CW: SFW and NSFW Headcannons, Gender neutral reader
Carrie will be very nervous and quite at the beginning but will eventually becomes more open and confident the longer the relationship lasts.
It's defo going to be awkward in the beginning, but within a week or two Carrie will soon be more assertive.
By assertive, I mean Carrie talking more and not shying away in public.
Although she does enjoy physical affection, Carrie prefers that it doesn't occur too frequently. She doesn't mind cuddling or holding hands but if it's 24/7 then Carrie will get rather overwhelmed with the constant touching.
If you're interested in makeup, Carrie would love for you to do her makeup or teach her the basics. She has a small interest in makeup and would love to learn more about it with you. It's a sweet bonding experience for you both and maybe you can experiment with each other on what type of makeup you'd like.
She loves to take pictures of AND with you. She'd have so many pictures that she would make a scrapbook solely for them.
Carrie sometimes sews you new clothing to gift you. When you thank her or gift her something in return, Carrie will always respond with red cheeks and a quite thanks/you're welcome.
When it comes to complimenting you, Carrie can be a bit awkward but that's because she not use to giving or even receiving praise so she hesitates on what to say.
But she does try to give praise/compliments when she deems it's not sudden or it won't come off as unpleasant.
Dates will consist of picnics, shopping and simple outdoor activities like painting or bird watching. Carrie prefers dates to be laid back and peaceful but is willing to try some adventurous dates with you.
With you, Carrie is more open to try new experiences!
On her dressing table, Carrie pins up a photo of you both on her mirror to warm up her day.
ALSO, if we're going for a modern! Carrie, she would have a selfie of you both as her lock and home screen.
NSFW Headcannons:
Carrie is very inexperienced so it's either you both are learning together or you will take the lead.
Prefers to have soft and gentle sex. I highly doubt she would want to try rough sex.
The most rough the sex can become is with hair pulling and a bit of manhandling.
She is rather quiet during sex but eventually gets more vocal.
Due to how quite it can be though, Carrie would like some low music to be playing in the background.
When it comes to involving kinks, Carrie is pretty tame (At least, compared to other horror icons).
As said above, she likes hair pulling and manhandling but she doesn't mind some roleplay and using some toys.
I kinda see Carrie engaging in mutual masturbation with you before having sex. So she will be more relaxed and more comfortable with sex.
Likes good old missionary but doesn't mind trying cowgirl
Most of the time, you will be the one in the dominant role
Please PLEASE be gentle and give lots of praise. The girl just needs someone to give her positive attention
By the Hour of the Bat, the ribbon had not come.
Sweetling told herself this was relief.
Warnings: Explicit sexual content (titty sucking & fingering; nothing regarding vaginal sex, we're building up to that).
WC: 9.3k (I think).
Notes: Smut. The bane of my existence. I'm not good at smut, particularly smut styled in an ASOIAF/medieval period. It's beyond difficult to make it work, because saying "—sheathe thy veiny sword between mine scalding loins" is just . . . not hot.
Posted first on my AO3.
His Handmaid's Tales | AO3 Version
dividers: #enchanthings
By the Hour of the Bat, the ribbon had not come.
Sweetling told herself this was relief.
She lay on her narrow pallet in the little chamber she shared with two other serving women, listening to rain skitter against the shutters and Bessa snore softly from the far bed. The air smelled of damp wool, lavender soap, and the onion broth someone had eaten too quickly before sleep. Her hands rested folded atop her blanket like a corpse’s.
The ribbon lay beneath her pillow.
She had hidden it there after supper. Then taken it out. Then hidden it in her sleeve. Then in the small pocket of her spare apron. Then beneath the pillow again, because apparently she had become the sort of girl who could not be trusted with cloth.
It had not come because he had not sent it.
Good, she thought.
Then: coward.
Then, horrified at herself: ungrateful fool.
He was doing what he had promised. He was letting her choose. He was not pressing. Not summoning. Not sending a seal that would force Alicent’s hand and hers together. Not making a spectacle of restraint so that she might praise him for it.
He was behaving honorably.
Sweetling turned onto her side and stared at the dark.
Honor, she decided, was extremely inconvenient.
Bessa snorted in her sleep and rolled over.
From the pallet nearest the door, an older maid muttered something about goats.
Sweetling closed her eyes.
Aemond’s mouth waited there.
She opened them.
“No,” she whispered into the dark.
Bessa snored.
Sweetling slid one hand beneath the pillow and closed her fingers around the ribbon.
It was cool at first. Then warmed quickly.
A choice.
That was the trouble. Choices were heavier than commands. A command could be obeyed while one kept some little injured place within blameless. A choice belonged to the chooser. It could not be set down later at a prince’s feet, or a queen’s, or a gods’. If she went to him, she would be going because she wished to. Not because of duty and not because of fear. But because she wanted the danger badly enough to name it.
Sweetling lay very still for a second more, then she sat up.
The room remained dark. Bessa breathed on. The older maid muttered again. Rain kept its counsel.
Sweetling slipped from bed and drew on her plain robe over her shift. Her feet found cold stone, and she stood for a moment with the ribbon clutched in one hand and her own heartbeat making war in her throat. Before, she told herself. Decide before you leave the room. She looked at the door.
“I choose,” she whispered.
No one heard.
That was just as well.
Sweetling tucked the ribbon into her sleeve and stepped into the corridor.
She did not go to Prince Aemond’s chambers.
Not yet.
First, she went to the linen room, because even foolishness required order. She lit one small lamp. She took up a basket and placed within it two clean cloths, a needle case, black thread, a pot of salve, and one of the prince’s shirts with a loose tie she had deliberately not finished after supper because some new, sly part of her had apparently learned strategy from dragons.
Then she stood in the warm little pool of lamplight and waited.
A corridor away, footsteps passed.
A guard coughed.
The castle breathed.
Sweetling took the ribbon from her sleeve and laid it atop the folded shirt.
Not sent by him. Sent by her. A warning—a question—a confession in cloth. She lifted the basket. By the time she reached the turn before his apartments, her courage had become a thin, bright thing, liable to snap. The guard outside Aemond’s door straightened when Sweetling stopped before him.
“The prince did not summon you,” he said.
“No.”
His eyes dropped to the basket. Then to her face.
She hated him for seeing the heat there.
“I bring mending,” she said.
“At this hour?”
“Yes.”
The guard’s mouth twitched.
Sweetling lifted her chin by a fraction. “You may announce me, or you may explain to Prince Aemond on the morrow why you turned away his handmaid with his linen unfinished.”
The guard stared. Then, very wisely, he knocked.
