He just has an asshole voice, don’t mind him.” With a somewhat fake smile plastered on your face, you turned back to your professor and started making him another drink as more rang through the printer. “Now, what were the most concrete dates we had archived for allusions to tool use?”

The alcohol in your system was washing your stress and anxieties away. Moving your body along to the song that was bumping from the speakers of the bar that held a small dance floor. Your friends’ bodies were moving alongside you, along with you, tangling with your own in a heady and exciting way. It was such a relief to not have any worries at the moment, only blipping thoughts of ‘oooh this is a good song’ and ‘another drink, yes please’.

You were taking a break, downing a glass of water and ordering a round of shots for everyone. There were five of you altogether and they huddled around you as you passed one to each of them, smiling widely at the bartender across from you. He just chuckled with a shake of his head and moved on down the bar to help out two waiting men. If you had been paying attention, you would’ve recognized one in a particular. But you were too preoccupied with the rather loud cheers the girls were trying to agree on before someone finally just shouted, ‘drink up, bitches!’ and you were downing the shot along with them.

The burn of it down your throat was anticipated and you gathered the empty glasses from them while they sputtered and coughed, not able to handle it as well as they normally could with already being more than tipsy. You were leaning over the bar a little, on your tip toes to place them atop the washer on the plastic pad you knew the bartender liked to gather used cups before loading them up.

A large hand found the exposed small of your back, your crop tank top allowing for the skin to be on display. It was dangerously close to the waist of your skirt, and you jerked back with a start, face contorting into one of anger.

“Hey, who the fuck do you think you are?” You settled back on your heels, the height of them making you a little taller than normal. Your eyes swept over the crowd around the bar and found that your friends had returned to the dance floor, leaving you to deal with this on your own. Not that you couldn’t, but it would’ve been nice to have a witness. The man in question was rather tall, blonde, nice suit, but his forwardness left little to be desired.

“Just helpin’ to hold ya steady, looked like you were about to flip over the bar, little lady.”

“Keep your hands to yourself.”

“Didn’t mean to offend-“

“Yeah, well, ya did. Don’t fuckin’ touch me, got it?”

“C’mon now. You were gettin’ all close and personal with your friends, maybe I wanted a feel for myself.”

The man stepped closer to you, and you could smell the alcohol on his breath, cheap and cloying as it wafter over into your personal space. His hands were coming up as if he were going to wrap them around your hips and pull you to him. His eyes were raking slowly up and down your body, taking in the short skirt and crop tank top you had deemed appropriate for the night. The cleavage peeking out of the top of your shirt glistening with the glitter body spray you had used before leaving your apartment.

“Leave me the fuck alone.” You spat, stepping away from the man only to collide with another’s back who had been passing by.

“Watch where-“ Joel of all people turned around, a scowl on his face. You felt like a deer caught in headlights, totally caught off guard that your boss was here in the same bar. The beer in his grip had sloshed over his fingers when you slammed into him and it was dripping to the already sticky floor. There was another man beside him, similar height and build. He had the same brown eyes and you realized they must be related.

Joel’s eyes took in the slightly panicked air about you, gaze moving behind you to see the man you had been fleeing from in such a haste.

“He touch you?”

“Don’t know if that’s any of your business, old man.” The man stepped forward and hooked a finger on the strap of your crossbody, pulling you backwards and you stumbled at the bold move. “We’re just two friends having an intimate-“

You maneuvered your stumble into a pivot and raised your clenched fist to deck the guy across the face, cutting off his words. You felt the crack of his nose beneath your knuckles, the action splitting two of them open. There was a gasp and a bark of laughter from behind you.

“I said, don’t fuckin’ touch me.” You sneered, anger lighting you up from the inside out. You didn’t pay the dull ache of your new injury any mind as you brought your arm back closer to your body, but you did flinch when the man’s hands shot out and his nails scratched along your neck where he had tried to grab you.

Joel was moving with a grunt of effort before you could fully register that the man had lunged at you.

Body slamming into his and pinning him face down against the bar with a hand tight on the back of his neck. His forehead had cracked against it, and he had shouted out weakly at the pain the action must’ve caused. His arms were twisted behind up, Joel’s right one holding them tight by the wrists. As he did so, the man with Joel had pulled you away from the confrontation, hands far more gentle with you than the man now pinned to the bar.

“You okay?” Joel looked back at you, his eyes hard and his expression schooled into one of control despite the way he had just cracked that man’s head on the top of the bar. When you didn’t answer, he looked to the man who had pulled you further out of harms way. “Tommy, she okay?”

