masterlist.
Helaena Targaryen x Aemond Targaryen sun bleached flies
Spock x La’an Noonien Singh i walk the line
✦ Femgaze Manhwas Recommendations ✦
✦ My Sakura bots for RP ✦

ellievsbear
noise dept.
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
dirt enthusiast

Product Placement
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
Stranger Things
Game of Thrones Daily
will byers stan first human second
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
Sade Olutola
🪼

Kiana Khansmith
One Nice Bug Per Day

No title available

roma★
Cosmic Funnies
Show & Tell
Not today Justin
almost home

seen from United States

seen from South Africa
seen from United States
seen from Singapore
seen from Brazil
seen from United States

seen from Malaysia

seen from United States

seen from Germany

seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from Finland

seen from United Kingdom

seen from New Zealand
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States
@ivy-lea
masterlist.
Helaena Targaryen x Aemond Targaryen sun bleached flies
Spock x La’an Noonien Singh i walk the line
✦ Femgaze Manhwas Recommendations ✦
✦ My Sakura bots for RP ✦
Sasuke Uchiha x stripper! reader
Shisui and Itachi aid the younger Uchiha's heartbroken heart by taking him to a friend of theirs; a stripper.
Warnings: Fem-coded reader; age gap (reader is 6–7 years older than Sasuke); manipulation; sadist reader;mentions of blackmail; non-consensual recording; morally corrupt/toxic reader; references to baby-trapping; gold-digger dynamics. smut; narusasu mention (or is it sasunaru?) modern era.
wc: 4.9k
Being with you was a blessing.
Being near you was a blessing.
Even being looked at by you was a privilege.
You were the most untouchable woman Sasuke Uchiha has ever met.
That was his first thought of you as soon as he laid his eyes on you.
Despite the environment, even he knew–
You were fucking breath taking in all the wrong ways.
You would never catch any of the Uchihas going into places such as cheap strip clubs; but they managed to make an exception for Sasuke’s twenty-first birthday. It was Shisui’s idea of course, wishing to cheer Sasuke up from his recent break up. They couldn’t have Sasuke be blue in his twenty first birthday for something as insignificant as a college break-up.
The first thing Sasuke noticed when he walked in was just how irritating the bass was. Despite the current song being a simple Doja Cat round, it still bothered him. Next– the smell. Fuck, it smelled weird. Not straight up horrible, but definitely weird. Cheap cologne, weed, and that last smell was definitely sweat. Sasuke’s nose scrunches up a bit in distaste, to which Shisui chuckles and keeps leading him in, Itachi by Shisui’s side with his hands in his pockets.
Next up; the amount of people.
He couldn’t really say much, honestly. It wasn’t crazy busy. Just a couple men, maybe a dozen? Still, it was busy for a Sunday night. The trio head over to the small booth section in front to the pole dancers. Shisui sits first to the right, then Itachi in the middle and Sasuke on the right side. In front of them was the stage. The waitress notices the brand new trio and heads over.
Shisui’s the one to order for them, a Chilled Jack for Itachi and two vodka sodas for Sasuke and himself. The waitress nods upon seeing the trio didn’t have the X marks on the back of their palms, which the bouncer always marked on under-the-drinking-age minors and heads to get their drinks.
Sasuke looks to the side, not bothering looking at the two girls that were on the stage at the moment. His break up was recent and not even the neon lights nor the music would help relieve his broken heart. Naruto had made it clear he didn’t want anything to do with Sasuke after what happened.
Perhaps it was his fault he was here.
Itachi notices his younger brother was acting more blue than usual, while Shisui was throwing a couple ones at the two strippers, Itachi decides to scroll on his phone.
“Are you here? The person that needs comfort is here.”
He types into his phone, then waits a couple seconds and he sees the typing bubble pop up.
Then.
“Be right there.”
As soon as the song ends, the next girl steps up. A beautiful woman that was the money maker in that sad cheap stripper club. She was the sole reason this club was still up and running.
You knew you had to make an impression to your old friend Itachi. You two had met back in college, you were a sophomore and he was a freshman. He was the one that got you into the club business, so natirally–you owed him a little favor. Shisui was one of your regulars. You did house calls as some wealthy or important men didn’t like to be seen at such..”ghetto” places. Every Friday night, you’d be at the Uchiha estate. Sneaked in by Shisui. It was routine. Room, take off your trench coat, move your hips for him and he would always without a doubt throw a couple fifties and hundreds your way. Never did you ever give Shisui your number nor social media. Even if he begged on his knees. Every single meet up was scheduled by Itachi; the more mature Uchiha.