Aemond’s voice came from within. “What?”
The guard opened the door only enough to speak through. “My prince. Your handmaid.”
Silence.
Sweetling’s grip tightened on the basket.
Then Aemond said, “Send her in.”
The guard stepped aside, and Sweetling crossed the threshold.
Aemond stood by the desk, one hand braced on its edge, a letter open beneath his palm. His hair was loose. He wore no outer tunic, only a dark shirt unlaced at the throat and black breeches tucked into boots he had not bothered to remove. Candlelight made him sharper. Lonelier.
His eye went first to her face.
Then to the basket. Then to the ribbon lying on top. The whole room seemed to still. Sweetling shut the door behind her. Aemond did not move.
“You were not summoned,” he said.
“No.”
“You were told the risk.”
“Yes.”
His gaze pinned her. “And yet.”
Sweetling crossed the room on legs that felt much too mortal for what she asked of them. She set the basket on his desk, careful not to disturb the letter beneath his hand. Then she picked up the ribbon and held it out.
Aemond looked at it.
He did not take it.
“You send my own warning back to me?” he asked.
Her pulse beat everywhere. “No.”
“What, then?”
Sweetling swallowed.
Her mouth had gone dry. Of course it had. All her grand courage had carried her to the edge of speech and then abandoned her there like a faithless knight.
Aemond waited.
He could be patient when cruelty would have been easier. She wished he would stop proving that. It made everything worse.
“I choose the risk,” she said. “Again. I shall continue to choose the risk, again and again.”
Aemond’s face changed, enough that she noticed it. He came around the desk slowly, knuckles dragging across the wood. “Do not say that because you think I wish to hear it.”
“You do wish to hear it.”
His mouth tightened.
Sweetling held the ribbon between them. “But that is not why I said it.”
He stopped before her. “Why, then?”
Because I wanted to know whether you would let me come to you.
Because I wanted you to know I could.
Because all day I have been praying for gentleness and thinking of your hands.
Because I am frightened, and I came anyway.
She said, “Because I wanted to.”
Aemond closed his eye. Only for a moment. When he opened it, the hunger there had gone quiet. He took the ribbon from her hand and set it on the desk.
“Then we begin again,” he said, and then he kissed her as if he had been starving in silence.
There was no sweetness at first, no shy fumbling courtship such as girls whispered about over laundry tubs when the older women had gone. Sweetness came later in songs, polished clean by singers who had never stood in a prince’s chamber after midnight with a ribbon hidden in their sleeve and the door shut soft behind them. This was hunger made careful. This was a hand at her waist that could have bruised, and did not. This was his mouth taking hers with such deliberate restraint that Sweetling understood, with a sudden bright terror, that gentleness was not the opposite of danger. Sometimes it was danger held by the throat.
She had stepped into his hand, and he had taken that as an answer enough to begin, but not an answer enough to forget.
Even as he kissed her, even as his fingers tightened through the plain wool of her robe and drew her nearer until her basket pressed awkwardly against the edge of the desk, he kept a measured space between their bodies, no more than a breath, no less than a warning. Sweetling felt that space more keenly than she would have felt his weight. It invited. It asked. It made her choose again with every inch.
Her hands found his sleeves. Black cloth, warm beneath her palms. He wore no rings tonight, no jeweled ornament, nothing but the severe fastening at his cuffs and the leather belt at his waist. Somehow, that plainness made him worse. Less prince, more man. Less court, more body. Aemond Targaryen with his hair unbound and falling against her cheek, with his breath catching when she did not pull away, with his mouth hot and exacting and already learning the shape of hers.
He broke the kiss before she did.
Sweetling had not known she was clinging until his mouth was gone, and her fingers tightened as if to call it back.
Aemond looked down at her hands, then up at her face.
“You came here,” he said.
Her lips felt swollen. “Yes.”
“Not summoned.”
“No.”
“With that.” His gaze flicked to the ribbon lying on the desk where he had set it, dark against pale parchment. “And with mending.”
She remembered the basket then. The shirt inside. The needle case. The little coward’s excuse she had carried with her so she could pretend to herself that she had not crossed half the sleeping Keep because she wanted to be kissed again.
Her cheeks heated.
Aemond saw, of course. His eye sharpened with that cool, unbearable pleasure he took in every honest betrayal of her face.
“Were you going to mend my shirt?” he asked.
“If it needed mending.”
“It does not.”
“I thought it might.”
“You lie poorly after being kissed.”
Sweetling lowered her gaze, but he caught her chin before it could fall too far. His fingers were firm beneath it, not painful, merely refusing her escape.
“No,” he said. “You do not get to hide from the answer and enjoy the question.”
That made her breath catch, which was answer enough to darken his gaze.
Aemond bent, not to kiss her mouth this time, but the corner of it. Then beneath it. Then the place where her jaw softened toward her throat. The kisses were not hurried; he put them down one by one, as if each had a use and he meant to discover it. Sweetling stood very still under them, eyes half-lidded, fingers gathering black cloth at his sides. When his mouth found the pulse beneath her ear, her breath escaped her in a small sound she could not call back.
He stopped.
Not withdrew. Stopped.
His mouth remained against her skin. She felt the stillness of him before she understood it: the sudden lock of his shoulders, the halt of his breath, the hand at her waist gone fixed, as if he had taken himself by force and held.
Sweetling opened her eyes.
“Aemond?”
He lifted his head just enough to look at her. The candlelight made a blade of his cheek, a shadow of his scar, a dark pool of his remaining eye. His mouth was parted. Not much. Enough.
“Say it again,” he said.
She swallowed. “Aemond.”
The hand at her waist flexed once.
“Again.”
“Aemond.”
He kissed her then with something rougher in him, though still not careless. It was not the controlled lesson of the sept, nor the restrained answer at the threshold. It was hotter, deeper, his tongue pressing into her mouth as if patience had thinned and the taste of her had become an argument against every rule he had set himself. Sweetling answered without meaning to. Her mouth opened for him. Her hands slid from his sleeves to his shoulders, and when she rose onto her toes, chasing him, Aemond made a low sound against her lips.
That sound ruined more of her than any touch had.
It was not princely. Not composed. Not measured. A breath of want, caught too late.
Sweetling pressed closer.
This time, he let her.
The space between them disappeared. Her body met his through wool and linen and black cloth, softness against hard line, trembling against restraint. He was warm. Warmer than she expected. She had thought dragons might feel like fire, but he felt like a man who had trained until heat lived in his blood and then stood too long alone with it. His chest rose hard against hers. His belt brushed her stomach. One of his thighs came between the folds of her robe, not forcing, only there, and the pressure of it made her fingers dig into his shoulders.