There was no time to answer him, the bartender was out from behind the bar in a second, security that checked identification alongside him and they were forcefully guiding the man toward the door. He was putting up a rather good effort, but the two men were stronger than him. He turned with one last look over his shoulder and spat at you. The spray of it startled you and the tears that formed were angry, wet, ugly things.

Suddenly, the girls were swarming you, all talking at the same time and guiding you toward the bathroom to help get you somewhere safe to gather yourself. You let them guide you away from Joel and what you assumed was his brother, not glancing over at them lest they see more of the tears than they already had.

The bathroom muffled the booming music enough to hear your own thoughts, the lights a little brighter to help you process what had just happened. The girls were dabbing wet paper towels underneath your eyes to wipe your smeared makeup, to sooth the scratch marks on your throat. They plopped you down on one of the chairs off in the corner, removing your bag from around your body and just allowed you to take however long a moment you needed. Someone fetched a bottle of water from somewhere and you gulped down half of it without taking a breath. Your hands were shaking and you lifted your hand up to inspect the damage on your knuckles.

Someone gasped and it startled you, making you jump in your seat and then the bartender was there with a first aid kit.

“Me’n my boyfriend kicked him out, some cops were walking down the way and he taken to the station.”

He said as he kneeled in front of you, tearing open a package of sterile gauze. He dabbed some disinfectant on it before gently taking your hand and patting it across the top of your hand.

You found yourself back up at the bar, seated in a stool with your bag laid over the back of it. Your friends had checked on you again and pouted at your insistence of not going to another place with them. They wished you a good rest of the night and told you to check in with them when you got home, you returned their kind words.

You downed the last dregs of your cocktail, a vodka something, and gathered your keys from your purse.

Heels heavy, you stumbled over your own feet as your head swam and the lights of the bar flared. You reached out for the back of the stool but ended up grabbing onto a man’s arm. It was warm and strong and white-hot desire raced down your spine at the contact. Bringing your face up to apologize, it was lost in your throat as you realized it was none other than Joel Miller you were holding onto. You stepped back, turning from him to properly retrieve your bag this time.

“You’re not the boss of me here, lemme go.” You struggled against the hold he had on your upper arm, where he had turned you to face him. He seemed to realize you were uncomfortable and he dropped his hand, allowing you to turn back to face the bar. Jerry looked from your annoyed expression to the man behind you, taking in the situation and trying to determine how best to deal with it.

“Hey, man, good on you and your brother for helping us get that guy earlier, but I don’t think she likes the attention.”

“She’s drunk, you really gonna let her leave alone?”

“She comes here a lot, knows her limits and she’s got me to look out after her.”

“She’s drunker ‘n you think.”

“I am not.”

“Darlin-“

“I am not your anything, Mr. Miller.” You turned back on him with such a glare he was surprised you could hold the look in your state. He could see the way your head was lolling with every turn, your movements loose and uncoordinated. “This is a public space, I am not your prep cook and you are not my boss. You can’t lord over me and refuse me food here like at work. And I want…I want French fries.”

You stumbled as you turned around to face him again with heat behind your words. Eyes flaring in anger as he tried to reach for you again. Your body sung where one of his arms wrapped around the small of your back, helping you to keep upright as your balance faltered. The heels weren’t helping. You wished you had just stayed home, the sting of being ditched by your friends, the sting of his treatment at work and the workload of your classes, all of it was a lot and tonight was supposed to help you get out of your head, not make things worse.

“You-“ You swayed on your feet, leaning back from him slightly. The length of his forearm supporting you as you did so and stabbed a finger into his chest to emphasize your next words. Ignoring the way that his chest was firm and hot through the fabric of his shirt, he would probably have chest hair and it would be as peppered as his scruff… “You’re mean.”

His brother was doing his best to smother his laughter behind a hand, but you could hear it and you pouted even more.

“Your little brother is laughing at me and you’re a meanie.” You shoved away from him again, the warmth of his arm gone from your back as you turned around to retrieve your bag from the back of your stool. “I’m leaving.”

“The hell you are, you can’t walk, let alone drive.”

“Don’t need help. I’ve been on my own for as long as I can remember.”

“Sweetheart, you-“ Tommy tried to step in, hoping that maybe he could help out the situation. It was clear they were both worried but you were just being so stubborn. Jerry was right, you didn’t like the attention, you didn’t like getting felt up and your boss had been there to witness the aftermath. That he was still there and seeing you in such a way.

“I’m not your sweetheart.” Your voice held more bite than you thought you were capable of in your current state. Tommy stepped back with his hands held up in surrender. His brows furrowed as he shared a look with his brother.

“Lemme call you a cab, please.”

“No, I don’t need anything from you. You made it clear how you feel about me, barking at me all day when I’m helping you with your kitchen because the staff don’t wanna show up and deal with you.”

