this is my house..like where i live…
Sade Olutola
KIROKAZE
sheepfilms
No title available

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
art blog(derogatory)

Kiana Khansmith
d e v o n
No title available
No title available

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣

★

#extradirty
dirt enthusiast
cherry valley forever
Sweet Seals For You, Always
trying on a metaphor
i don't do bad sauce passes

roma★

No title available
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye

seen from United States

seen from Türkiye

seen from Singapore

seen from Canada

seen from Hong Kong SAR China
seen from Netherlands

seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from Canada
seen from South Korea
seen from Singapore
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States
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seen from Malaysia

seen from Hong Kong SAR China
@honeyperched
this is my house..like where i live…
FANGIRL - 2
nettspend x fem fan reader
summary: you see nettspend while you were roaming the streets of paris for a trip. when you first met you caught his eye in a way that no other fan has. soon enough he finds your social media and tries to shoot his shot.
ugstamp
liked by 66k people
ugstamp Nettspend seen following a new girl on his main account. Fans have figured out that it was the fan he met in Paris. Was she really JUST a fan or something more?
user: wait what he usually doesn’t follow anyone except himself
user: he just ruined his aura 💔💔
↳ user: stfu
user: she’s chopped cheese ngl he can do better
↳ user: like who?
↳ user: like me
user: she is living the dream
↳ user: if ur dream is nettspend following you back we have bigger fish to fry
user: who even is she??
↳ user: she’s just like a niche influencer but supposedly she’s a nepo baby but idk
↳ user: “influencer” just posts picture of herself and her daily life
↳ user: is that not what an influencer is? she has 22k followers so..
view all comments
instagram msgs
y/nusername: hii idk if u meant to follow me or not just lyk <3
nettspend_: yep i did
nettspend_: u left paris?
y/nusername: yess!! i left yesterday to go back to ny
nettspend_: u live in ny?
y/nusername: mhm, my parents have a house in la too so i just alternate
nettspend_: so the rumors are true
y/nusername: lol what rumors?
nettspend_: they saying u have rich parents
y/nusername: i guess so
nettspend_: u a big fan of me?
y/nusername: yea a lil
y/nusername: i like a decent amount of songs
nettspend_: u should come see me
nettspend_: i have a tour coming up would love to see u there
y/nusername: u say this to all ur female fans?
nettspend_: nah just the cute ones
y/nusername: and how many cute fans have u found?
nettspend_: just u ur really bad
nettspend_: but you lmk ma any show u wanna go to igu with backstage tickets
y/nusername: okay well can i go to multiple
nettspend_: damn u wanna see me multiple times?
nettspend_: i could make that work
nettspend_: gotta give me ur number tho
seen
y/nusername
liked by nettspend_, bsfusername, belizekazi, and 54k others
y/nusername au revoir paris
user: this netts new girl?
user: how was it like seeing nettspend irl
↳ y/nusername: he was chill
↳ user: just chill yet he only follows you
user: yall all up in her pussy holy shit
user: what was your favorite part abt ur trip
↳ y/nusername: def the shopping
user: opinion on the nepotism allegations??
↳ y/nusername: omfg yall are overly fanned out yes i have wealthy parents no it’s not an allegation
↳ user: what were they?
↳ user: they own the opium label
↳ user: no tf they don’t carti literally made it himself 😭😭
↳ user: oops mb i was pulling shit out of my ass
↳ user: you weren’t that far off they own epic records which is still fucking insane
view all comments
instagram msgs
nettspend_: so u can post on ig but cant reply back
nettspend_: even after i offered free tickets
nettspend_: that’s wild
y/nusername: omg sorry i thought my message sent
y/nusername: i said fair deal my number is xxx-xxx-xxxx
nettspend_: all good ma but don’t do it again
nettspend_: why u tryna play off how rich u are
nettspend_: ur parents label has people like future and 21 savage signed
y/nusername: i like to stay humble
nettspend_: alr princess
y/nusername hearted a message
taglist: @gabisohot @iluvmollysantana @ibelieveinfairyz @anx1etyr1dden @chesspend @sophi-ii @kingoveverything @2bun22 @velvryz @missmodelsexx @swagonometryfr @swagmastergenerall @sweet2sin @takiimuncher @kayrabearrr @luvvconceal @fakeeminkk
a/n: in honor of nettspend maybe replacing nine at summer smash which i ALSO can’t go to so fml i guess. don’t look at the second ss of netts following tew close bc my editing skills are hot garbage 🔥🔥
POLISHED - 3
nettspend x fem celebrity nail tech
summary: nettspend sees a girl who seemingly knows all his friends. he thought she was pretty, asked about her, and found out she did nails for half the underground scene and more celebs. one appointment turns into a lot more.
smau + text fic
y/nusername has posted on their story
nettspend_ has replied to your story
nettspend_ looks cute
y/nusername hearted this message
taglist: @ibelieveinfairyz @iluvmollysantana @anx1etyr1dden @sophi-ii @chesspend @kingoveverything @2bun22 @velvryz @missmodelsexx @sweet2sin @swagonometryfr @swagmastergenerall @takiimuncher @kayrabearrr @luvvconceal @dazqa @devilsleattuce
a/n: i’m going to hit the sack bc i feel bad spamming ppls inbox with tags rn
Ima just leave this here…😉
princess
he was such a neek i need him so badddddd
baby come home the kids miss you
Gov ball attire
Well hello to you too
so fucking obsessed i can’t he’s perfect
creds: x
the gloves omfgfg 🤤
Leaked tape
Nettspend x reader
Summary: Your private tape with Nettspend leaks, shocking the internet with the wild contrast to your shy persona.
A/N: This oneshot might be detailed. NOT PROOFREAD
Word count: 2600
TW: MDNI, leaked tape, recording, spanking, praise, degradation, rough sex, dirty talk, food play, submissive!reader, use of daddy, choking (tell me if i forgot some)
{Taglist}
═════════════════════
@RapsAndRumors
#Nettspend’s team is reportedly scrambling after a private video of the rapper and his rumored girlfriend was leaked online early this morning. 🚨
While the 19 years old artist has kept his new relationship relatively low-key, fans immediately recognized the girl from a few rare public sightings and his inner circle's spam accounts. The video, which appears to be screen-recorded from a private archive, has already racked up millions of views across Twitter and Telegram despite copyright strikes taking down major links.
Sources say his management is threatening legal action against anyone reposting the media. Neither Nettspend nor his girlfriend have spoken out yet, and both have currently deactivated their Instagram comments. Thoughts? 👇
Comments
↳ NAHHH I JUST SAW IT LMAOOO HE IS WINNING THO SHE IS BAD ASFF 🔥😭
↳ Wait isn't she the super shy girl that was hiding from the paparazzi at the airport last month?? Oh I know she is losing her mind rn i feel so bad omg 😢
↳ leaks hitting the vault and the bedroom now?? underground scene is cooked
↳ drop the link bro who got it
↳ wait is that a nipple piercing??? i didn't expect that from her at all omg she's full of surprises hidden under those oversized hoodies 😭🔥
↳ if you’re dating a famous rapper this is what comes with it shrug 🤷♂️
↳ she really held the camera herself while he was hitting it from the back 💀 that part had my jaw
↳ I feel so bad for her :( she always looks so shy and anxious whenever the paparazzi catch them together. Imagine waking up and finding out millions of strangers are looking at you like that.
↳ bro when he poured the honey on her i actually gasped 💀
↳ Istg if Nett finds out who leaked this it’s over for them. But fr who has the link?? DM me 👀
↳ she is literally body goals wtf... no wonder he never lets her post on social media he wanted her all to himself
↳ that headboard was fighting for its life 💀 nett was not playing around he really handled that
↳ it’s the contrast for me... she looks so innocent and quiet in public but in the video she was completely different
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[Attachment: 1 Video File — "IMG_8842.MOV"]
Gunner caresses your cheek with his thumb, keeping his other hand steady as he points the phone down at you. The white glare of the recording light reflects in your eyes.
"You look beautiful right now," he says, his voice low and quiet for the camera. "So pretty and so quiet for me."
You look up at him from your spot on the floor, your fingers resting on his knees. You bite your lip, your chest rising and falling as you wait.
"I'm going to make you forget about everything else," he murmurs, tilting the camera slightly to capture the way you look up at him. "I'm going to take your clothes off, put you on the bed, and touch you until you're shaking. And I'm recording all of it so you can see exactly how good you look when you're mine."
He lowers his hand to touch your chin, tilting your head back a little more. He keeps the lens focused right on your face, capturing every shift in your expression.
"Open your mouth for me, baby," he commands quietly.
You open your mouth slightly, your breath hitching as the phone flash catches the movement. Gunner runs his thumb over your bottom lip, keeping the camera perfectly still in his other hand.
"Good girl," he praises, a small, dark smile touching his lips. "So obedient for me tonight."
He pulls his hand back from your face, moving the camera down to track the front of your clothes.
"Take your shirt off," he commands, his voice dropping an octave. "Show me what you're hiding."
You reach down and pull the hem of your shirt up over your head, tossing it onto the floor. You sit there in just your bra, your face flushing under the bright light of the phone lens. Gunner leans in closer, the camera zooming in slightly on your chest.
"You're so perfect, Y/N," he murmurs, his eyes scanning your body through the screen. "Now reach back. Take off the bra."
Your hands shake a little as you reach behind your back, unhooking the clasp. You slide the straps down your shoulders and pull the fabric away, exposing your bare chest to the camera. The bright flash instantly catches the glint of the metal barbell piercing your nipple.
Gunner lets out a low, ragged breath behind the phone. He lowers his free hand to gently trace the skin just above the piercing, making your goosebumps rise.
"Fuck, look at that," he whispers, tilting the phone so the lens captures the exact contrast of his big hand against your pale skin, centering the piercing right in the frame. "You are so fucking hot.”
"Look up at the camera, Y/N," Gunner commands, his fingers lingering on your skin.
You lift your gaze to the lens, the bright light blinding you for a second.
"Tell me whose body this is," he mutters, keeping the phone steady as he records your face. "Say it out loud so the camera hears it."
You swallow hard, your face burning as you look into the light. "It's yours, Gunner," you whisper. "Everything is yours."
"Say it cleaner," he presses, a low chuckle vibrating in his chest. "Tell me exactly what you want me to do to you."
"I want you to fuck me," you breathe out, your voice trembling. "Please."
"Good girl," he murmurs, his dark eyes flashing with satisfaction behind the screen.