Aemond broke the kiss with a quiet curse in High Valyrian.
She did not know the word, but she understood its shape.
“Sweetling,” he said, and it was nearly a warning.
“Yes?”
His mouth twitched, though there was no amusement in it now. “Do not answer me so sweetly when you know what you do.”
“I do not know.”
That was true enough to make him still.
Her face burned as she forced herself to meet his eye. “Not as much as you think.”
Aemond looked at her for a long moment, and the hunger in him changed again. It did not lessen. Gods, no. It deepened, became heavier, more dangerous because it had found tenderness and did not know whether to devour it or kneel before it.
“You came to my chamber at night,” he said.
“I did.”
“You brought my ribbon back.”
“Yes.”
“You told me you chose the risk.”
“Yes.”
“And still you would have me believe you innocent?”
“No,” she whispered. “Only not practiced.”
His hand rose to her face. The backs of his fingers touched her cheek, then turned, knuckles brushing down the side of her throat. The path was slow enough that she felt every place before and after it, each inch of skin waiting its turn. He reached the tie of her robe and stopped.
“Then we will practice honesty first.”
Her pulse beat hard against his hand. “Honesty?”
“If you want my mouth,” Aemond said, voice low, “you will say so. If you want my hands, you will say so. If you want me to stop, you will say that too. Not with frightened eyes. Not with silence. With words.”
Sweetling’s throat tightened. A fine thing, words. Useful things, in theory. She had spent a life learning which words to swallow, which to soften, which to bury entirely. The Red Keep had taught her that speech was dangerous, that a handmaid survived by becoming a shadow with hands. And now here was the prince, the most dangerous man in the room, demanding that she stand in the candlelight and name what she wanted of him.
It felt obscene before she had even spoken.
Aemond’s thumb brushed the knot of her robe. “Do you want my mouth again?”
Her lips parted. No sound came.
His gaze did not leave hers.
“Sweetling.”
“Yes,” she managed.
“Where?”
The word went through her like a spark dropped into dry rushes. Her hands tightened where they rested against him. She could have said on my mouth. That was safe. True. Already known. But his thumb was still at her throat, and his body was still against hers, and the want in her had become a creature with claws.
“My neck,” she whispered.
Aemond’s eye darkened.
He did not smile. That would have been easier to bear. Instead, he inclined his head as if she had answered correctly in some private lesson and bent to her throat.
The first kiss was soft enough to make her ache.
Then his lips parted.
The wet heat of his mouth closed over the place she had offered, and Sweetling’s head tipped back before she could stop it. He kissed her throat, then sucked lightly, enough to pull a gasp from her, enough to make her fingers slide up into his hair without asking. He allowed it. More than allowed it; she felt his breath change when her fingers tightened in the pale strands. Aemond’s hand came up behind her neck, supporting, guiding, holding her exactly where he wanted her while his mouth moved down to the hollow above her collarbone.
Her robe had loosened. She did not know whether by his hand or hers. The cord hung slack, the wool gaping enough that cold air touched the thin shift beneath. Aemond’s mouth paused at the edge of exposed skin.
“Hands?” he asked.
It took her a moment to understand.
Then the understanding nearly undid her.
He was asking.
Again.
Not because he did not want. She could feel the want in him, against her, hard and unmistakable. Not because he was gentle by nature, as his mother had said, he was not cruel by nature, both women speaking as if nature were a thing that mattered once power entered the room. He asked because he had chosen to make himself ask, and the effort of it showed in the set of his jaw.
Sweetling’s fingers trembled in his hair.
“Yes,” she said. “Your hands.”
“Where?”
Her shame rose up hot and useless.
Aemond lifted his head. “You came all this way to become shy?”
That should have angered her. It did, a little. Enough to give her spine back.
“My waist,” she said.
His hands went there at once, fitting over her through the robe, large and warm and sure. A simple touch. Almost proper, if one were blind and charitable. But there was nothing proper in the way he drew her closer, nothing courtly in the way his thumbs moved inward, finding the curve beneath her ribs, measuring the smallness of her against the span of his hands. Sweetling’s breath shook. Aemond watched it happen, then bent and kissed her again, as if her reaction had pleased him past patience.
The kiss turned hungry quickly.
This time, when he backed her toward the desk, she went with him. Parchment crinkled beneath the basket. A letter slid to the floor, and neither of them looked at it. Aemond’s hands remained at her waist until the edge of the desk met the backs of her thighs, then one hand shifted, palm pressing flat beside her hip as he leaned over her. The other slid up, not to her breast, not yet, but to the open edge of her robe.
“May I?”
The words were quiet. Roughened.
Sweetling’s heart knocked once, hard.
“Yes.”
Aemond drew the robe open.
Only that.
Only wool parting from wool, the plain garment falling wider over the desk behind her, leaving her in the thin shift she had worn beneath. Yet Sweetling felt more naked in that moment than if he had stripped her bare. Candlelight passed through the linen where it pulled over her breasts and waist. She saw his gaze move over her, not greedily, not at first, but with terrible concentration, as if he meant to remember the sight correctly.
Then greed came.
She saw it enter him.
His eye lifted to hers, almost accusing. “You wear this beneath your robe?”
“It is only a shift.”
“It is nearly nothing.”
“It is what I sleep in.”
Aemond’s gaze dropped again. “I know.”
The answer was too quick, too dark. Sweetling’s breath caught.
He had imagined it, then.
The thought of him alone in this chamber, severe and composed before others, imagining her in thin linen and undone braids, sent a shameful little heat through her belly. Aemond saw that too. His mouth parted faintly.
“What is that look?” he asked.
She shook her head.
His hand caught her jaw, not hard, but with enough command to halt the lie before it formed. “Words.”
“You thought of me,” she said, barely audible.
The pad of his thumb touched the corner of her mouth. “Often.”
No embroidery. No denial. Often.
Sweetling felt the room tilt.
“And how did my prince think of me?” she asked before she could lose her courage.
Aemond went utterly still.
For one heartbeat, she thought she had gone too far. Then his thumb moved over her lower lip, dragging it down a fraction, and his eye fixed on the small parting of her mouth with such heat that her knees would have weakened had the desk not been behind her.
“Do not ask questions you are not prepared to have answered.”
“I am trying to learn.”
His gaze snapped back to hers.
Ah, that pleased him.
It was there and gone, a spark beneath black water.
Aemond lowered his mouth to her ear. “I thought of you on your knees.”
Her breath stopped.