Matter of fact, you were a private person despite the very public appearance.
So here you are, stepping up to the stage with the confidence every man adored. You wave bye-bye to the girls that were just on stage, letting them know they had done well as they were new. They leave with two baskets half way filled with one’s and five’s– not exactly the money you’d make, but better than most of the others. The girls smile at you while stepping down the stage, eager to count their first round.
“Here you guys go–” The waitress had come back with their drinks. She places them on the small table in front of the trio then walks off to attend to more people. She’d get her tip later, probably. Shisui wolf whistles as you lazily hold onto the pole, slowly walking around it.
This is why you were good–You didn’t have to do much. You didn’t look their way, you didn’t give them attention. They had to earn their way to even get the privilege of eye contact. At least this applied for the more “common” customers. You didn’t mean to judge, but you had learned what defined rich customers were and what didn’t.
The Uchihas were definitely your favorite customers.
They owned Uchiha Technology Advancements.
The patriarch; whom you’ve done research on, was the one to design the modern devices of today. Such as the laptops, phones, tablets, smartwatches–
They were filthy fucking rich.
And Itachi bringing you a new fish?
You were ready to entrap said fish in your net.
As Sasuke reaches for his glass of vodka soda, he finally takes notice of the black heels that were walking the stage. He watches you walk around the pole in that skimpy black dress that does nothing to cover the red thong peeking from underneath the dress, the dress being so tight he could see the way it hugged your breasts just right. Sasuke only glances up for a moment.
That’s all it takes.
The slow drag of your movement, the way you don’t even acknowledge the crowd—it hooks in before he can stop it. His fingers pause around the rim of his glass, grip tightening just enough to give him away.
“Tch.”
Sasuke leans back, exhaling quietly through his nose, trying to ignore the heat settling low in his stomach—unwanted, unwelcome.
Of all things…
He clicks his tongue under his breath, forcing his gaze elsewhere briefly before looking back up at you on that stage. This is exactly the kind of place he shouldn’t have come to. He doesn’t mean to stare.
But holy fuck he just got a boner.
His eyes follow the money that falls to your feet just like that. He then notices most of it is coming from Shisui. “Woo! Go Angler!” Angler is your stripper name, you rarely gave out your real name. It was inspired by the hideous Anglerfish. Despite their appearance, they still had such a beautiful light to hypnotize their prey–Exactly how you were hypnotizing the Uchihas.
Itachi scooches over to the left to get away from Shisui, not wishing to be associated with him right now as multiple men stare at them due to Shisui’s cheering. Then, Itachi bumps into Sasuke’s shoulder, he looks over and realizes his younger brother is entranced by you. The way your hand glides around the pole effortlessly, “Diet Mountain Dew” by Lana del Rey playing through the speakers. In contrast to the songs played by other strippers, yours was meant to be more delicate yet hypnotizing all the same.
He raises an eyebrow as he watches Sasuke’s adam apple bop as he gulps, Sasuke’s eyes locked on how you come to a stop and ask the body guard staff to help you off the stage. You pat the body guard’s shoulder once he helps you hop off the stage with grace. The body guard gets to work as he cleans up the money from the stage to later hand it to you when you’re back in the dressing room with the other ladies. You had been on stage for max a minute and the stage floor was already swarmed with multiple quantity bills.
Your heels click against the tiled floor as you walk over to the Uchihas. Approaching in a manner that's deliberate. Not rushed nor eager, a simple walk filled with confidence. Shisui is the first to notice, grinning from ear to ear as if he’s won the lottery. “She’s expensive, Sasuke.” Itachi warns him, then stands up to greet you properly. Having to walk between Sasuke’s legs and the small table to make it to you.
“Itachi.” You nod, “you finally came.”
You’re the one to bring Itachi into a small embrace, to which he returns and when you pull away, you roll your eyes at Shisui and then smile politely. You weren’t a big fan of him after he tried groping you during a session only to be met with a left hook from you. But still–he was a regular so you had to play nice. Your eyes finally meet Sasuke’s who’s sitting down on the booth, he doesn’t move his gaze from you. He doesn’t smirk like other men who usually do when approached by you. He doesn’t grin. He’s not cocky. If anything, his gaze seems a bit annoyed. You’re immediately intrigued by his lack of interest. Itachi notices his brother’s sudden lack of interest and can only shake his head; he knew damn well that his nonchalant act wouldn’t do him much in a place like this. Sasuke had just been entranced by you and now he was acting like nothing.