He pulls his hand back and stands up, backing away a few steps while keeping the camera focused entirely on you. He frames your whole body in the shot as you sit on the floor.
"Get up," he orders quietly. "Go to the bed."
You stand up on weak legs, walking over to the mattress. The mattress sinks slightly under your weight as you climb onto it.
"Turn around and bend over for me," Gunner commands, stepping closer to the edge of the bed. He holds the phone up high, angling the camera down to capture you from behind. "Put your hands flat on the sheets and arch your back."
He holds the phone steady as he angles the camera down at your lower back. His eyes track the line of your spine down to your underwear, where the thin fabric is already darkened and soaked through from how wet you are.
"Look at that," he mutters, zooming the camera in on the damp patch. "You're dripping just from talking to me."
Without warning, he brings his free hand down, slapping your bare thigh and the side of your hip. The sharp sound echoes in the quiet room, leaving a sudden flush of red on your skin. You let out a small gasp, your hips instinctively twitching up against the sheets.
"Stay still," he commands, keeping the camera locked on the view.
He reaches onto the nightstand, grabbing a couple of the small honey packs he keeps there. With one hand, he tears a packet open with his teeth, never letting the phone drop. He tilts the packet, pouring the thick, gold honey down the center of your lower back, letting it slow-drip down over your skin, right into the crease of your ass and over your panties.
The contrast of the cool honey against your hot skin makes you shudder. Gunner leans down, bringing the camera right next to his face so the lens captures everything from his point of view.
He presses his tongue to your skin, licking the honey off in long, heavy upward strokes. He cleans it off your lower back first, his breath hot against your skin, before his hand moves to pull your panties down past your thighs, exposing you completely to the lens.
"So wet," he growls quietly into the microphone of the phone.
He pours the rest of the honey directly over your clit and into your folds. You whine, your fingers digging into the pillows as he buries his face between your legs. He licks the honey off you with a hard, flat tongue, sucking at your sweet spot and cleaning every drop off your skin until your hips are shaking uncontrollably in front of the lens.
Gunner finally pulls his face away from your wet skin, letting out a heavy breath. He steps back from the bed, keeping the camera perfectly steady and angled down at you as you lay there trembling, completely exposed.
With his free hand, he unbuttons his pants and shoves his sweatpants down his thighs, kicking them away. He grips his length, starting to stroke himself with a fast, heavy rhythm right in front of the lens. The camera catches the exact view of his hand moving over his hard length, positioned right above your arched lower back.
"Look at how hard you got me, Y/N," he growls, his voice thick and rough as he stares down at you through the screen. "You're such a dirty little slut for me. You love having a camera in your face while I treat you like a piece of meat, don't you?"
"Yes," you gasp out, your face buried in the pillow, completely losing your shyness to the heat in the room. "I want it so bad. I'm your dirty girl, Gunner."
"Say it louder," he commands, his pace quickening as he strokes himself right at the entrance of your thighs. "Tell me who runs you."
"You do, Daddy," you whine, your hips involuntarily twitching back, looking for his touch. "Please, Daddy, fuck me. Put it inside me."
"Good girl," he mutters, his jaw clenched as he leans over you.
He positions the phone perfectly, holding it high so the camera captures a clear, unobstructed top-down view of his length pressing against your wet folds. He lines himself up, and with one heavy, deliberate push, he drives himself all the way inside you.
A loud, unrefined scream tears from your throat, your back arching violently as your tight walls clamp down around him. Gunner lets out a deep, ragged groan, staying completely still for a second to let you take all of him. He tilts the phone down, zooming in on the exact point where your bodies connect, capturing the wet friction on video.
He takes two deep, heavy strokes, the sound of skin slapping against skin loud in the quiet room, before he leans down low over your back.
He presses the phone into your hand, forcing your fingers around the grip.
"Hold it," he pants against your ear, his breath scorching your skin as his hands grip your waist with bruising force. "Hold the camera, Y/N. Point it down at your own face. I want you to watch yourself get ruined."
You tighten your grip on the phone, your knuckles turning white as you point the lens back toward your own face. The bright recording light illuminates your flushed skin, your eyes wide and completely glazed over with pleasure.
Gunner doesn't give you a second to adjust. He grips your hips with both hands, anchoring you firmly against the mattress, and begins to fuck you with a brutal, relentless speed.
Every heavy thrust drives him impossibly deep inside you. The sheer force of his movements shakes your entire body, making the camera tremble in your hand as you try to keep it steady. The loud, wet sound of your skin smacking together fills the room, captured perfectly by the phone’s microphone.
"F-Fuck, Gunner," you sob out, your head tossing back into the pillow. You look up into the lens, watching your own mouth hang open as a string of breathless, helpless whines tears from your throat.
"Look at the camera, Y/N," he growls from above you, his voice thick and completely animalistic. He doesn't slow down for a single second, his pace turning harder and faster until the headboard is banging violently against the wall. "Watch how wide you're stretched for me. Tell the camera how hard your daddy is breaking you right now."
"You're fucking me so hard," you gasp into the screen, your toes curling as his thumb presses directly against your swollen clit with every downward stroke. The dual stimulation sends a violent jolt of electricity straight down your spine. "Daddy, please-, I'm going to come."
"Take it," he commands, his fingers digging into your waist so hard they leave dark marks as he drives himself home over and over again, completely relentless. "Take all of it on camera."
Gunner’s pace turns completely frantic, his chest heaving against your back as he drives into you with everything he has left. The friction between you is blinding, and you can feel his body tightening, the muscles in his arms locking up as he reaches his limit.
"Hold the phone steady, Y/N," he chokes out, his voice raw and breathless against your neck. "Don't drop it. Watch this."
You force your shaking fingers to grip the phone, keeping the lens focused right on your face and the wet sound of your bodies slamming together. That final, deep thrust pushes you completely over the edge. A loud, broken scream tears from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you, your tight walls seizing violently around him.
The intense clamping of your body is the breaking point for Gunner. He lets out a loud, ragged groan, burying his face in your hair as his body shudders. He drives himself deep one last time and holds himself there, spilling entirely inside you. The phone captures the exact moment your eyes flutter shut and your head falls back into the pillow, completely spent.
Gunner takes a few ragged breaths, his forehead resting against the back of your neck as the aftershocks of his release subside. Slowly, he pulls his length out of you with a heavy, wet slide. You let out a soft whine at the sudden emptiness, your thighs trembling as your knees sink deeper into the mattress.
Before you can completely collapse against the sheets, Gunner reaches down and takes the phone right out of your weak, shaking fingers.
He stays up on his knees, shifting his position at the edge of the bed. Keeping the camera completely steady and the white recording light shining brightly, he angles the lens down between your legs. He reaches out with his free hand, using his fingers to gently spread your cheeks, exposing your swollen, thoroughly wrecked core directly to the camera.
The bright flash catches every detail. Your cream, mixed with his thick release, is slowly overflowing and dripping heavily down your skin, wetting the dark sheets beneath you.
"Look at that," Gunner mutters into the microphone, his voice incredibly deep, rough, and thick with satisfaction. He zooms the camera in closer, capturing the slow, messy drip. "Look how soaked you are for me, Y/N. Total mess. I completely filled you up, and your pretty little pussy can’t even hold it all."
You hide your face in the pillow, a breathless, embarrassed whimper escaping your lips as you hear his words, your skin flushing red under the heat of his gaze and the camera light.
Gunner lets out a low, dark chuckle behind the phone, admiring the view on the screen for a few more seconds. He tilts the camera up one last time to capture your flushed face and messy hair in the frame before his thumb presses down on the screen, finally hitting the stop button to end the recording.
{Masterlist}
Taglist! @jjscoquette @luvvconceal @sophi-ii @kingoveverything @theyluvcece00 @ssidekickk @angelbbyunicorn @supersecretgirly @missmodelsexx @pirouette-pirouette-pirouette @lovemehardcoreangel @romansbbg
not over how good he looked last night like i love his build so bad
hollis could have a goddamn buzz cut idc bro i need more music and need him to seduce me on ig live
What Makes A Good Man?
Summary : Benjamin Poindexter finds his North Star in a sweet librarian who probably should’ve run. Still, she wouldn’t have it any other way.
Pairing : Benjamin Poindexter x Librarian! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : North star! Reader, fluff (?), angst, hurt/comfort, obsessive love, unhealthy attachment, codependency, possessive behavior, stalking, morally grey reader, explicit sexual content (no anatomical detail as per usual), sex, orgasm denial, oral sex implied, voyeurism/exhibitionism themes, breeding kink, blip mentioned, conjugal visit, institutional abuse, canon-typical violence, murder, hostage situation, grief, food, pregnancy, towards the end you and Dex are mentioned to have a child called Leo. Dex isn’t the most traditional father in any sense but he eventually does love him for very specific reasons I won’t spoil. Starts two years before Daredevil season 3 and ends during DDBA season 1 (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 22k (whoopsie)
Requested by : A mix of these requests: X X X ( @faszomiskivan )
Notes : This story spans about nine years, so buckle up! Reader basically takes on Julie’s North Star role in canon, and yes, this story does explain how we get there. Enjoy!
FBI Special Agent Benjamin Poindexter didn’t know what to do with pretty.
He understood attraction in the detached, observational way he understood most things. He understood what people found objectively attractive was symmetry, pleasing aesthetics. He would observe little changes in a room when someone “beautiful” entered it. He went through it like a list: people looked longer, their voices gentled, posture adjusted without realising it. Dex knew how to recognise attractiveness because other people gave themselves away around it, because the world was always telling on itself if you paid close enough attention. But pretty was different when it was you.
Pretty was not supposed to make him forget the next thing he meant to say. Pretty was not supposed to sit under his skin like a fever. Pretty was not supposed to be you a school librarian in a pastel cardigan, with a pencil tucked through your hair and ink on your fingers, kneeling between two shelves while a little boy cried into your blouse because another child had laughed at him for reading too slowly.
Dex was at the school for an FBI community safety outreach visit. Nothing serious, nothing field-critical. It was just one of those public-facing assignments meant to make parents feel reassured and administrators feel prepared. He was supposed to stand beside the principal, nod at the right times, talk about emergency response based on a script made by the Bureau, and leave.
Instead, at the end of the day, he stood near the library doors and watched you lower your voice to soothe a child.
“Hey,” you said softly. “Don’t make yourself smaller because someone else was mean to you.”
win me back? 02~~ </3
obsessed! nett x nonchalant! reader
<—>
summary: you and gunner had been dating off and on for a while but 6 months ago he finally put a label on things. everything was smooth sailing- until it wasn’t. he gets caught with his ex… after lying to you. will he be able to win you back?