“Not like that,” he murmured, and now there was a trace of cruelty in his softness, not enough to wound, enough to make her feel the blade. “Not yet. I thought of you kneeling to mend a cuff. Kneeling to gather fallen parchment. Kneeling because servants kneel when told, and every fool in this castle thinks obedience is the same as surrender.”
His hand slid from her jaw to her throat, thumb resting just beneath her chin.
“I thought of how often you lower your eyes when you wish to look. How carefully you hold your tongue when you wish to answer. How still you make yourself when fear passes through you, as if stillness makes you safe.” His mouth brushed her ear. “And then I thought of making you less still.”
Sweetling’s hand closed around his sleeve.
Aemond kissed the side of her neck. “There. That was the thought.”
“You are cruel,” she whispered.
His mouth paused.
“Sometimes.”
The honesty of it chilled and warmed her both.
“Are you cruel now?” she asked.
“No.”
“Then what are you?”
His answer came against her skin.
“Hungry.”
His hand moved at last to her breast.
Over the shift first, palm settling with firm, almost reverent pressure. Sweetling gasped. Her body arched before she could command it otherwise, and Aemond caught the movement with his mouth at her throat, sucking once, harder than before. The ache that answered between her thighs shocked her into silence. She had known wanting in little ways, in flushed cheeks and restless nights, in the memory of kisses that made her press her knees together beneath blankets.
This was different. This was want with teeth.
Aemond’s thumb found the shape of her nipple through the linen.
Sweetling made a sound she had never heard from herself.
His hand stilled.
“Pain?”
“No.”
“Fear?”
She swallowed. “Some.”
His eye lifted. “Enough to stop?”
“No.”
The word came fast. Too fast. She blushed, and his mouth curved against her skin.
“And want?” he asked.
Sweetling closed her eyes.
His thumb moved again, slow over the stiffened peak.
“Yes.”
Aemond kissed her with a groan caught low in his throat. The sound was almost angry. His hand closed more fully over her breast, kneading through the linen, testing, learning. He was careful at first, maddeningly so, until she arched into his palm and his control slipped enough for his fingers to tighten. The sharper pressure sent heat racing through her. She clutched at him and heard herself whisper his name.
That did something to him.
His mouth dragged from hers to her jaw, then down. He bent, and for one dizzying moment, Sweetling did not understand what he meant to do until his lips closed over her breast through the shift.
She cried out softly.
The linen dampened under his mouth. Heat, pressure, the scrape of teeth barely there. Aemond sucked her through the thin fabric, one hand braced at her back to keep her from slipping off the desk, the other holding her breast to his mouth. Sweetling’s fingers twisted in his hair. Her head fell back. The chamber blurred to candlelight and rain and the obscene wet warmth of his mouth pulling at her like he meant to draw the soul out through her skin.
Aemond lifted his head only far enough to look at her.
Her hand remained tangled in his hair, fingers gone tense where they had caught and held him to her. The linen clung wetly to the shape of her, transparent where his mouth had worked it, and beneath the damp cloth her nipple stood hard and dark against the fabric. Sweetling’s eyes were unfocused, her lips parted, her fingers still twisted deep in his hair as though she had forgotten she could let go.
He looked at her hand first.
Then at her mouth.
He had had his mouth between her legs the night before.
“Sweetling,” he said, and her name came low, roughened against the edge of his restraint.
She swallowed. “Aemond.”
He had already made her cry out into the storm. He had already learned how she broke and how she trembled after, how quickly shame rose behind pleasure and how fiercely she tried to gather herself back into modesty once it was done. This was not the first opening of some forbidden gate. That gate had already yielded to him, and gods help them both, she had walked through it willingly. Tonight felt different because of that. Less discovery, more return.
Less accident . . . more answer.
“You pull harder when you forget to be ashamed,” he said.
Sweetling’s blush came at once, warm and furious, spreading from throat to cheek. “I did not mean—”
He bent again, but not to her breast this time. His mouth found the other through the thin linen, slow and possessive, and Sweetling’s head tipped back with a little helpless sound she tried too late to bite down.
Aemond’s hand slid behind her, broad palm braced against the small of her back to hold her where he wanted her. He did not rush—that, somehow, was worse. He sucked her through the fabric with lingering attention, dragged his tongue over the stiffened peak until her nails scraped lightly at his scalp, then caught her gently with his teeth and made her gasp his name again.
“There,” he murmured against her. “That one.”
“What?”
“The sound.” His mouth moved to the damp edge of her shift, pushing it aside with the bridge of his nose rather than his hands, as though he meant to keep the act slow enough for her to stop him if she wished. “You make it when you forget to be ashamed.”
Her face burned hot. “I do not.”
Aemond lifted his head.
The look he gave her was flatly disbelieving, and somehow that almost made her laugh. Almost. It died before it could become sound, smothered by the heat in his gaze.
“You are a poor liar after I’ve had my mouth on you,” he said.
“You keep saying that.”
“You keep proving it.”
His hand slid from her waist to her thigh, gathering the thin shift upward by inches. He did not duck his head between her legs as he had the night before. He did not lower himself to his knees and feast until she came apart over his tongue, though the memory of it moved between them like a third presence in the room. She felt it in the way his eye darkened when her knees parted around him, in the way his mouth, still wet from her breast, curved with private knowledge.
“Do you expect my mouth to be there again?” he asked.
The wickedness of it stole the breath from her.
Sweetling’s gaze flew to his. “Aemond.”
“Is that yes or rebuke?”
“It is—” She swallowed, dignity in ruins. “It is your name.”
His expression sharpened, pleased despite himself. “So it is.”
His thumb traced the inside of her knee. Not higher. Not yet. The restraint of it was cruel because it was deliberate, because she could see how easily he might have moved differently and chose not to. He watched the place where his hand rested against her bare skin, then looked back at her face.
“I remember how you tasted,” he said quietly.
Sweetling closed her eyes.
“No,” he said.
They opened at once.
“There. That is better.” His thumb slid higher, slow as sin. “You do not get to hide from what you already gave me.”
“I gave?” she whispered.
His eye lifted. “Did you not?”
The question struck softer than a command and deeper than a kiss. The night before, he had asked. Again and again, in that severe way of his, as if words could make a wall strong enough to keep both of them from ruin. He had made her say what she wanted, made her answer fear and want separately, made her understand that surrender and permission were not the same thing.
Sweetling’s throat tightened. “I did.”
Aemond’s hand stilled on her thigh.
His eye searched her face. He brought her hand back to his jaw and held it there, as if the touch were something he had decided to endure and wanted more of in the same breath.