Itachi knew it was a farce.
You step closer, stopping just within his space—not touching, not yet. Close enough for him to notice the shift in air, the faint scent of your perfume. “I don’t think I’ve met you,” you say, voice light, but measured. “You must be Sasuke. Itachi told me about you.”
He finally looks at you properly, his eyes avoiding your chest as your nipples peek through the thin fabric of the dress. Dark eyes, sharp and unimpressed—like he’s already decided something about you.
You look over at Itachi, raising an eyebrow as if to say “this the guy?” Itachi nods and you grin in response.
Him
“First time here?” You question Sasuke, to which he sucks his teeth in annoyance.
“Clearly.”
“Come on,” you say, turning slightly, already expecting him to follow. “I’ll show you around.” It’s not a question. Not an invitation. A decision. You take a step—then pause just long enough to glance back at him over your shoulder.
“Unless you’d rather sit here and keep pretending you’re not interested.”
That does it. You don’t wait to see his reaction. You just keep walking, heels clicking against the floor once more as you walk away from the booth. And a second later—you hear him stand.
“That should have been meee-uhh!” Shisui whines to which Itachi can only chuckle and take him away to the bar to drink up some more. To wait for Sasuke to come back, though Itachi knew it’ll take a while.
-------------------------------
“And this is the VIP room.” You had given Sasuke a tour of the strip club. There wasn’t much to show. Just the restrooms where glory holes took place, the dressing rooms, though they didn’t go in for obvious reasons, and finally the VIP rooms.
The VIP room consisted of an L shaped leather couch, a small table in front, and a platform with a pole in the middle. Sasuke only nods, his hands on his pockets as he scans the room. Then when he looks back down at you, he realizes you had walked over to the mini fridge behind the couch.
He traces your figure as you bend down to grab the champagne bottle from the mini fridge then two cups from on top of the fridge itself. You then stand back up and nod over to the couch. He hesitates for a second, looking at the curtain behind him before closing the curtain to prevent anyone from seeing in. He steps over to the couch and sits on the far right side. You can only hold in a laugh as you stay in the middle.
“I don’t bite.”
You tell him, pouring the fizzing champagne onto the glasses after putting them on top of the table in front of you with a soft clink.
“First cup on the house.”
You walk over and hand him the cup of champagne to which he mumbles a small thanks, his fingers grazing yours ever so slightly as you hand it over.
You then leave the bottle behind after pouring yourself a glass of champagne and you sit next to him, but keeping your distance as you notice he is slightly uncomfortable. “So? What are your thoughts on the club?” You take a sip of the champagne, moving your hair behind your shoulder.
“Messy.”
You chuckle and rest the glass lightly against your thigh.
“Yeah, it’s not exactly the most luxurious.” The silence that follows after isn’t awkward due to the music playing in the background as the next group of girls had gone onto the stage.
“So, why are you here tonight?” You swirl the champagne glass lightly, watching the liquid circle as you do so. The dim lighting inside the room still being bright enough to be able to see the fizz on top. "I don’t think that’s relevant. Nor your business.” He remarks, gulping down the champagne in one go. You can only snicker as he puts the cup on top of the table in front of you two.
“Maybe not my business, but it’s definitely relevant. Tell me, what brought you here?” Sasuke doesn’t know if it’s the insistance you have or the alcohol, he was a light weight after all, but he tells you anyways. “My ex boyfriend broke up with me.”
He looks down at his hands that are placed on his lap as he tells you this. This revelation makes you raise an eyebrow and finally look towards him.
“I’m sorry to hear that. May I ask why?”
You scooch a bit closer to him which he notices but doesn’t bring it up. You take another sip of the champagne. “He said I didn’t love him publicly enough. Whatever that means.” He grits his teeth, clenching his fist at the memory of Naruto dumping him in the middle of mid-terms.
You stay quiet for a second then sigh, leaving the glass on the table as well. “Sometimes..people don’t want love.” You start, looking forward with your chin held high. Perhaps you were talking from experience. Maybe you weren’t. Who knows? “People want proof of love rather than love itself. But proof always looks different–depending on who’s asking.” You shrug, gently placing your hand on top of his thigh. “If you wish, I could ease your pain. Even if it’s for one night.”