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
notes: i am trying my best
taglist: @ibelieveinfairyz
paris hilton! pt 12
masterlist
tw 4 entrie series: obsessed!nettspend x model!reader, reader is unattached and uninterested, nett is golden retriever coded lowkey, weed mentions, mentions of eating disorders, thats all for now!
smut, oral (f receiving), slight orgasm denial if you squint rlly hard..let me know if i missed any :3 not proofread
gunner had only had you inside of his apartment for twenty minutes and you were already half naked, legs spread open with him between them.
you glanced down at him, only really being able to see his mop of blonde and black hair as he kissed down each of your legs. starting at your inner thigh and slowly making his was down to your ankle on each leg.
he went back up your legs, his focus now on your inner thighs as he slowly went back and forth between each leg kissing sloppily. “gunner come on, don’t have time for this.” you gripped his hair, pulling his face into your pussy causing him to grunt against you. the pain of you pulling his hair turning him on even more than he already was.
gunner finally started working his tongue against you, sucking and licking against just the right spot. consistently finding your clit, in response you moaned out loudly and pulled his hair tighter.
his blue eyes rose up your body, meeting yours as he pulled back slightly and inserted a finger into your hole, pumping in and out a few times. “you like that y/n?” his voice deep with lust. you nodded, too focused on the pleasure to speak.
he pulled completely away causing you to whine, tears prickling your eyes from how close you were to an orgasm. “i asked if you liked it y/n.”
you rolled your eyes “obviously i fucking like it gunner, dont piss me off right now.” gunner laughed at you in response “don’t get pissy ma, i just wanted to know i’m doing good.” he didn’t give you time to respond before he dropped back down and started eating you out again.
he sucked and licked harder and sloppier than before quickly pushing you to your orgasm. he held your legs open as you went stiff, making sure to lick up every last drop.
finally he pulled back, smiling up at you his lips glistening slightly with your juices as you tried to collect your breath. “your legs are shaking, you know that right?”
a stank look took over your face “shut the hell up gunner. or i’ll never let you breathe near me again.”
he licked his lips, the taste of you still on them
“my bad ma.”
taglist!
@angelverse222 @badlands-bitchh @honeyperched @angelbbyunicorn @swagonometryfr @s2diee @blogskinangel22 @kingoveverything @fawnyboibeauty @voidatelier @swagmastergenerall @2krush22 @bl3upi3 @lattetwirll @sweet2sin @mariiaazz @222cellmate @say-impretty @bri22cool44youu @y-yasminn @romansbbg @mymagicunicorn @qiyokuliife @inga-25 @drxltel @22angel2 @2romllis @evangelicgirll @holli-wanna-b-a-st2r @francesababyd0ll @angelbbyunicorn @2yung2diie @killcel
Blades & Bass | BONUS Part6
Part5
Summary: After a text breakup, you and Gunner, reunite at the AMAs. A tense confrontation leads you both back to a hotel room, where a painful conversation about your incompatible lives dissolves into intense, emotionally charged, and rough makeup sex
A/N: This is the final chapter, and I'm finally letting go of Blades & Bass. I absolutely loved writing this fic, and I hope you all enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed creating it! Also, this chapter is not proofread, and there’s a REALLY LONG SMUT ahead.
{Taglist}
TW: MDNI, Porn with Plot, Oral Sex, P in V, Angst, Make-up Sex, Begging, Praise , Dirty Talk, Leg-Locking (tell me if i forgot some)
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It had been a few days since the Met Gala, and your boyfriend had already warned you that he’d be incredibly busy prepping for Rolling Loud.
Now, the day of the festival had finally arrived, and you still hadn't heard a single word from him. You couldn't be there with him in Orlando because you were stuck in New York shooting some campaigns.
On the night of his set, you decided to tune into the livestream. Even if you couldn't talk to him directly, you figured it would still be nice to watch him perform.
Looking at the screen, the crowd was absolutely massive and deafening; you had never seen so many people gathered in one place. It was in that exact moment that it truly hit you just how big of an artist he really was.
He had dyed his hair red, just like he told you he would, but your heart pinched the moment you saw a girl all over him on stage.
You knew they were background dancers, that they were literally paid to be there and you usually weren't the jealous type. But after not talking to him for days, suddenly seeing him being so touchy with a girl shaking her ass right against him made you feel some type of way.
You didn't know why, but it made you feel incredibly sad. Maybe it was because it reminded you of how you two first started talking, how completely incompatible your two worlds actually were, and how much you missed out on by never being in the same city.
It made you realize just how much effort this relationship took, and how much more it was going to require in the future. You just knew you didn't want to live like this for the rest of your life.
You watched him for a few more minutes before closing your laptop and heading to bed. Sleep wouldn't come, though. Tossing and turning in the dark, you finally poured your heart out in a text message and hit send at three in the morning.
Y/N: i really didn't wanna do this over text but i've just been staring at the ceiling for hours and i need to get this out. watching your rolling loud set tonight just hit me so crazy. you looked amazing and im so proud of you fr, but seeing you up there just reminded me of how completely different our worlds actually are. having zero news from you for days just to tune into the live and see you like that... it just made me realize how much this distance is actually hurting me. i feel like we're constantly playing catch up and trying to force two lives together that just don’t fit. the effort this takes is so heavy, and honestly gunner, i don’t think i want to live my life like this. i don't want to always be the one waiting in a different city while you’re living in a whole other universe. i love you so much and i meant everything i said in the car the other night, but i don't think we can do this anymore. we need to break up. please don't call me, i just really need some space to breathe right now. goodnight.
__________________________________________
You knew he wasn’t going to let you go that easily. He called you a hundred times, but you never picked up. Eventually, your manager got so tired of seeing his name pop up on your screen every time you were in a photoshoot or on the ice that she took matters into her own hands and blocked his number.
You didn't even realize it at the time, since you were way too busy training and doing everything you could to keep your mind occupied.
To top it all off, it was just announced that you would be hosting the American Music Awards in Las Vegas this year. Your life had changed so drastically over the past few months; you weren’t just an Olympic gold medalist anymore.
__________________________________________
@rapteatv
Are Nettspend and Y/N Over?! 💔 Over the Weekend, the Former "It-Couple" Arrived Separately at the AMAs and Completely Ignored Each Other All Night
Fans are convinced that rapper Nettspend and Olympic gold medalist Y/N have officially called it quits after a very tense night at the American Music Awards in Las Vegas.
While Y/N was booked as a host for the evening, Nettspend was also in attendance, but the two did not walk the red carpet together. Throughout the entire event, eyewitnesses noted that the pair didn't interact once, completely avoiding each other in the crowd and backstage. This comes as a massive shock to fans who last saw them looking incredibly close during the Met Gala after-party season.
Comments
↳ yeah it’s over... nett looked so down the whole night and she didn’t even look in his direction while she was on stage hosting
↳ did anyone see him in the crowd while she was presenting? he literally looked like his dog died omg they definitely broke up
↳ she deleted the pics of them on her page too yall... yeah it’s confirmed bye 💔
↳ wait bc he looked so miserable on the red carpet too?? like he did NOT want to be there at all.
↳ they are 100% broken up. nett didn't even smile once when the camera panned to him during her opening monologue 💀
↳ the silence is deafening. usually he’s posting her on his story or something
__________________________________________
Leaving the AMAs, you walked out to your van. Suddenly, someone shouted your name. You turned around and saw Gunner running after you.
"Y/N, wait!"
"Leave me alone, Gunner," you said.
"Wtf do you think you're doing?" he asked, catching up to you.
"I told you to leave me alone in that text, didn't I?"
"Yeah, without letting me talk," Gunner said, shaking his head. "I called you the last few weeks. Every day, every hour, but you blocked my number."
"I didn't block your number," you replied, looking around. "And be quieter, I don't want to cause a scene."
"Yes, you did," he insisted. "I keep ending up on your voicemail."
"Just get in the van," you whispered, pulling open the door. "I don't want people seeing us like this."
Gunner didn’t argue. He climbed in right behind you, and he slammed the door shut, telling the driver to head straight to your hotel. The interior of the van went quiet, save for the hum of the engine as it pulled away from the venue.
"I didn't block you, Gunner. Seriously," you said, turning to face him in the dim light. "I haven't even looked at my phone like that. My manager must have done it because you were blowing it up while I was working."
Gunner let out a frustrated breath, running a hand through his red hair. "I don't care who did it, Y/N. You broke up with me over a text message while I was in the middle of a festival. You think I was just gonna let that go?"
"What did you want me to do?" you asked, your voice dropping. "I sat there watching your live. You hadn't texted me in days, and then I see you on stage with girls all over you. It just made me realize how messy this all is. Our lives don't fit."
"That was a performance," he said, turning his head to look at you, his eyes dark. "You know how this shit works. It doesn't mean anything. The only person I wanted to be with was you, but you didn't even give me a chance to explain before you completely cut me off."
"It's not about the girls, Gunner. It's not even about the performance," you said, shaking your head as you looked out the window at the passing Las Vegas lights. "I know what background dancers are. It’s the fact that I had to find out what you were doing by turning on a livestream. You vanished for three days. It made me realize that when we're apart, I don't exist in your world, and you don't exist in mine."
"That's not true," he muttered, his voice cracking slightly.
You turned back to look at him, and the words died in your throat.
Gunner was staring down at his hands, his broad shoulders tense, but his chest was heaving. In the dim light of the van, you saw a tear slip down his cheek, catching the glare of the streetlamps outside. Then another one followed.
He didn't try to wipe them away. He just sat there, the tough, stoic persona he held for the rest of the world completely shattering right in front of you.
"I was just overwhelmed, Y/N," he choked out, his voice thick and trembling as he finally looked up at you, his eyes completely bloodshot. "The festival, the album prep, the label pushing me... I locked myself away because my head was spinning. I wasn't trying to ignore you. I was just trying to survive the week so I could get back to you."
He let out a shaky breath, a ragged sob escaping his throat as he reached out, his hand trembling as he gripped your wrist.
"Please don't do this," he whispered, the tears now streaming down his face. "I can't do this without you. Don't leave me."
You looked down at his hand gripping your wrist, your own chest aching as you watched him cry. You had never seen him like this. It broke your heart, but it didn't change the reality of the situation.
"Gunner, look at us," you said softly, your voice breaking as you gently pulled your hand away from his grip. "We’re already falling apart, and it’s only been a few months. If we keep doing this, we’ll never be happy."