So she touched him.
Only that.
Only her fingers against his cheek, the slight rasp of new-shaved skin beneath her fingertips, the hard set of his mouth easing by a fraction he would have denied if she named it. He looked almost angry with the tenderness of it. Sweetling understood. Tenderness was not safe for either of them. It stripped more cleanly than desire. Desire could be called weakness, appetite, sin; tenderness asked what a person might become if they were held and not used.
Aemond turned his face enough to press his mouth to her palm.
Her heart clenched.
Then his teeth closed lightly against the tender heel of her hand. The softness vanished into heat. For a breath, the hunger in him changed shape. It did not lessen. It became more dangerous, more focused, as though the truth had given him something to hold and something to break himself against.
He kissed her then, not gently, not at first. His mouth took hers with the heat he had left on her breast, and Sweetling tasted rain, candle smoke, and the faint salt of his skin. She opened for him because she wanted to, because she had learned the shape of his kiss and wanted it deeper. His tongue slid against hers; his hand tightened at her thigh; her body, traitorous and honest, rolled toward him.
Aemond groaned.
It was low. Almost swallowed. But she heard it, and hearing it made her bold.
Her hands left his hair and lowered her hand to the front of his tunic, fingers brushing the dark cloth where the fastenings sat. “Last night, you stopped.”
“Yes.”
“You did not let me touch you long.”
Aemond’s jaw flexed.
“You said it would be another night.”
“I did.”
“And is this another night?”
The room seemed to still.
Rain whispered at the shutters. The candlelight bent in the draft. Beneath her fingers, his breath went shallow and controlled, each rise of his chest too measured to be natural. Sweetling’s own courage faltered beneath the weight of his stare, but she did not take the question back. It had cost too much to ask.
Aemond leaned closer, one hand braced beside her hip on the desk. “Do you know what you are asking?”
“No,” she said, because he had taught her better than lying. “Not wholly.”
His eye darkened with something more dangerous than desire.
“Then ask what you mean,” he said.
Sweetling swallowed.
Her hand slid lower, not to his belt yet, only to the place where his tunic ended, and the leather began. She could feel the heat of him even through the cloth. Feel how still he had made himself. The control in him was frightening. The wanting beneath it more so.
“I want to touch you,” she said.
Aemond’s mouth parted slightly.
For one breath, nothing happened. Then he closed his eye, just once, as if gathering the words inside him before they could come out as a command rather than an answer.
“When you touched me last night,” he said, “you did it because I guided you.”
“Yes.”
“If you touch me tonight, it will be because you choose to.”
“I know.”
“No.” His eye opened. “You know the words. That is not the same.”
Sweetling’s temper sparked, small and bright beneath the heat in her face. “Then teach me the difference, if you are so determined to lecture me half-naked on your desk.”
Silence.
Then Aemond laughed.
It was quiet, low, gone almost as soon as it came, but it was real. The sound caught Sweetling so wholly off guard that her own mouth softened into an answering smile before she could stop it. Aemond looked at that smile as if it were the most inconvenient thing in Westeros.
“You will be the death of someone,” he said.
“Hopefully not me.”
His amusement faded, but not into coldness. “No. Not you.”
The promise was too grim to be sweet. Still, it settled warm somewhere beneath her ribs.
He took her hand, the same hand that had hovered uncertainly at his belt, and placed it flat over the leather buckle. Sweetling stared at her fingers there.
Aemond did not help this time.
The difference was immediate. Last night, he had guided her through the first shock of it, taken her wrist, and shown her the shape, movement, and pressure that pleased him. Tonight, he made her reach for knowledge herself. It was cruel in the way honesty could be cruel. It was also exactly what she had asked for.
Her fingers worked the buckle loose. Slowly. Too slowly, perhaps, because Aemond’s breath grew rougher above her. The leather came free, then the ties beneath. Her hands trembled once at the threshold of it, and Aemond’s gaze snapped to her face.
“Stop there if you wish.”
The words made her look up.
He meant it. Again, curse him; he meant it. His pride hated the offer. His body hated it more . . . yet he gave it.
Sweetling shook her head.
His eye narrowed.
She remembered. “I do not wish to stop.”
“Good.”
The word sounded almost pained.
She drew him free with less surprise than last night but no less awe. The sight of his cock still stole the sense from her for a moment—the hard, flushed length of him, heavy in her palm, hot against her skin. He was pale in thickness and a bit darker at the tip, a soft pink that nearly matched her lips. Aemond watched her face so intently she felt the flush spread from her cheeks down her throat to where her shift hung loose and damp from his mouth.
“You are warm,” she said foolishly.
His mouth twitched. “Was I meant to be stone?”
“No,” she whispered. “Only you seem it sometimes.”
“That is because stone is rarely asked what it wants.”
The words came too quietly. Too bare.
Sweetling looked up.
Aemond seemed to regret them at once. His face hardened, the prince returning like armor drawn over skin, but she had heard the man beneath. She had felt his heart. She leaned forward and kissed the place beneath her palm.
Aemond’s breath caught.
Not much.
Enough.
His hand moved to the back of her neck with dangerous speed, not hurting her, but holding her there as if the kiss had struck somewhere he did not know how to defend. Sweetling pressed another to his chest, then another, her mouth warm against him through the open tunic. She did not know what she was doing. Not truly. But she knew what he had done to her: the deliberate learning of her body, the way he had followed every breath and tremor until she could no longer pretend she was not being known. Perhaps this was the same. Perhaps it could be.
Aemond’s fingers tightened in her hair.
“Sweetling.”
She looked up at him from beneath her lashes, mouth still close to his skin.
The sight seemed to undo something in him.
He bent and kissed her, hard enough that she had to brace one hand behind herself on the desk. His other hand returned to her breast, but no longer content with damp linen. He tugged at the neckline of her shift until the fabric slipped low, baring her properly to candlelight.
Sweetling sucked in a breath and almost covered herself.
Aemond caught both her wrists in one hand.
“No.”
The word was firm, but not angry. A command, yes, but one that waited on her face. His gaze moved down to her bare breasts, and this time there was nothing between his mouth and her. Nothing to soften the sight of his hunger. Nothing to save her from the way he looked at her, as if the court, the crown, the gods, the rain, all of it had become less real than the small, trembling lift of her chest.
“You are lovely,” he said.
It sounded almost resentful.
Sweetling’s eyes stung. “You say it as though it displeases you.”
“It does.”
That surprised a laugh out of her, breathless and shy. “Why?”
“Because I have enough trouble.”
Then his mouth closed over her bare breast.