Truthfully, you weren’t one to hook up with anyone. But something about Sasuke intrigued you. Perhaps it was his looks. Or the fact he was your type. Or maybe it was just pity? Who knew. Sure as fuck you didn’t.
Actually–yes you did.
You gold digger.
For a moment, Sasuke looks down at the manicured hand that was on his thigh. “You haven’t even told me your name, and you expect me to use you to fuck my sadness away?” He snarls, almost offended by the sudden act.
Yet he didn’t pull away–Instead, he looks at you. Really looks at you. Wanting to know if it was pity or if you were just a slut.
Yet he didn’t see any of those.
He just…saw you. A woman.
“It’s [Real Name].”
And with that, you closed the distance between you two. Your glossy lips softly grazing his own.
-----------------------------
After a couple of minutes, you are on top of him –straddling his lap as he sits back against the couch. His hands travel down to your ass, giving it a firm squeeze that causes the fabric of the dress to rise and expose the thin thong you were using for the night. You moan softly into his lips as you two were currently making out. You roll your hips with his, grinding into his pelvis. This causes both a groan out of his throat and for his pants to tighten in such an uncomfortable way it has him almost whimpering. The tent inside his jeans grind against your clothed cunt as you grind into his own some more. You can only grin at this, knowing you were the cause of said boner.
You move your lips from his own to work on to his jawline, attending to it as you kiss down his jawline and onto the skin of his neck. As you gently lick the flesh, you suddenly feel a harsh smack against your left ass cheek which makes you yelp and pull away, lightly glaring at his eyes.
“No hickeys.”
His eyes glare into yours as well, to which you can only scoff at his pathetic attempt to intimidate you.
“I wasn’t leaving any–”
You roll your eyes at his accusation, your fingers playing with the bottom hem of his shirt. You take the shirt off him, his arms come up as you fully remove it over his head. You then gently toss it to the side, ensuring it stays on the couch and doesn’t fall to the most likely sticky floor. Your hoop earrings move alongside you as you tilt your head to the side a bit. Mainly in curiosity at his tatted skin.
“Interesting ink choice.”
He had his own last name on the left side of his chest along with a crest. Literally the Uchiha Technology Advancements logo. No way the Uchihas were that narcissistic as for the younger Uchiha to tattoo both the last name and business logo.
“As if you have any better.”
“I do.”
You shrug, tracing your index finger against his pale skin, gently tracing the logo in the process, grinning as he lightly shivers at the contact. Goosebumps–you recognize.Sasuke narrows his eyes at you, wondering if it was true. Did you have better tattoos?
“Show me.”
“Mm, you’ll see it later. What’s the rush?”
This throws Sasuke off guard a bit. He knew this would escalate to a hook up. But he didn’t think you’d be bold enough to admit it.
“Yeah?”
--------------------------------
And he did see it.
When you were in doggy style against the couch, Sasuke pounding into that pretty puffy pussy of yours from behind. Sasuke can only groan at the sight before him. You, on the couch, a beautiful succubus tramp stamp on your lower back along with two back dermals that helped the tattoo stand out even more. Your ass shakes for him every time he thrusted into you, and the dim purple lighting really did you justice. Your skin was practically glowing underneath said dim lighting.
His hand digs onto your skill, grips your hair, and as a result, your back arches and your head is forced back by the sudden yank. You keep making those lewd noises he was beginning to chase, looking over your shoulder with half-lidded eyes. You see him bite his lower lip further as one hand is in between your locks of hair and the other is gripping your ass, sure to leave a hand print sized bruise on you. Your garments were discarded on the floor, the only things you had on were your hoop earrings and your six inch stripper heels.
Your hands clutch the sides of the couch, your pussy juices dripping down onto the leather couch with every thrust Sasuke took from behind. As you stayed in that position, you could admire a glance of Sasuke himself. His chest glistened with sweat, his arms had slight muscles to them which were flexing as he had a grip on your hair–
It was just a sweet sight for you as you were a sight to him.
He then lets go of your hair with a harsh push, opting to grab onto your hips with both hands as he keeps going.
“Oh my gosh that feels sososo good–” you almost drool at how his tip kept grazing your cervix, truthfully it was almost painful, but fuck the pleasure was overwhelming. “Keep going–” You say in between gritted teeth, your mascara running down your cheeks as your eyes had been watery earlier from gagging on his cock multiple times. He had mouthfucked you so good you were sure to lose your voice. Your throat almost entirely sore from his girth.