He wiped his eyes quickly, shaking his head in denial. "We can fix it. I’ll change things. I’ll text more, I’ll call you every hour, I don't care-"
"It's not just about texting, and you can't just stop doing your job," you interrupted, a tear finally escaping your own eye. "Your career is exploding right now. Mine is too. We both have to give 100% to our work, which means we have nothing left to give to each other. We're just going to keep hurting, waiting for the next text, getting insecure, and crying in the back of cars."
You looked out the window as the van finally pulled up to the entrance of your hotel.
"I love you enough to know that we’re just going to destroy each other if we keep trying to force this," you whispered, turning back to him one last time. "We both deserve to be happy, Gunner. But we're never going to find that happiness together."
"I'm not saying I don't want you in my life forever," you said, your voice softening as you looked at his tear-stained face. "But right now? With everything going on? We just can't be together. We need to focus on ourselves."
"I don't care about right now, Y/N," he said, his voice raw as he shook his head stubbornly. "I can't just let you go. I'm not gonna sit back and just watch you become some stranger I used to know. I can't do it."
The van came to a complete stop in the hotel's private underground parking garage. The driver cut the engine, leaving the two of you in a heavy, suffocating silence.
You looked at Gunner, whose eyes were still red and desperate. You couldn't just leave him crying here, and you didn't want to cause a scene in the lobby if he followed you.
"Fine," you sighed, rubbing your temples. "You can come up. You can stay for an hour or two so we can actually finish this conversation properly. But that's it."
He nodded quickly, wiping his face again as he followed you out of the vehicle. You both kept your heads down, slipping into the private elevator that led straight to your suite. Neither of you said a word until the heavy oak door of your room clicked shut behind you.
You tossed your purse onto the entryway table and kicked off your heels, finally letting out a breath you felt like you’d been holding since the AMAs started. Gunner stood near the edge of the living area, looking completely out of place.
"You really think we’ll never work?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper as he broke the silence.
"I think we're trying to build a house in a hurricane, Gun," you said, turning to face him. "How are we supposed to be a normal couple when we barely see each other?"
"We don't have to be a normal couple," Gunner said, his voice dropping an octave, thick with desperation. Before you could even reply, he crossed the room and dropped heavily to his knees right in front of you.
Your breath hitched. You froze, staring down at him.
He wrapped his arms around your thighs, burying his face into the fabric of your outfit. His shoulders shook as he held onto you like you were his only lifeline. "Please, Y/N. I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll fly to New York every single weekend, I don’t care if I don’t sleep. Just don't give up on me. I'm begging you."
Looking down at him, a sudden, conflicting rush of heat flooded your veins. There was something intensely overwhelming about seeing him like this. This was the same guy who just an hour ago had thousands of people screaming his name, the guy who acted completely untouchable under the festival lights and now he was on his knees, completely at your mercy, begging just to keep you.
The sheer vulnerability of it, mixed with the lingering adrenaline from the night, made your stomach flip in a completely different way. Your heart was pounding, and a heavy, familiar ache started to settle between your thighs.
Gunner tilted his head back, looking up at you through his long eyelashes. His eyes were still wet, but as he felt the shift in your posture, his gaze darkened. He noticed the way your breathing had turned shallow, the way your fingers twitched against your sides.
"Y/N..." he whispered, his hands slowly sliding up from your thighs to your hips, his grip tightening as he pulled your body closer to his face.
"You’re too good for me, I know it," Gunner murmured, his voice a low, raspy purr against your skin that sent a sharp shiver straight down your spine. His hands stayed firmly gripped on your hips, anchoring you to him. "You're a gold medalist, you're the biggest thing in the world right now, and I’m just... I'm nothing without you, Y/N."
He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your bare thigh, just below the hem of your outfit, making your knees instantly go weak. You had to rest your hands on his shoulders just to keep your balance.
"Look at you," he whispered, tilting his head up to look at you with complete, unfiltered devotion. "You look so beautiful tonight. You ran that whole show. Everyone in that venue was looking at you, but now you're here with me. Please tell me I still have you."
He began to trail slow, agonizingly hot kisses up your thigh, his thumbs tracing tight, deliberate circles into your hips. Every word out of his mouth was laced with raw desperation, but the way his touch grew entirely confident told you exactly what he was doing. He knew the effect he had on you. He could hear your breath catching, could feel the slight tremble in your legs.
"You're perfect," he praised, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper as his lips brushed against the soft skin of your inner thigh. "Every single part of you. I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you if you just let me stay. Let me remind you how much you mean to me, Y/N. Please."
Your fingers tangled in his red hair, tugging slightly as a soft gasp escaped your lips. The contrast of his tear-stained face and the dark, heavy hunger in his eyes was completely overwhelming, completely erasing any thoughts of the distance, the texts, or the breakup. All you could focus on was the intense heat pooling between your legs and the way he looked up at you like you were his entire world.
He didn't waste another second. Slipping your clothes out of the way, Gunner guided you back until you were pressed against the edge of the entryway table. He stayed on his knees, his hands sliding under your thighs to lift your legs onto his shoulders, opening you up completely to him.
When his tongue first made contact, a sharp, involuntary gasp left your throat, your fingers instantly gripping the edge of the wood behind you. He was relentless, using the same fierce, obsessive energy he gave everything else in his life to completely unhinge you. He swirled his tongue around your sweet spot, pacing himself perfectly, knowing exactly how to make your hips twitch in desperation.
"I hate you," you choked out, your head tossing back as a wave of intense pleasure rushed through you. "Gunner, I swear to God, I hate you so much for doing this right now."
He paused for a fraction of a second, looking up at you with a dark, completely shameless smirk on his face, his lips wet and glistening. "I know you do, baby," he murmured. "You hate how much you need me. You hate that no one else can make you feel like this."
He dipped his tongue back down, tracing a long, wet line all the way up before focusing entirely on your clit, sucking it into his mouth. You let out a loud moan, completely forgetting about the hotel walls or the fight you had just had.
"Look at you, crying about a breakup but soaking wet for me," he muttered against your skin, turning his praise dirty as he felt your body begin to tremble. "You're so good for me, Y/N. Tell me it's mine. Tell me this pretty little pussy belongs to me and no one else."
"Gunner, please..." you whined, your toes curling as his fingers suddenly slid inside you, matching the fast, wicked rhythm of his tongue.
"Say it, baby," he growled, searching your face as his thumb worked your clit, pushing you right to the absolute edge. "Tell me you're not going anywhere."
"Fuck you," you gasped out instead, your voice breaking as you shook your head. You gripped his shoulders, trying to push him away or force him closer, you didn't even know which but you refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing those words. "Fuck you, Gunner."
The moment the words left your mouth, his tongue stopped completely. He pulled back just enough to look up at you, his fingers staying still inside you, holding you completely hostage right on the edge of a cliff.
The sudden loss of friction made you whine out loud, your hips instinctively twitching forward to look for his mouth, but he didn't budge. His eyes were entirely dark now, the vulnerability from before replaced by a stubborn, dangerous heat.
"What did you just say to me?" he asked.
"I'm not saying it," you breathed, glare matching his despite how badly your legs were shaking. "You don't get to just cry and then command me. Put your mouth back down there."
"No," he growled, a frustrated, angry smirk tugging at his lips as he tightened his grip on your thighs, locking you in place. He was getting mad now, too, the tension between you two snapping into pure aggression. "You think you run everything? If I don't get what I want, Y/N, you definitely aren't getting what you want."
"Gunner, I swear to God, I am right there," you yelled out, your hands bunching into the fabric of his shirt. "Don't do this."
"Then tell me," he challenged, leaning in close until his hot breath fanned against your wet skin, teasing you without actually touching you. "Tell me you're mine and you're not leaving. Otherwise, we can just sit here like this all night."
You stared down at him, your chest heaving, absolutely furious at how easily he could manipulate your body against your own will. The contrast was maddening, just minutes ago he was weeping at your feet, and now he was using the sheer weight of your own arousal to back you into a corner.
"You are an asshole," you choked out, tears of pure frustration pricking the corners of your eyes. Your hips gave a pathetic, involuntary twitch, practically begging for the friction he was withholding.
"I don't care," Gunner muttered, his jaw clenched as he stared right back up at you. His fingers inside you twitched just enough to make you gasp, but he held back from giving you any real relief. "Say it, Y/N. I’m not playing with you."
The tension in the room was suffocating. You wanted to push him off, to scream at him to get out of your hotel room and out of your life, but the ache between your thighs was entirely consuming. Every instinct in your body was screaming at you to just give in to get what you needed.
"Fine!" you cried out, your fingers digging so hard into his shoulders that your nails left red marks through his shirt. "I'm yours! Fuck, Gunner, I'm yours, okay? Just please-"
The victory in his eyes was instant and feral.
"Good girl," he growled against your skin.
He didn't make you wait another second. Gunner buried his face back between your legs, his tongue striking against your clit with a hard, heavy rhythm that made your vision instantly blur. At the same time, his fingers started driving inside you with a rough, punishing speed, hitting your sweet spot over and over again.
You completely lost control. A loud, unrefined scream tore from your throat as your orgasm crashed over you, your entire body seizing up as you clamped tightly around his fingers. Gunner didn't stop, swallowing your moans and driving you deeper into the climax until your legs were shaking so badly they could barely stay on his shoulders.
Gunner finally pulled his mouth away, panting heavily as he looked up at you. His lips were shiny, and his face was flushed from the heat of the moment. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a dark, satisfied grin spreading across his face.
"Fuck, Y/N," he growled, his voice incredibly deep and rough. "I swear to God, I've never tasted pussy so good in my entire life. You're so fucking sweet."
Hearing those words out of his mouth while your body was still trembling from the aftershocks of the orgasm sent a fresh jolt of heat straight to your stomach. You didn't want to talk anymore. You didn't want to think about the distance, the drama, or tomorrow. You just needed him inside you.
Reaching down, you grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and pulled him up. He stumbled up from his knees, his eyes locked onto yours as you wrapped your arms around his neck.
"Bed. Now," you breathed against his lips.
Gunner didn't hesitate. He hooked his arms under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly off the entryway table. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, burying your face in his neck as he carried you down the short hallway into the bedroom. He tossed you onto the plush mattress, immediately following you down, but before he could pin you beneath him, you rolled him over.
You pushed against his chest, forcing him onto his back. Gunner let out a low, gravelly laugh, his hands instantly finding your hips as you straddled his waist.