The laugh broke apart into a moan.
Aemond’s hand released her wrists so he could grip her waist, holding her steady as his tongue circled the stiffened peak. The first touch was wet and hot and direct enough that her spine arched. He sucked slowly, then harder, drawing at her until pleasure pulled tight from her breast to the deep ache between her thighs. His teeth scraped with just enough edge to make her gasp his name, and when she did, he answered with a low sound against her skin that she felt more than heard.
He did not rush.
That was the cruelty of him—the devotion of him. He gave the same attention to her breasts that he had given to the rest of her the previous night, as if no part of her body deserved to be passed over simply because he had already learned another. He tasted one nipple until it was swollen and wet from his mouth, then crossed to the other with maddening patience, his hand kneading what his lips had left behind. Sweetling’s shift sat bunched beneath her breasts, her robe open around her, her thighs parted around the hard line of his body. She had never felt so exposed. She had never felt so held.
Her hands went to his shoulders.
This time, she did not ask.
Aemond’s mouth curved against her breast.
“Good,” he murmured.
The praise—if praise it was—settled low and hot inside her. She hated how badly she liked it; hated worse that he knew.
His hand slid beneath her shift again, over her hip, across the soft lower curve of her belly. Sweetling’s breath quickened before he reached where she wanted him. Aemond paused.
“Already?” he asked.
“You are being cruel.”
“I have barely touched you.”
“You know what you are doing.”
That pleased him.
Gods help her, it pleased him.
His fingers slipped beneath the edge of her smallclothes and found her wet.
They both went still.
Aemond shut his eye for one brief moment, as if some disciplined part of him needed darkness to survive the discovery. Sweetling watched his face while his fingers rested against her, not moving yet, only feeling the slick heat she could not hide. The night before, she might have died of shame beneath such attention. Tonight, shame still burned, but it no longer stood alone.
She wanted him to know.
That was the terrible part.
Aemond opened his eye. “You are not frightened of this now.”
“I am frightened.”
“Not of my hand.”
Her lips parted.
No answer came.
He was right.
The fear lived elsewhere now: in the door; in the whispers; in the queen’s quiet gaze, Rylene’s warnings, and Jeyne’s mean little smile.
Not here. Not exactly. Not with his hand between her thighs and his mouth still warm from her breast.
“No,” she admitted.
His expression shifted. Hunger, satisfaction, and something like wonder made darker by pride.
“No,” he repeated.
His fingers moved.
Sweetling bowed forward with a broken breath, forehead nearly touching his shoulder.
He stroked her slowly at first, parting her with the kind of care that made the intimacy worse. He knew her now. He knew what made her hips lift, knew where to press, knew that circling too softly made her impatient and circling too firmly made her clutch at him with both hands. He knew because he had learned it from her body the night before, and now he used that knowledge without the clumsiness of first discovery.
She made room for him.
That, too, he noticed.
His mouth brushed her temple. “There she is.”
The words were soft, almost fond, and filthy for all that.
Sweetling turned her face into his shoulder. “Do not say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“As though you have been looking for her.”
His fingers slowed.
For a moment, only rain spoke.
Then Aemond said, “I have.”
The answer entered her more deeply than his touch.
She lifted her head. His face was close, too close for either of them to pretend. His eye moved over her features as if searching for the line between what she could bear and what he wanted to take. His fingers were still under her smallclothes, slick against her, but his attention had gone to her mouth.
“I thought of you today,” he said.
Sweetling’s breath caught. “When?”
His mouth curved faintly. “Often.”
“Doing what?”
The question came before shame could stop it.
Aemond’s eye darkened.
“You ask dangerous questions after midnight.”
“You answer them better after midnight.”
That earned her a look sharp enough to cut silk.
Then he kissed her, and while he kissed her, his fingers slid lower, one pressing slowly inside. Sweetling gasped into his mouth. Not surprise, not the way she had the night before. Recognition. Her body clenched around him as if welcoming a known trespass. Aemond felt it and groaned softly, his composure slipping again, just enough for her to feel powerful and endangered all at once.
He moved his finger inside her with slow, deep strokes, his thumb working above in the rhythm he had discovered before. Sweetling’s hands found his open tunic, pushing it wider, needing skin beneath her palms. He let her. More than let her. He shifted closer, giving her access to the hard plane of his chest, the lean cut of muscle beneath pale skin, the heat of him. She touched him clumsily, greedily, while his hand ruined her. His breath thickened when her nails dragged lightly over his ribs.
“You like that,” she whispered.
Aemond’s eye flashed to hers.
The answering pride in her own voice seemed to surprise them both.
His fingers withdrew almost fully, then pressed back in with a second alongside the first.
Sweetling’s pride vanished into a moan.
Aemond’s mouth found her breast again, sucking hard as his fingers worked inside her, and the room turned molten. Desk beneath her. Maps crushed under her palms. Rain at the windows. His hair against her skin. His hand was between her thighs. His mouth at her breast. Her own hands learning the shape of him with growing desperation. She was not new to pleasure now, but knowing did not make it smaller. Knowing made it worse because she could feel where he was leading her, and she still went willingly.
Her hips began to move with his hand.
Aemond lifted his head.
He watched.
The look on his face made her burn hotter than the touch itself. Not because he seemed amused. He did not. Not because he seemed gentle. He did not. He looked fiercely attentive, almost reverent in the most dangerous way, as if her pleasure were a thing he had summoned and now meant to master without breaking.
“Do not stop,” she whispered.
His jaw tightened. “I had not planned to.”
A laugh almost escaped her, but his thumb pressed more firmly and it became a whimper instead.
Aemond kissed her mouth, her jaw, the side of her throat. “That is it. Let me feel it.”
The words were too much. His voice was too close. Sweetling clutched at him, body tightening around his fingers, pleasure coiling low and bright. She knew the edge now, and knew the terrible swelling rush before it. Her thighs shook around his hand.
“Aemond.”
“I know.”
He did not take her maidenhead. He did not push toward what he had promised would not be tonight. Instead, he made the denial into another kind of torment. He touched her where she was already swollen and slick, pressed and circled and stroked until she shook against him, all while he thrust into her hand with harsh, controlled movements that grew less controlled each time she moaned. His mouth returned to her breasts, dragging the shift lower now, baring one to the candlelight so he could close his lips over her skin without linen between them.
Sweetling cried out.
Aemond’s free hand rose at once to cover her mouth, but his lips did not leave her breast. The double claim of it—his hand silencing her, his mouth drawing pleasure from her, his body straining into her touch—sent her nearly senseless. She tasted salt and skin against his palm. Her eyes stung, not with pain, not with sorrow, but with the intensity of being held in so many ways at once.