Sasuke obeys you regardless, flipping you over so you’re on your back on that leather couch. You can only let out a squeak as Sasuke places a hand behind your thigh, bringing it to your own shoulder as he slides inside of you again. You throw your head back upon feeling full once again, he has to dodge your high heel when you attempt to spread your legs as your left leg is against the couch cushion and your right on your shoulder.
“You’re doing so good, baby.”
You coo at him as you caress his cheek. You look down just in time to see him pull out and back in with one harsh thrust. He then leans over your body, hand still underneath your thigh while the other is on the couch arm, gripping it tightly as he starts to thrust into you over and over again. No mercy, letting hips hips hit yours as his balls hit your skin over and over.
“Yeah?”
Sasuke didn’t think he’d be one for praise kinks or anything of the sorts. But an older woman praising him? A woman like YOU praising him? It drove him to the edge.
He leans his head down and immediately meets your lips, half lidded eyes looking into yours as you sloppily kiss him back. Tongues immediately swirling around one another. You then do something no woman has ever done to him; you suck his tongue. You grin upon seeing his eyes widen and you close yours, sucking for a couple seconds before his pace picks up and then–
Now its YOUR turn to be surprised.
With one loud groan, he pulls away from the kiss and you feel hot ropes of cum gushing into your pussy.
Deeply.
Perhaps it was dumb to not wear a condom, but Sasuke didn’t expect to fuck a stripper tonight on his twenty-first birthday.
And you sure as fuck were not expecting to fuck a guy you just met.
Sure he was rich, but baby trapping him?
Wait.
That’s actually a good idea.
You bite your lower lip and softly gasp as he pulls out. He immediately sits back against the couch, his chest rising and lowering as he catches his breath. Then, he raises an eyebrow upon hearing you laugh.
You’re still laying on your back, letting your leg lower and fall on the side of the couch as you laugh. “What?” He asks in between breaths.
“Baby, your older brother told me you were a little womanizer–”You then sit up, kicking the heels off and letting them fall to the floor with a clunk. You move your bangs back with your right hand, fixing your hair as it was sure to be a mess.
“Yet you can’t fully satisfy a woman?”
You were mocking him as he hadn’t made you cum just yet–You look down in between his legs and see he’s half hard now due to his climax. Sasuke can only scoff at your words.
“I’ve satisfied women before–”
“No, you haven’t.”
His eyes follow you as you crawl over to him and straddle his lap, your back facing his chest, raising an eyebrow once again as you hover his cock. Your pussy juices mixed with his cum dripping down onto it.
“Girls, maybe. But not a woman like me.” You remind him, placing your hands on his thighs to then lower yourself onto his cock. His hands immediately go to your hips, trying to stop you with a wince as his cock was sensitive.
“F–Fuck-”He whines, gripping your hips tightly as you proceed regardless. You move your hair in front of your shoulder and begin to ride him, not giving him mercy either as you go. “Red’s your safe word. Use it and I’m off.” You only smirk upon looking behind your shoulder and noticing he wasn’t saying it. His eyes were staring at your ass. You proceeded to move up and down, using his thighs as support as you go.
Then–
The curtain opens and the room is immediately lit up with the red LED lights from the club. You can only glare at those that had came in. Shisui and Itachi stood there for a fat second; you also notice a slightly shorter person next to them. A blonde one. You reach over without pulling Sasuke’s dick off you and you grab your heel from the floor. “What the fuck–”
The blonde speaks, to which you chuck your heel at. Hitting him right on his nose. Damn. You had good aim.
He winces- “FUCK–"
He holds his now bleeding nose to which Shisui wolf whistles at the sight of you fucking Sasuke. Itachi only shakes his head and closes the curtain in one swift movement.
“What the fuck–” Now its Sasuke’s turn as he processes what had just happened , seeing the shadows of the people that are standing outside the curtain. “Naruto pulled up, apparently he still has your location–”
You hear Shisui’s voice. To which you roll your eyes and fix yourself to instead face Sasuke as you continue where you left off. Your breasts on his face practically as you rode him– He whines as your pussy engulfs him, this time opting to squeeze your ass as you move. Fuck he was so sensitive and with the way you kept moving–