"Oh, so you're taking control now?" he teased, his dark eyes scanning your face, full of arrogant satisfaction.
"Shut up," you muttered.
You quickly reached down to rid him of the rest of his clothes, your hands shaking with impatience. Gunner watched you, his jaw clenched, his thumbs digging into your hips as he lifted his hips to help you. When he was completely bare beneath you, his length was thick and waiting, pressing hard against your thigh.
You didn't make him wait. Shifting your weight, you aligned yourself and slowly lowered your hips, taking him all in at once.
A loud, ragged groan tore from the back of Gunner's throat, his eyes throwing back as his head hit the pillows. "Fuck, Y/N... you're so tight," he gasped, his grip tightening on your hips until his knuckles turned white.
You threw your head back, a breathless sigh escaping your lips as you filled yourself with him. Once you settled against his hips, you began to move, lifting yourself up and sliding back down in a slow, agonizingly perfect rhythm.
Gunner’s hands guided your movements, his fingers bruising your skin as he pushed your hips down harder, meeting every single one of your strokes with a heavy, upward thrust. The anger from your fight turned into pure, unadulterated friction, the bed squeaking against the wall as you rode him in the dim light of the hotel room.
You leaned forward, your hair falling around your face like a curtain as you looked down at him. The power dynamic had completely flipped.
Before he could pull you down into a kiss, you brought your hand up to his neck. Your fingers wrapped firmly around his throat, squeezing just enough to cut off his breath.
Gunner’s eyes flew wide open, a sharp gasp catching in his chest. But instead of pushing your hand away, his grip on your hips tightened. A dark, wicked grin spread across his face, his chest heaving under you as he leaned up into the pressure. He absolutely loved it.
"Look at you," you whispered, your voice dropping into a mean, mocking tone as you kept riding him, your pace turning hard and relentless. "You're pathetic, Gunner. A second ago you were literally crying on your knees, begging me like a dog."
Gunner let out a choked, raspy laugh, his throat vibrating right against your palm. "Yeah? Tell me more, baby," he wheezed out, his eyes locked onto yours, completely unbothered by the insults. If anything, it was turning him on even more.
"You think you can just show up and fix everything with your mouth?" you sneered, slamming your hips down against his, making him groan loudly. "You’re so fucking selfish. You think the whole world revolves around you and your music, but right now you're just a joke."
"I am," he choked out, playing along completely, his hands sliding up your torso to rest over your heart. He let out another breathless laugh, his white teeth flashing in the dim light. "I'm your joke, Y/N. Do whatever you want to me."
"Shut up," you snapped, tightening your grip on his neck for a second before letting go, leaving the faint pink imprint of your fingers on his skin.
The sudden release of air made him gasp, his head tossing back onto the pillow as you kept up the punishing rhythm. Even when you were being mean, even when you were letting out all your anger on him, Gunner just lay there taking it with a smug, obsessed smile, entirely content as long as you were riding him and calling him yours.
As you continued to drive down against him, Gunner’s gaze stayed locked onto yours, heavy and completely entranced. He brought his hand up, tracing his fingers over your jaw before sliding two fingers straight between your parted lips.
"Bite down," he rasped, his voice rough and breathless.
You didn't hesitate, clamping your teeth down onto his fingers as you kept up the relentless rhythm. The taste of him mixed with the friction between your thighs sent a shuddering wave of heat straight to your core. He watched your eyes flutter, a satisfied chuckle vibrating in his chest as you sucked on his fingers, entirely caught up in the control you thought you had over him.
But in a split second, the dynamic shattered again.
Gunner suddenly gripped your waist with force and twisted his body. Before you could even register what was happening, you were flipped onto your back, the mattress absorbing your weight as he pinned you beneath him. The sudden shift left you breathless, your hands instinctively coming up to push at his chest.
"My turn," he muttered, his eyes dark and completely feral.
Before you could open your mouth to complain, his large hand came up, wrapping firmly around your throat. He didn't squeeze hard enough to hurt, but the heavy, authoritative pressure instantly cut off your speech, forcing your head back into the pillow.
"You had your fun talking shit, Y/N," he growled, a wicked, dominant smirk flashing across his face. "Now shut up and take it."
You glared up at him, your chest heaving as you tried to twist out from under him, your lips parting to yell at him but the words died in your throat. Gunner lifted your legs, pinning them high against his chest, and drove himself inside you in one deep, punishing stroke.
A broken gasp left your lips against the pressure of his hand. The sheer depth of the movement was overwhelming, hitting your sweet spot so perfectly that your brain short-circuited. Any anger, any desire to fight back or complain, completely evaporated.
He didn't give you a second to recover. Gunner began to fuck you with a fast, heavy, relentless pace that had the headboard slamming against the wall. Every time you tried to gather your breath to say something, he hit the perfect angle, sending a jolt of pure pleasure straight up your spine that turned your complaints into high-pitched, helpless whines.
"Yeah, that's what I thought," he whispered, leaning down so his lips brushed against your ear, his hand maintaining just enough pressure on your neck to keep you completely pinned. "Can't say a fucking word now, can you?"
The friction between you was blinding, the heat in the room rising until neither of you could think straight. Gunner’s pace turned frantic, his breath hitching as his body tightened completely over yours. You could feel the contractions starting deep inside you, the tension building to a point that felt almost unbearable.
"Y/N... I’m gonna go," he gasped out, his voice raw as he tried to shift his weight back. "I need to pull out, baby, let me-"
"No," you whined, completely lost to the pleasure.
Before he could slide out, you threw your legs around his waist, locking your ankles together behind his back with all your strength. As an athlete, your grip was ironclad. Gunner let out a ragged groan, trying to pull away, but you arched your hips up to meet him, burying him as deep inside you as possible.
That was the breaking point. Gunner’s head fell into the crook of your neck as his body shuddered violently, spilling himself inside you. At the exact same moment, your own orgasm crashed over you in intense, heavy waves. You cried out, your fingers digging into the muscles of his back as your walls clamped tightly around him, pulling every last drop out of him.
For a long minute, the only sound in the room was the heavy, synchronized panting of both your chests. Gunner collapsed against you, his forehead resting against yours, his skin slick with sweat.
Slowly, the fog of adrenaline began to clear, leaving behind the quiet, heavy reality of the two of you tangled together in a Vegas hotel room.
Gunner leaned up slightly, his eyes soft and completely vulnerable again as he looked down at you. He reached up, gently brushing a stray piece of hair away from your damp forehead. Then, he leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your lips.
"I love you," he whispered against your mouth, his voice thick with emotion. "I swear to God, Y/N, I love you so much."
You looked up at him, your chest aching with that familiar, painful warmth. Despite the distance, the fights, and how messy your worlds were, looking at him right now made everything else fade away.
"I love you too," you breathed, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him down for another kiss.
{Masterlist}
Taglist! @jjscoquette @luvvrafey @sophi-ii @kingoveverything @theyluvcece00 @ssidekickk @angelbbyunicorn @missmodelsexxx @aeshiue @sweet2sin @girl2bad @whoooisnanaa @supersecretgirly @ibelieveinfairyz @whitetiger2crush2 @lovemehardcoreangel @romansbbg
“DRAGON’S DEN”
targaryen!hollis x fem!reader
set in the universe of A Knight Of The Seven
Kingdoms.
༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻
EVERY TIME A TARGARYEN IS
BORN, THE GODS TOSS A COIN
IN THE AIR.
⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖
⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖
“I’M A DRAGON,
YOU’RE A WHORE
DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT YOU’RE GOOD FOR
MIMICKING ME IS A FUCKING BORE
TO ME, BUT BABE -
LAY ME DOWN TONIGHT,
IN MY DIAMONDS AND PEARLS.”
- ‘FUCKED MY WAY TO THE TOP’ , LANA DEL REY.
༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻
The youngest line of Targaryen Princelings had arrived in Ashford just as the sky had began to turn a milky lilac, signalling the plunge of the sun - and the rise of the moon, the last before the morrow’s joust.
The majority of them, for the most part.
Daeron (drunken, and considerably late, but still present), Aemon, Aegon, and-
“Where the fuck are The Twins?” Daeron uttered, stumbling across the cobblestones of Ashford’s square, intoxicated and disgruntled.
“I’m fucking late by hours, and they still haven’t shown their faces? Surely they must be the least-favourites now, Father - what a lousy impression.”
Daeron continued to jest and ramble, a wobble in his step that made the kings’ guard lurch forward, anticipating that whenever the drunken Targaryen swayed a little too sharply left, he’d topple over.
Prince Maekar winced at the sight of his eldest, dismissing his behaviour and signalling with a wrist-flick to the guardsmen to haul the murmuring, rambunctious princeling to his temporary chambers within the castle.
He then turned to Baelor, a curl to his lip - his tone was levelled, but pointed - a father who had dealt with the unruliness of his spawn aplenty, and who had yet to control it.
“I must locate my sons.” He grits, yet somehow maintaining his curt expression, “It seems they have gone awry along the way. Again.”
Baelor snorts, leaning in to level to his younger brothers’ ear.
“Check the local whorehouses.” He chuckles at his brothers’ dilemma, “-Thy sons be cursed with fleshly desires, brother - for they are only two and zero.”
Maekar sneers, before beckoning the reigns of his palfrey be handed back to him - pardoning himself as he remounts the horse, internally promising himself to clout both of his sons’ round their proud ears for this diminishing first impression towards the Ashfords.
⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖
“Come, Locket!”
You ignore the first call of your name, for you had just lined your Cupid’s bow intricately in deep red lacquer, and you were determined to apply the same precision to the bottom.
“Locket!” Another shrill beckoning, to which the rise in shrillness and urgency makes you flinch - a blur of red now across your chin like a dribbling rivulet of flesh blood.
You looked like you’d been pelted in the teeth.
For the sun had not fully set yet; the sky only just beginning to turn from a dusty pale lavender into a deep, velvety bruising of deep purple - it was not nightfall. Your shift had not yet started, so why were you being called for?
What did the Bawd want?
“Gods, Marge! You’ve corrupted my visage!” You whine, now frantically trying to scrub the staining lacquer off of your chin, to no avail.
“- I look like a drunken crone most foully!”
Marge - The Bawd; brothel keeper alongside her husband - the bastards that took sixty percent of your earnings and fed you stale bread and corked wine, but happened to be the only brothel owners in miles - burst in, all flouncing skirts and greying hair curled into ringlets like sausages.
Her eyes crinkled deeper at your bewildered expression towards her flurrying urgency - for the business wasn’t to resume for the evening for at least half the hour.