“Quiet,” he murmured against her breast.
She nodded, though both of them knew obedience would soon fail her.
His fingers moved faster.
Pleasure climbed in her again, familiar now and no less frightening for it. She knew the crest. Knew the bright, impossible edge of it. Last night he had pulled her over it with his mouth. Tonight he brought her there with one hand while the rest of him trembled for what he had not yet allowed himself to claim.
Sweetling’s hand moved desperately around him. She wanted to give him that same loss. Wanted to see his control break and know she had done it. Wanted, with a sudden fierceness that startled her, to be the reason Aemond Targaryen forgot himself.
His breath caught against her skin.
“Sweetling.”
The warning in her name made her pulse leap.
She tightened her grip as he had shown her last night, twisting on the upward stroke, thumb brushing the place that made his hips jerk harder into her hand.
Aemond groaned.
It was not loud. The storm outside might have swallowed it. But she felt it in his chest, in his mouth at her breast, in the sudden rough pressure of his hand between her thighs. That sound undid her. Pleasure broke hard and sudden, wringing a muffled cry as her body tightened beneath his fingers. Aemond kissed the sound from her mouth, then dragged his lips back down to the breast he had dampened earlier, taking it again through the linen while his hand worked between her thighs. Sweetling nearly lost her grip on him.
His teeth grazed her, his tongue soothed the same place, and pleasure folded in on itself—his mouth at her breast, his fingers below, his hard length in her hand, all of it too much to keep separate.
Her release took him with it.
His head bowed against her shoulder. His hips drove once, twice into her hand, control shattering in tight, restrained pulses as he spilled over her fingers with a sound bitten nearly in half by pride. Sweetling held him through it, dazed and shaking, her cheek pressed to his hair, her own pleasure still moving through her in faint aftershocks.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Rain tapped at the window.
The candle guttered.
Parchment lay crushed beneath them, maps of kingdoms ruined by the weight of a handmaid’s hip and a prince’s poor restraint.
Aemond removed his hand from her mouth slowly.
Sweetling drew a breath that trembled on the way in.
He did not lift his head at once. That was the strangest part. He remained bowed against her, mouth near the bare curve of her breast, hair falling over her loosened robe, breathing as if the world required effort. Sweetling’s clean hand rose, hesitated, then settled on the back of his head.
He went still.
She stroked his hair once.
“Aemond?”
“Do not,” he said.
Her hand froze. “Do not what?”
His voice came low against her skin. “Make it gentle yet.”
The words hurt in a place she could not name.
Not because he rejected gentleness. Because he recognized it and feared what shape it might demand of him.
Sweetling resumed stroking his hair anyway.
Aemond said nothing.
After a moment, his hand closed around her wrist—not pulling her away, only holding her there.
Afterward, Aemond cleaned her fingers himself.
Sweetling protested at once, because there were limits to what a girl could survive with her dignity intact, and apparently having a prince kneel between her knees to tend to the evidence of his pleasure was very near one of them.
“I can do it,” she said, mortified.
“I know.”
He did not give her the cloth.
She sat on the edge of his desk with her shift pulled properly into place and her robe tied loosely enough to be a lie. Her hair was half fallen from its braid. Her mouth felt swollen again, though less from being taken by surprise than from being kissed too thoroughly for too long. Her knees still trembled whenever she shifted. Aemond stood before her with a damp cloth in hand, his own clothing restored with irritating efficiency, though his hair and breathing had betrayed him enough that she did not feel entirely conquered.
He took her hand.
The warm cloth passed over her palm, between her fingers, along each knuckle with the same grim care he gave wounds and weapons. He did not make a spectacle of it. That made it more intimate, not less. Sweetling watched his face as he worked. His expression was severe, almost distant, but the set of his mouth had softened in ways he likely did not know. Or knew and hated.
“You are thinking,” he said.
“I am often thinking.”
“Not always wisely.”
She almost smiled. “No.”
His gaze lifted to hers. “What?”
The question was too direct. She looked at their hands instead.
“Last night,” she said carefully, “afterward, I thought I would feel ruined.”
Aemond’s hand stilled around hers.
Sweetling felt the room tighten.
“And did you?” he asked.
“I felt frightened. And ashamed. And pleased.” She swallowed. “The pleased part frightened me most.”
His thumb moved once over her cleaned palm. “And now?”
She should have lied. Not because he would fail to catch it, but because honesty had begun to feel like undressing more thoroughly than desire had managed.
“Now I feel foolish,” she said.
Aemond’s face hardened.
Sweetling shook her head before he could speak. “Not because of you. Because I thought knowing what your mouth could do would make me less helpless to it.”
The corner of his mouth shifted.
Ah. There was that flicker of wickedness. He tried to hide it and failed poorly enough that, despite herself, Sweetling laughed under her breath.
Aemond’s eye narrowed. “You find your helplessness amusing?”
“I find your pride amusing.”
“My pride?”
“You look pleased enough to start a war over it.”
“I have started no wars over your thighs.”
“Yet.”
The word escaped before she understood how bold it was.
Aemond went still.
Sweetling’s laughter vanished.
For half a heartbeat, she thought she had ruined the ease between them. Then his gaze dropped to her mouth, slow and dark, and she realized the danger was not anger.
“No,” he said softly. “Not yet.”
The heat that went through her was immediate and devastating.
He finished cleaning her hand, then set the cloth aside with more force than necessary. That, too, pleased her. Aemond Targaryen, undone by a handmaid saying one foolish word. She would have liked to keep that knowledge folded somewhere secret, pressed between the pages of herself like a stolen flower.
His hand came to her chin, tipping her face up.
“You grow bold after midnight,” he said.
“You told me you disliked half-courage.”
“I did.”
“I am trying to be obedient.”
His mouth curved.
“Liar.”
This time, the word was almost fond.
Sweetling did not know what to do with almost fond. Fondness seemed far more dangerous than lust. Lust had at least been named in warnings. Fondness came quietly, wearing no heraldry, and set itself beside a girl before she realized there was room for it.
Aemond seemed to sense the same danger, for he stepped back and turned toward the basin.
“You will return by the west stair,” he said. “Not the lower passage.”
Sweetling gathered the edges of her robe, pulling herself back into order piece by piece. “You said that last night.”
“And you remembered?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She slid from the desk, and her knees nearly betrayed her. Aemond caught her elbow at once.
They both looked down at his hand.
It should not have mattered after everything else. Yet this touch was different. Public enough in shape to be innocent, private enough in timing to undo her.