“Oof, that’s a hard hit, brother.” Tommy reached over to help you drape your purse strap over your shoulder, the crossbody secure over your form and he stepped away as you pushed at his hands much like you had done with Joel. “You really did a number on her.”

“Lemme just, please, lemme take you home. Need to make sure you get home okay.” His voice was pitched quiet, leaning a little into your space with an open expression. His hands were at his sides, not reaching out to touch you again, his fists clenched at his sides. Your eyes lingered on the way his mouth formed around the words and you swallowed the harsh ones you were about to fire back at him. All you could manage was a small nod.

That’s how you found yourself in the passenger side of his own truck, waiting in a short line of a drive through.

Once your fries, and some for him too, had been passed through the window, he was following the spoken instructions to your house. Watching the way you watched things pass by the window as you munched on the salty treat in your lap out of the corner of his eye. The dried blood on your split knuckles making his stomach lurch as he thought of that man putting his hands on you and the look on your face when you tried to flee. The look on your face when you had run into him, eyes wide and panicked.

You had calmed down, now in a lazy mood after the adrenaline packed events of the night.

“You do know what you’re doin’, just don’t think I’ve ever said it out loud ‘fore now.”

“Hmm?” You rolled your head along the back of the seat to face him, bringing a fry up to the seal of your mouth as you did so. He had to look away from the sight, your entire body and demeanor relaxed. Your expression was so open and curious, eyes soft as you looked over at him. Containing none of the animosity and worry he seemed to pull from you at work as you looked him over. He was in a pair of dark wash jeans that his thighs looked good in as he drove, a simple white Henley for a shirt. It allowed for the tan of his skin to pop, the grays that speckled his hair looking good in the lights of passing cars and lamps.

“You-uh-you, nevermind.” Joel’s deep voice wavered before he cut off, not being able to handle the earnest gaze you had pinned him with, his hands tightened on the steering wheel.

“Mkay, whatever you say.” You turned back to look out with window, letting him know that your complex was around the corner.

He parked along the curb beside the gate that opened up into the parking lot. Watching him as he hopped out of the cab and toward your side of the vehicle, his expression hard to read. He was opening the door and leaning into the can to undo your seatbelt. Not wanting to risk you trying to do it and spill your fries, knowing you would probably tear up at the mishap should it occur. He said as much under his breath when you asked him what he was doing and you couldn’t help the giggles that bubbled up from your chest as you agreed with him, it would be tragic.

Once unbuckled, he reached for the fries in your hand and put them back in the bag they came in, tucking it into your purse that was still across your body.

“Will you let me help you step down?”

At your nod, his hands came around your waist, the wideness of them allowing his fingers to span across your back in a tantalizing way. He lifted you a little, holding most of your weight as you hopped down from the cab. His arms tensed around you as you felt yourself wobble, forgetting you were in heels for the entirety of the drive. Another round of giggles bubbled up and you found yourself leaning more into Joel’s space. His body was warm where you were pressed up against his front, the scent of cedar stronger tonight than it had been all those nights ago when he insisted on making you food to take home.

“I wish you liked me.” You spoke quietly into his neck, lips brushing against the skin there as you did so.

You felt his fingers twitch where they held onto you before you were pulled back a little so he could look down at you.

“Darlin’, I do like you, that’s the problem.”

“Doesn’t have to be.” You wrapped your arms around the back of his neck, pulling yourself closer to him.

“You’re not in the right state to be talkin’ about this right no-“

Surging up, you smothered the words from his lips with your own. His arms tightened around you, pulling you flush against him as he kissed you back. As if he was unable to stop himself despite the words he had just been ushering. It was all teeth and tongue, sparking heat that pooled low in your middle. A whimper sounded in the air, Joel swallowing it as he licked into your mouth. Your nails dug into the curls at the base of his neck and you pulled.

A deep groan rumbled through his chest and you pulled away to catch your breath, looking at the face of the man who had been consuming your thoughts for weeks now.

He looked back at you, took in the way your eyes were blown out and dilated, the puffiness of your swollen lips, the quick breaths you were taking to recover from his mouth on yours, the heat that he was causing was all consuming and you knew that he could feel through your skin underneath his hands. He was swooping back down to capture your lips, his hands moving up to cradle your face in his hands as he did so and you melted at the action.

Consciousness hit you like a jolt and you were shooting up from your bed. The covers fell from you to pool around your waist, and you looked around the room, nothing looked out of place but something felt off, so incredibly off. Your bag was on the bedside table, an empty greasy bag crumpled beside it and your lips were tingling with the memory of pressing them against someone else’s.

“Oh, fuck.”

You had drunkenly kissed your boss.

And he had kissed you back.

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