“You have not heard?” She gawked, swiftly licking a finger - similarly to how a toad would dart out its lengthly tongue to swat a swamp fly - and pinching your stained chin between her fingers.
“The Dragon Princelings,” she began, roughly rubbing with her saliva-dampened, calloused pad of her thumb at the stubborn lacquer remnants on your skin, “They’re in Ashford.”
“Targaryens? In Ashford?” You chuckle, amidst trying to shimmy away from the Bawd’s grasp, “What business do they have here? Drought of cider, maybe?”
“The Jousting, silly girl!” Margie reprimanded, managing to somewhat scrub off the cosmetic stain from your flesh, and the contact felt as if she were near searing your skin off.
The Jousting. Of course.
Pleased with her work against your face, she stepped away from you, now squirming at your vanity, clasping her clammy, aged hands over her skirts.
“- They’re here.”
Ah.
You click your tongue against the roof of your mouth, tickled by this newfound realisation.
“The Targaryen princes dabble in the whorehouses of Ashford?” You grin, resuming your application, “Who would’ve thought. I deemed that family to be full of vice - disdainful toward women that aren’t their sisters, cousins, or daughters of lords.”
A stinging clip to the shell of your ear elicits a sudden whelp from you, a warm ache pulsating there. You pivot, glaring.
“Hush! You darest speak treason within these vaults? Fie upon it, they may overhear!” Margie fumed, plump cheeks swollen with fury at your apparent blasphemy.
“Your foul words be treason most dire.”
You bite your tongue, jumping muscles clenched between teeth as you bit back your petty venom, for Margie was right - it was definite suicide, speaking the way you were now knowing that descendants of Dragons were in your vicinity.
You slowly turn away again - fingers dipping into another cosmetic ointment, lavender elixir that softened the flesh of your face.
You ignored the gentle burning sensation that you’d grown familiar to, as the subtle blush it elicited upon your cheeks was the desired look.
“They beseech fair maidens. ‘Tis early, yet you must tend to them.” The Bawd continued, now pressed to your back, fingers raking roughly through your auburn curls, knotting them - to which you try to lean away.
“I shall attend unto them when I be in a state for it.” You respond cooly now, undoing her damage to your hair by patting it down.
“Hear me now. You shall not keep them waiting - depart.”
She orders, and you scowl - raising from your vanity stool, rickety Oakwood legs scraping against splintering floors.
Margie follows you out of the room and towards one of the private, curtained-off lounge areas - a hand resting on your exposed slope between your neck and shoulder.
“Verily. They shall mint for us coins of great weight!” She excites, eager for the weight of aplenty royal currency to weigh her dirty pockets down.
“I am told one of the Twins hath a peculiar fondness for maidens of fair complexion and tresses of flame.”
“- I shall grant him most righteous satisfaction, then.” You deadpan, descending the stairs - swallowing the bile that rose upon hearing of the Dragon Princelings’ combined reputations, and how you were to be their pliant fantasy for the night.
“Your Graces,” Margie announced once you’d reached the landing, you on her arm like some sort of impressive cattle to auction, “- One of my finest girls.”
Against the plain plastered walls of the brothel, the Twins were almost fluorescent, expecting.
Stark against the dreary wooden beams and the unadorned stone, they were like some seraphic premonition - fine, leather-sheathed, platinum-haired fallen angels, with demeanours that deceived, and undeniable features that deceived even further.
It were like you’d been struck fatally around the skull - been stroked by death momentarily and visited by heaven’s prophets - and in a suffocating haze, you saw doubles of a beautiful creature, so striking in appearance they could easily pass as being sculpted by the gods firsthand.
Their main difference that kept you firmly grounded that you were not hallucinating seemingly impossible beauty in a double of a young man being the drastic lengths of their hair.
Immediately upon bestowing their sight upon you, one, of a slighter height and of shorter hair upon observation, lightly elbowed the other in the ribs through their dark dressing.
Followed by a velvety murmur of something along the lines of,
“She’s yours.”
A sharp nudge in your own side snapped you back to reality from your absorbing trance - from Margie, who was silently urging you to address the two Princes of the Blood properly.
You curtsy, and internally curse at yourself at the slight tremor in your form.
“Your Graces.” You greet, eyes adhered to the ground, as the thought of meeting theirs nauseated you - the jesting confidence you’d flaunted so proudly earlier as you snickered at their mention had dissipated. You may as well be a ruddy puddle at their boots now.
On the right was Aerion Targaryen. Appearing slim, but you knew not to be deceived by this - you’d heard of his combatting skills, the aggression in his hands.
Average height, but nonetheless stunning. Cropped short was his hair, spun like glass that was almost an iridescent silver, like liquid moonlight, or liquidised coin.
It were styled like scales, tufts styled in little outlets that stuck out slightly, like bristling dragon scales. How fitting.
His eyes were of a dark violet, like those of the tart berries you’d find deep in the forest, tangled amongst thorns. Set in silken, pale unblemished skin like freshly-set snow.
His face was sculpted and imperious - a high brow, defined cheekbones, and a straight nose.
Contrary to the rumours that circulated the man’s’ flamboyant sense of fashion, he seemed to have toned himself down - to keep his lustful endeavours more subtle, unseen in the night.
He were dressed in a shrouding black cloak, lined with what appeared to be a deep red satin lining, long dragging sleeves, clasped with silver joiners, in the shape of claws.
His Twin, to the left - the one who Aerion had nudged for his alleged, assumed fondness toward wenches of your appearance, was Hollis.
He appeared equally as Targaryen, as beautiful - but his name was unlike. You could’ve questioned it, but that thought was of no value to you, and could cost you your tongue.
He was taller, but built similarly. Slender, yet you knew he was of to be of similar temperament and physical strength of his boisterous counterpart. Not to be underestimated, as if Targaryens were ever to be.
His eyes were of paler violet, though - similar to the milky, dewy lavender skies during a newborn sundown. Like rows of tender, delicate violets from the most fertile soil.
Crystalline locks that were almost a trademark to their name, unlike his brothers, were lengthly; draped across his chest - pin-straight, obviously styled, the front, face-framing strands appearing to be braided back, emphasising his features in the candlelight.
He appeared far more androgynous than his twin in that way, a regal elegance to him that was softer when side-by-side to his prickly brother.
The more you gaped like some entranced commoner, you discovered more and more slight differences between the two.
An aquiline nose he had, compared to Aerion’s button-esque, straight one, yet their defined high-set cheekbones were the same.
Skin of ivory perfection, like a chiselled slab of marble that you swore, like most of their attributes, captured and absorbed any near light source, an ethereal glow to them that you were sure made yourself appear blemished and dull.
A fae look he held himself, to which Aerion’s constrained - he were more like a dragon, of course. You’d heard he believed he thought were one stuck in a humanoid form.
His attire consisted of the same cloak, except his lining was a silken onyx, like beneath his clothing were a stolen fraction of a shimmering, summer-nights sky - clasped by gold, instead of his brothers’ silver adornments.
A little more humble compared to Aerion’s adornment choices, if that were even possible for a Targaryen to achieve - maybe an insulting term, but it were true.
The following interactions were swift; transactional.
The sound of jingling, aplenty coin being tossed into the hands of one of the brothel owners beside you, and a jolt to your spine as you are ushered toward the paying brother, who’d staked his claim on you for the evening.
“Locket, see The Prince to the chambers.”
And so you did, still avoiding either of their watchful gazes as you bowed, heart beating in your throat like some hunted hare - pupils dilating with a concoction of newfound fear, and adrenaline at what was to come.
You’d entertained drunken bastards, low-lords, snaking husbands and the odd traveller that was easy on the eye, but never a Prince - and you could feel the scrutinising glares of your Bawds’ expectations weighing heavily on your shoulders.
Upon your ascent back up the stairs to your designated quarters, The Prince was following after immediately - he kept his distance, at least five steps behind you, but his presence was hefty, and you felt as if you were to trip and tumble with every step upwards.
You hadn’t dare peer over your shoulder.
“Have fun, brother.” You heard Aerion whistle at the bottom of the stairs playfully, “Play nice. Gods know I shall not.”
There was no response, and you were unsure whether that was to be of further concern, or not.
Your chambers were large, and plainly common. Devoid of any luxurious decoration or any shred of personality, solely meant to contain only one thing - the most extravagant aspect being the guaranteed clean bed linens.
The door groaned closed behind the two of you - followed by the grating clunk of the metal latch being closed, sealing your fate with the Dragon’s spawn, confined like cornered prey between four bland walls.
A singular candle on the windowsill illuminated the room, thin canopy curtains rippling gently in the nighttime breeze through the barely-open window.
He spoke first, which had shocked you initially - usually, these transactions are wordless. Straightforward. Verbal foreplay is rare, and had unnecessary sentiment - usually, you’d be thrown onto the bed by now, and put to work by man’s overwhelming greed.
“Locket? That is your name?”
His voice were of low octave, slightly mocking - you were not of enough significance to be taken seriously, obviously.
You slowly turn now, arms curling behind yourself to begin to loosen the ribbons of your dress, saving time.
“For tonight, Aye.”
You nod timidly, and it took almost all of your composure and willpower to hold his eye - irises like bouquets of fresh lavender, like the ointment you’d massaged into your flesh earlier, minus the delicate connotations associated with the flower - for Targaryens were anything but.
His lips parted, as if he were to ask Why, for he had that jurisdiction - the privilege, the ability to question, tracing you.
His curiosity was satiated when his eyes settled on your breastbone - the silver pendant that rested there between your shoulder blades, on a thin chain. Locket.
Instinctively, your hand raised, fingers cupping and curling over the warmed metal resting against your flesh as if it were your only way to defend yourself - for it felt as if he were reading past the metal jewellery, and straight into your soul.
You cleared your throat. He hadn’t followed with anything else, just watched - like he were playing with his food, or figuring out how to prepare it.
The candle flickered and sputtered, casting dancing shadows across the expanse of the room, amber lowlight licking at his features, haloing you as you had your back to it.
“What service may I render thee, my Grace?”
You speak wearily, trying to stick to your script. You’d done this a thousand times before with men of similar intimidation - of denser frame and muscle, but the breed of blood than ran through his veins and bled through his features diseased you with an untameable shiver.
His brow heavies, for a moment - creasing his pale skin, and even the thoughtful contortion of his features did not detract from his effervescent, celestial beauty.
And then, it had began to play out just as any other night of work. It were back on its rails, and you felt as if you had recovered some sense of direction in the situation.
Or so you thought.