“I can walk,” she said.
“I did not ask whether you could.”
“No. You merely grabbed me.”
“I kept you from falling.”
“I was not falling.”
“You were considering it.”
That startled another laugh from her, softer this time. He watched it in the way he watched things he meant to understand and disliked needing. His hand remained at her elbow.
“Aemond,” she said.
The name altered the room again.
He released her slowly.
Sweetling reached for the basket she had brought, only to find that it had been knocked half beneath the desk. The shirt inside remained unmended. The needle case had spilled open, black thread looping over the floor like some little shadow-snake. She stared at it.
Aemond followed her gaze.
“The mending,” she said.
His mouth twitched. “Yes. That grave purpose for which you came.”
“I did come with mending.”
“You came with an excuse.”
She bent quickly to gather the thread, because if she looked at him her face would show too much. “It was still mending.”
“You mended nothing.”
“That is not true.” She tucked the needle case into the basket with unnecessary care. “Your patience was in tatters.”
Aemond stared at her.
Then, impossibly, he laughed again. This one lasted even less than the first, but it warmed her all the same. It made him look almost startled at himself afterward, as if she had somehow stolen the sound from him rather than earned it.
Sweetling straightened with the basket in hand, her smile small and traitorous.
“Do not look so pleased,” he said.
“I am not.”
“You are.”
He sent her away with one final kiss.
The corridor beyond was cold enough to make her shiver. She walked as he had told her, west stair, Maegor’s tapestry, eyes lowered but not blind. No one stopped her. No one saw enough to matter. Beneath her sleeve, the ribbon brushed her pulse with every step.
By the time she reached her narrow bed, the castle had gone quiet in the strange way living beasts went quiet before dawn. She undressed without lighting a candle and slid beneath her blanket with shaking legs and a mouth still warm from his.
Bessa snored softly from the far pallet. The older maid near the door muttered in sleep. Sweetling lay on her back and stared into the dark. She had crossed into his chamber as a handmaid with a basket; she had returned as something else. Not beloved, maybe, and not safe. Not ruined, though the court would name her so if it knew.
Not wife, not whore, not lady, not lamb.
His, if she gave it. Hers, if she chose it.
Between those two truths, sleep came for her at last, dark and deep and full of dragons.
btw it's so fucking stupid you can be anxious physically in your body even after you've decided mentally you don't care. I'm supposed to be in charge here
CW: SFW & NSFW Headcannons, mainly Gender Neutral reader but one or two headcannons are AFAB and AMAB focused, I tried to write Bo as close as possible to cannon,
I will get some obvious stuff out of the way first. It is going to be very rocky in the beginning. Bo is very closed off when it comes to expressing love. He can flirt and what not but when he -or tries to- form an emotional/romantic bond it will take a long time for him to process this.
A lot of doubt will cloud his mind before he begins a genuine romantic relationship with you.
There's also his insecurities about you leaving him, preferring his brother/s over him, doubting your love for him etc. He'd rather die than admit this to you or even himself.
This is why he gets moody and acts a bit dick-ish when he sees you having a good time with his brothers, more specifically Vincent. We all know Vincent was given more positive attention from his parents so Bo becomes very jealous when he sees you both having a very good time together.
He's happy his brothers and you get along but with every smile you give them and every simple touch makes Bo believe there's something more going on. So he will intrude on the hangout and be a bit of an asshole.
ALSO, there's his anger issues that he can't control properly. But he tries for you as much as he can. Bo won't hold back during arguments so you better get used to harsh words and insults.
During arguments, when he feels like he is reaching his boiling point (aka wanting to punch, push and attack), Bo will leave to blow off some steam.
It's best to just let him leave for a while. You try to go after him it will outcome in Bo doing something he will regret. He will eventually come back and immediately wrap his arms around you tightly. He won't verbally apologise but does things like make you coffee in the morning or gift you some new clothes/jewellery to say he is sorry.
He is more physically affectionate than verbally, Bo always has his hands on you. Whether it's resting his hand on your shoulder or a firm grip on your hip, Bo holds you whenever there's an opportunity.
We all know Bo is going to be a possessive partner, he wants everyone to know you're his partner. Whenever they have visitors in Ambrose, Bo will mention you as his wife/husband/spouse even though you both aren't technically married and he hasn't even asked you be his wife/husband/spouse.
He likes when you wear his shirts, he deliberately places some into your draw/wardrobe to make you wear them.
Date nights mainly consist of cuddling on the couch while watching movies or Bo driving you both somewhere to drink beer and stargaze together.
Bo likes it when you visit him in the gas station, especially when you bring snacks.
When he wants to tease/surprise you, Bo will just pick you up (having you over his shoulder or both arms) and take you wherever the hell he wants to.
NSFW Headcannons:
CALL HIM DADDY!
He loves to be called 'daddy' or 'sir' during sex. Hell, even call him that out of the bedroom, it fucking turns him on.
Always the dominant one in bed. Though there is a chance of you being dominant, if Bo is really drunk and wants your attention he isn't bothered about you being dominant.
Won't admit it but he really likes when you praise him during sex, not just on his looks but how good he takes care of you and how good he is at fucking you etc.
Bo is pretty open to various kinks and what not but one thing he will say no to is you tying him up or restraining him in any manner.
When giving head, Bo can be a major tease.
If he's sucking you off, Bo likes to prolong the process by slowing down and then stopping just before you reach your climax. He wants you to beg for him.
If he's eating you out, Bo will give attention to your thighs first starting with light kisses, then open mouth kisses to slowly trail closer to your folds with his tongue.
Loves LOVES when you pull, tug and mess with his hair.
There will be a mix of praise and degrading from Bo Such as:
"You're fucking pathetic."
"You look so pretty when you're crying out my name~"
I am one of those who firmly believes in Bo having a breeding kink. He craves to have that nuclear family life with you. Defo wants you pregnant (if it's possible) once he knows you are never going to leave him.
When you're both having sex, it can get very loud. There's a chance that Vincent is able to hear you two from the basement. Which Bo kinda wants cause there's some hidden resentment within him of Vincent getting more positive attention. There's also the fact that Bo's possessive as hell.
The official promo trailer for THE DEATH OF ROBIN HOOD starring Bill Skarsgård, Hugh Jackman, Jodie Comer, Murray Bartlett, & Noah Jupe.
In theaters June 19
–Grappling with his past after a life of crime and murder, Robin Hood finds himself gravely injured after a battle he thought would be his last. In the hands of a mysterious woman, he is offered a chance at salvation.