“Get on the bed, onto your back.”
And you adhered.
Letting go of your protective hold upon your necklace where you’d harvested your whoring alias and resuming to remove your articles of clothing as you approached the bed.
Until, the ribbon had bunched and tangled mid-removal - and you faltered, your fingers now desperately trying to untangle the material, growing more panicked by the second.
The Prince watched, deft fingers working at the clasps of his cloak - you reprimanded yourself for not offering to take it from him the second he’d stepped through the door, but he didn’t seem bothered.
He hadn’t even glanced down at the material to make sure his fingers were in the right direction to unclasp each glinting golden adornment.
For he was undoing them with such ease, such blasé that reinstated your confidence in the fact that the Targaryen Twins most definitely dabbled in lustful misdemeanours late at night as plenty as the rumours they had carried across the streets.
The exorbitantly-calibered fabric fell around him with a hefty clunk, most likely the metal clasps colliding with the hardwood floor - in the stillness of the air, you jumped at the sudden noise.
He stepped over the pool of dense, rippling fabric that you were sure cost the equivalent of your yearly coin intake like it were a pile of horseshit - heavy boot against wood, slow, methodical. Towards you.
You let him impede towards you with an almost alarming lack of urgency, like he were amused by the fact that each step he took closer, your demeanour fractured - like a trembling skeletal leaf in a bitter winter wind.
He is mere inches from you now, when he motions with a dismissive nod for you to turn, your back facing him.
Based off of what you’d heard, if he were anything of similar nature to his twin, this would be where he were to probably impale you with some dagger - indulge in some masochistic urge the bloodline seemed to carry like it were some amusing accessory, wreaking carnage.
“You are trembling.” He observed, a decorated smugness to his tone, like it were something he were used to experiencing in his wake, amused at your unease, “Does a chill seize you?”
He jests, and suddenly a gentle tug jolts you backwards, almost stumbling backwards into his chest - he is undoing your dresses, untangling your messes for you, presumably with the same ease as he did his own cloak.
Amidst doing so, he lowers his lips to your ear.
“- Or are you wracked by fear?”
Your own lips part to defend yourself, to conjure an excuse to your cowardice when you were being paid to offer a professional service.
It was then where you feel him place a kiss behind your ear - taunting, chaste.
He follows by slotting a hand around the nape of your neck, lifting it to guide your coiled auburn hair away from its obstruction over the back of your corset, letting it fall over your shoulder.
“Do you tremble at the thought of what I might do to you?” He queries, although he already knows the answer.
He lulls the searing jolt of adrenaline mixed with the deep-set dread within you that his provoking rhetorical questions evoked from you by licking at the same stripe of skin he’d kissed prior, skin now fully exposed there after tidying your hair away to the other shoulder.
You were practically vibrating at the expense of his words beneath his tongue, to which he laughs - short, and expectant.
Like this were a sadistic ritual he partook in to fill the void of boredom that came with being a waiting heir, with plenty of time to waste.
Another pretty thing disintegrating in the crosshairs of royalty built upon unmistakeable beauty and unrelenting cruelty, unravelling.
And he, like the rest of his predecessors, revelled in your unravelling - wrapping the fibres of you around his fingers like some pliant thread to weave into an intricate tapestry - a consequence of power and influence that bought him a level of gratification that left him lightheaded, similar to being on the battlefield.
He were to experience this with the jousting tournament on the morrow, and he were to experience it with you, right now, until he deemed himself satisfied - and you, spent.
He withdrew, continuing to unlace you - painfully slow, deliberately dragged out - like he were watching a dove flapping frantically within the confines of a cage, and he had the power to release you, and was in no hurry.
“I am not like my brother.” He attempts to reassure, although the statement is still somewhat ominous, “I seek no gratification through grievous harm like he.”
The sound of delicate ribbon slinking and whipping through eyelets in its undoing, of fingers brushing against satin, bumping against the structural boning.
“- Nor do I desire to leave you in dread, or bereft of spirit.”
With this, your dress corset loosens and gapes loosely around your torso, to where he uncases it from around you - letting it drop to the floor, your skirts now loose also, draping low on your hips - begging to be drawn down also.
You deliberately wore little undergarments - as in your line of work, they were considered inconvenient, time-wasting obstacles that obstructed paying customers from what they wanted. Time wasters.
So you were bare before him now, as your thin linen underdress had slipped off of your shoulders and been gently tugged away with your corset.
His fingers dip, tracing the groove of your spine that ended between the dimples of your lower back.
“Yet, if you’d grant me leave..”
He continued silkily, hands raising to rest on either of your collarbones - lightly massaging, rolling slowly back and forth, rolling faint bone beneath flesh against his palm like he were tenderising you for his usage - running them slowly along the slopes of your shoulders, and settling each hand to cup your glenohumural joints.
You’d anticipated his sentence, heart like a jackhammer beneath your skin - but the close never followed.
Maybe he’d decided it be more amusing to keep you in the dark regarding his intentions - to keep you oblivious and trembling at his expense.
You face him now, cheeks flushed, lashes heavy as you still evade his gaze - tend to his watchful violets, and through a dry throat, you utter;
“- You say you are not cruel..” You begin, and your eyes are immediately forced to meet his own as you follow your wrist that was now victim to his grasp.
He raised it to his lips like it were some bountiful chalice of fine wine, licking at the pulse point there as if he were finding the most lewd, obscene ways to study your heart rate.
The gently sucks at the fragile skin there, tongue tracing the rivets where veins pulsated beneath the film of flesh - and you go lightheaded, a small gasp leaping from you.
“… But I have heard of the shamefalle deeds you and your brother have committed in saundry realms.”
The licking suction then turns into a testing, soft scraping bite of teeth snagging against skin - dull nipping as the corners of his mouth twitched upwards.
“Have you now?” Hollis chuckles darkly, “- How do these “deeds” pertain unto my manner of behaving towards women in their privy chambers?”
You break away from him; for a second, forgetting that he is a prince - of royalty, where everything and everyone is expected to break and bend under his will if it was what he wanted.
But it was too late, you’d already withdrawn - instead, you use your brief escape as a way to make over to the bed, pulling down the remainder of your clothes - now entirely bare.
“The ferocity does not solely reside in thy outward acts and pastimes, my Prince.” In an attempt to save face, you purr the last part - in the same way that would make any man paying for your services melt, “ ‘Tis in thine very blood.”
You follow his initial orders now, easing yourself down onto the mattress - stale linen rough against your skin as you shimmy upwards, exposed and on your back.
You sit up on your forearms when you reach your desired position, and slowly - just as he were moving, you parted your legs for him, as he stood at the foot of the bed.
He looks now as if he were a starved man after a pilgrimage with the duration of many relentless moons at the sight of a banquet the size of a kings’ celebratory feast.
“You speak with such assurance of my temperament as if you are acquainted with my ancestors; not rumours.”
The sound of boots being unlaced, and thudding against the floor. Then, you watch as his fingers - while he is still un-looking, pull his over shirt, then his chemise off of his torso - discarding them.
He circled the bed now, settling at the side of the mattress - a dexterous hand now hooking over your knee, caressing the skin of your inner thigh.
He looked shirtless how you’d expected - lean, polished flesh that rippled with aplenty muscle, a fine dusting of white-blonde hair that looked like shredded glass sprinkled atop powder-white complexion.
Whenever the candlelight caught him, it was like his body refracted the light - shimmering the way morning dew would off of the smooth, waxy leaves of wildflowers in the nearby meadows.
Most of his torso was concealed to you as of right now, though - as his trailing hair cut off just past his ribs, cascading snowdrifts of braids and - with the damp air of the ran-down brothel, gradual waves, not so pin-straight and maintained as it were styled to be before.
As he craned over you, his platinum locks - with their waves, now reminding you of the gushing lake whenever it would freeze over and glaciate in the harsh Ashford winters - brushed against your bare thighs, tickling the skin.
Absentmindedly, he tucked the escaping braids that had loosened from the gathering at the back of his hair behind his ears - a gesture he surely did a thousand times a day as his hairstyle wore away with daily wear, but that made you entrap your bottom lip between your teeth.
It was cruel of the Gods to manufacture generational vessels of evil and make its casings so sickeningly-pretty.
Maybe as an apology, to ease the impact of the carnage they wreak upon the people - to justify their rotten cores, sweeten their corruption.
Or, maybe it was to further mock you, and everyone else.
Maybe these people truly were given the upper hand undeservingly, and their desire to take and take and take and rarely provide had somehow earned them the rights to look the way they did, too - why not let them obtain every form of power, including that of ultimate beauty?
For you could only imagine being crumpled at the hands of a Targaryen, and having their faces be the last image of reality looming over you before you die - a blessing to bestow firsthand, but a burning curse that’d haunt you in the afterlife, knowing you died at the hands of the house that had everything, and still did whatever they could to obtain more.
“You did quake with fear on my account,” He recalls, chin now resting upon your knee, hand roaming closer towards your core, “- And now, you are suddenly.. bolder and more profane.”
You hum at the sensation of his advances, watching his hands pinch and scrape and caress your flesh, tendering to an inclining intensity as he travelled further.
“- Mayhap this does dwell within your blood too, as my.. “cruelty” does?”
He speaks coherent, confident sentences, although his expression is distant now - distracted, eyes transfixed between your legs as he peers over.
Even a somewhat-human, Targaryen Prince is easily susceptible to lust - just as you, and any other common-man is.
That is something, that in this moment, certified his humanity, and in a twisted way, comforted you. For now, he had the same raw, informal urge eclipsing his eyes as any man did when he were paying to be between your legs.
He was still in his braies and chausses, you’d noticed.
“Shall we see if we can taste it?” He invites, and before you can respond, he’s already between your legs now - silver-white locks stark, pearly against even the clean, fresh bed linens, in silken pools like spilling, honeyed milk.
You yelped, as he’d yanked you down to the edge of the bed - he’d somehow settled at the foot of it, knees on the hardwood floor, unbothered - arms hooked behind your calves like he were reigning in a rowdy animal.
Lips latch to your inner thigh - and he bites.
It feels like punishment for your words, each inclining nip a little firmer and sharper than the last - canines puncturing skin, and you wonder if the Targaryens have some special set of teeth as yet another semblance to the Dragon they spend their existence priding themselves to.
Maybe, if he took your breathy snipes to heart as his hot-headed brother surely would, you’d find yourself strung up and hung on the morrow before the jousting even were to begin.
“What temerity do you harbour in your veins.. that has you speaking like this to a Dragon Prince?” He whispers, “Does valour weigh heavy in your blood, as malice does mine?”
At the immense attention to your ever-growing sensitive area close to your core, your back cranes upward, and you reach for anchor - which, when your body decides that clawing at the mattress isn’t enough, you grasp at his hair.
And Gods, he fucking groans.
Long and gravelly, his strokes on your skin immediately slowing, mellowing - you’d satiated the Dragon princeling working between your legs momentarily, stunning it briefly with the incapacitation of fuelled touch.
Who knew Targaryens liked hair-pulling? Bratty - actually, very in character.
You came to at the sound, immediately raising your hand as if to withdraw and profusely apologise - maybe even plead for forgiveness to keep your head, to promise to never touch the assets of something, someone you are so direly inferior to that an unwarranted touch could be an act of high treason in itself.
But, it spurred him on, instead of offending him - as this seemed to jolt him into action properly, mouth now working on your core.
Between laps of you - one hand firmly on your thigh, keeping your legs parted for his insertion, the other grasping for your hand that wasn’t in his hair,
He secures your hand in his own, bringing it down to his mouth, the motion alone single-handedly straightening you out, forcing you to sit up so it could reach his mouth that sat low between your legs.
“You said you didn’t want to cause me harm..” You gasp out, fingers curling into his hair, braids wrapped around your fingers like the finest, softest rope confining you to him, “yet you speak of bloodshed.”
“I ask to sample thy most rightful blood,” He defends innocently, and his words muffle and vibrate through you between laps of his tongue, “- Thou may deny me, though.”
Who are you to deny a Targaryen? His sex-drunken words must be some sort of trap, and maybe your severed limbs were this goal from the start.
You let out a damning whine at the sensation of him latched onto you - tongue working almost as intricately and with direct intention as their fiery attitudes and quick wit.
Hollis took your lack of retort as a need to proceed, briefly detaching himself from you to lick at your fingers.
You should’ve anticipated that the Targaryen Princelings would be skilled with their sharp tongues - you’d seen them, pouty and spitting venom at past jousts you’d been touring around to pleasure the attendees.
Dragons are described as to have long, forked tongues designed to “taste” the air, hiss menacingly, and channel their fire.
- And it sure felt as if that is another reptilian attribute Hollis Targaryen possessed.
Taking your middle and pointer fingers into his mouth, sickened by you - he lapped at them, tongue twisting between the two digits, teeth snagging every now and then.
His other hand had snaked from around your calf to work on your core in the others’ absence, even slightly inserting the tip inside of you, to which you cried out, even at the minimal feeling.
Too distracted now by his fingers coaxing slowly into you, you were unsuspecting - until a sharp pain pierced through the tip of your own finger, similar to when you’d accidentally impale yourself with an embroidery needle.
He’d impaled your fingertip within his mouth with his canine - you wouldn’t be surprised if he were also bearing impeccably sharp, curved, blade-like teeth for tearing flesh as their reptilian counterparts had.
He said he did not mean to cause grievous harm, but he never denied not being cruel.
Either way, you valued your tongue, and you did not protest when aggression eventually had made its way into the chamber.
You’d suspected it, and he had fulfilled - you just would’ve assumed he’d taken to you with a dagger, rather than his teeth.
But Targaryens are animalistic, and you should’ve known.
Play nice, brother. Gods know I won’t.
Aerion’s warning rattled off the walls of your skull as you welcomed the burning, dulling pain in your fingers, that his circling tongue was easing - dare you say, like an apology, though you knew that was unlike.
You wondered which one of the poor whores had landed herself with the arguably more-madden twinned prince a few rooms down - what horrors he were unleashing onto her.
Maybe, you were grateful that this was the extent of the violence for now - that he wasn’t pushy, and that you were enjoying it.
His mouth released your fingers with an explicit, wet sound - and as anticipated, a small crimson bead had angrily headed the afflicted tip of your finger.
Pleased with his work, Hollis lowered your own, now bleeding hand to your heat.
“Touch yourself, dove.” He purred now, and you did - circling your most sensitive area with the exact finger he’d mildly mutilated, smearing your gore all over yourself, for his pleasure.
“Hollis..” You whined, attempting to keep up with the pace he was pleasuring you with - hips stuttering, you hadn’t even computed you’d referred to the Princeling as his first name.
Comedically on queue, outside of Hollis’ pleased noises and your own moans, you’d heard a muffled “Aerion!” From down the hall.
Even during bedding, the twins seemed to compete.
His princely impatience was evident now, as he’d grown tired of merely watching you smear your blood all over yourself - swatting your hands away and out of his way so he could taste this new mixture of your slick and your gore himself.
Fingers now hooking inside you, he lowered himself to taste.
“Fuck,” He breathes out, drinking you and your bleeding fluids in like it were the heaviest liquor, the sweetest cider after a parching summers’ day, “You’re sweet, so fucking sweet.”
Your fist was still full of his soft, ribboning silver mane - woven around your fingers, keeping it from draping over and into his face.
The first, and definitely last time you were to ever touch the hair of a Targaryen. A privilege that only a scarce amount of people were ever able to boast, all while keeping all of their dignity and limbs.
You were sure to finish soon, but he wasn’t ready. Not yet.
Feeling you clench around his digits desperately, back arching, tugs at his hair becoming more erratic, he stopped.
Standing, he raised from the edge of the bed, stepping onto the mattress to kneel over you.
The Targaryens loved trophies. Whether it were in battle from conquest, or in the bedroom - they wanted to take their ruin in, indulge in their damage.
You, disappointed at the loss, were basically squirming beneath him like a dove clipped of its wings - eyes screwed shut, chest hollowing, your body tremors with pending release.
Your fiery auburn locks were splayed beneath you now, coiling inferno nesting your pretty head - stuck out in all directions like a blur of flame, skin hot to the touch.
This was why he loved red hair. Anything resembling fire, he adored - especially if it involved a fair woman, for a halo of silken hair resembling it, mussed and fierce at his ruin paired with supple, soft skin - it made Hollis carnal.
He drank you in, pale violet eyes feasting upon you - glaciated over like he’d been fighting sword to steel all day, and been told he’d won.
“Nũhor nyke perzys.” He whispered, finger lifting to push gently at the plush of your bottom lip, your mouth agape as you heaved in need below him.
High Valyrian - a tongue of which your blood was not supreme enough to speak, that you could never learn; nor comprehend.
My fire.
You watched as he withdrew his hand, now unbuckling himself, beginning to free himself - the fine, barely-there hair that trailed from his abdomen to below his belt - the way his abdominal muscles flexed beneath the spitting candlelight, hair brushing your raised knees as you braced for him.
How, when you’d managed to muster the strength to open your eyes and let your pupils refocus, you saw the slight reddened tinge to his lips - your blood, to which he darted out his tongue and lapped it away, momentarily glancing to your pricked finger and back down to your heat - as if to debate asking you to conjure up more of you for him to consume.
“Aerion, fuck!” The same shrill female voice wailed from the end of the hall - and then, a clatter of objects sounded, maybe a bed leg breaking or a stool toppling over - to which both yourself and Hollis both grinned.
The brief flicker of amusement you felt quickly dissipated though, when you watched him paw himself slowly through the strain of his garments, teasing his release.
Holy shit, you were about to ride a Dragon. Seriously.
Hollis were about to lower himself down to meet you once more - hover his blood-smeared lips over your own, to join your lips for the first time tonight - a different level of burning intimacy he’d yet to allow you, but you so desperately wanted to experience.
Until—
“Hollis!”
A masculine, aged voice belted through the halls - to which the Princeling cursed to himself, stilling - detaching away from you.
An older man burst through the door - knocking the rickety piece of wood off of its latch and hinges as if it took the same low level of energy as flipping the page of a book.
He had the same hair as Hollis and Aerion, dressed in the same finery, the same eyes - just a tad more indigo, more stern and syrupy under the lowlight, boring through wrinkled skin - equally as fierce.
He bared his teeth at the sight.
On queue, a shirtless, rather disgruntled-looking Aerion sauntered in behind the older man, looking as smug as ever, even parading around half-decent.
At the realisation of what was happening, you attempt to raised a forearm over your exposed breasts to cover yourself before the Princes - plural - as if your job title, your manner upon this bed, beneath the Prince alone hadn’t stripped you of enough dignity.
Hollis - despite being chastised publicly by his furious father, without looking at you, still managed to swat away your arm over your chest, a faint smile strung across his mouth, that you could only see the corner of.
“Father.” Hollis greeted, wetting his lips, craning his head ever so slightly to glance at you - as if he were making sure you were still there, shivering beneath him.
Prince Maekar looked as if he were about to lurch at his son and drag him out of the brothel by some invisible collar.
“Īlon ikso leav. now.”
We are leaving. Now.
And so, he followed - reluctantly.
He didn’t even look twice before leaving you there sprawled across the bed, padding out of the door - still, somehow, looking as untouched and rejuvenated as ever, his hair the only giveaway, as it was slightly more voluminous and unruly than usual.
A rather petrified looking maid then scrambled into the room, giving you another fright - only to quickly gather the scattered clothing left behind from the Prince, not even addressing you before she scurried out of the room with the same haste.
The last thing you heard was several sets of heavy footsteps down the hollow staircase, and Aerion’s boyish laughter.
Gods, you hoped that insolent, fair-faced mutt gets his shit ruined at the Jousting on the morrow - his twin, however, you wished less so.
The fantasy was disappointingly short-lived, and now you were riled-up and left in a cold, empty bed - forced to fill the void by inviting in another most probably less-attractive, less-important customer who’s tongue won’t work half as impressive as the Targaryen Princeling’s.
But that was the type of transaction you were to expect, and ultimately deserved.
But what you didn’t realise what just how long the Targaryens were to be stationed in Ashford, and how the lands limited facilities - including brothels - made you susceptible to playing a heavy hand in the Dragon Prince’s dirty habits.
You’ll be beneath the wings of the Dragon once again, soon - and this time, he’ll finish the job - as no Targaryen leaves a conquest unfinished, unfulfilled, or undefeated.
༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻
A/N
wow. hello.
I’ve been on a bit of a hiatus, for lots of reasons that I’ve spoke about but I don’t want to keep boring you guys by repeating lol.
anyway, been obsessed with bratty little Aerion Targaryen and AKOTSK and wanted to channel that into 2tumblr, because sometimes we need crazy concepts to keep shit alive!
anyway, let me know what u think as always - I hate writing smut, can u tell lol???
enjoy! lots of luv. thank u for ur patience.