“A stripper? Really?” Naruto asks from the other side of the curtain, balling up his fist before Shisui attempts to pull him away. You keep going regardless, feeling Sasuke’s tongue around your nipple then he sucks on it, moaning into your chest as you roll your hips.
“Sasuke.”
You purposely whine his name loudly, throwing your head back and arching your back as you pick up the pace. Then, Sasuke lets go of your nipple with a pop and places his hands on your waist as he begins to thrust into you from below. He keeps jerking his hips upward, feeling his release start to build up. Maybe it was his face that focused solely on the curtain behind your body, or the fact that you could hear a small sob behind the curtain, regardless, it was all turning you on way too much.
Fucking psychopathic bitch.
“I’m close–” You announce–noticing the shadows walking away this time around. Sasuke averts his gaze from the curtains and finally looks into your eyes. You push his sweaty bangs away from his face, smiling so tenderly for the first time as you can practically see his sorrow. You can only guess that Naruto boy was his ex. Would Sasuke regret treating him like that? Maybe.
Maybe not.
It was all the same to you.
You reach down and begin to rub your clit in circles, driving yourself closer to the edge. Finally, you lean forward and bite onto Sasuke’s shoulders as you cum all over his dick. Your insides clench around Sasuke’s cock as a clear liquid gushes from your pussy and onto his lap and drips down to the leather couch. That would be a bitch to clean later. With one last thrust, he empties himself inside of you again, pretty moans leaving his lips as he slows down the pace before it comes to a stop.
You break eye contact with him after a bit and get off him once he’s done cumming inside of you. You sit down next to him on that couch and side eye his figure as he slumps forward, his elbows on his knees and his hands being brought up to his own face as he realizes what he’s done. You both don’t say anything for a while. Staying on that disgusting leather couch for a while longer.
Until finally, a song in the background plays. One that’s so familiar to both you and him. BAS by Megan Thee Stallion. You finally snort as the irony is placed into the VIP room. Sasuke slowly removes his hands from his face and looks at you as you laugh. Truly laugh.
“What are you laughing at?” He asks, his eyes following you once again as you get off the couch and start dressing yourself in such a nonchalant way it pissed him off.
“Irony.”
You simply say, pulling down your dress as you fix yourself. You then put on your heels last and look down at him as he’s still on the couch. Your lips contort to a small smirk, “happy birthday.” With that, you walk out the VIP room, leaving him in his thoughts.
He’s never been on this side of things, never been the one to be left behind wanting more. Never been the one crying as he knew this was it. Perhaps it was his karma for Karin, Sakura, fuck maybe it was for Naruto? Who knows? He sure as fuck doesn’t like the feeling on his chest as he looks down at the many missed calls and text messages from his ex boyfriend.
What he didn’t know though, was that you would definitely be back. To black mail him out of every single dime he had. The red dot flashing from the ceiling to indicate everything had been recorded. Baby trapping Sasuke Uchiha wouldn’t be as fun as black mail after all. Soon enough, Sasuke will find out you were a fucking curse.
How I look after reading angst as if it was me personally in that situation
mother and son
After seeing so many fanarts of Harvey Dent from Batman Absolute, I can only say: the people LIKE men with LONG LIGHT HAIR.
And I dare say even more!
Where are these men?
Where do they live?
Are they single?
Where are they hiding?
Are they being held against their will?
Who knows... The mystery remains.
bridgerton is so scary. one by one the siblings are fetched away off into "their happy ending" only to turn into non-characters bearing innumerable children in the background of someone elses story. its like a zombie movie
Sometimes I have the URGE to read a fic where the reader is a sadistic manipulator, instead of being the manipulated, and their husband is a little bitch who is manipulated by them.
Sometimes I just want to humiliate men.
But definitely we need more disgusting reader
WINTER'S TOUCH
18+ | MDNI
pairing: the winter soldier x female!reader
summary: in the shadows of hydra’s control, the winter soldier secretly finds refuge in you. in the safe sanctuary that is your apartment, he allows himself to be fed, tended to, and held, while he silently guards the woman who anchors him. every touch, every whispered reassurance, is a rebellion against a cruel world that tries to erase his humanity, and a reminder that even a weapon bred for destruction can crave love and safety.
warnings: non-canon; civilian!reader; reader is pierce's personal assistant at shield (didn't know about hydra until she met the soldier); angst; hurt/comfort; self-loathing; wounds & blood; trauma; violence & punishments & complicated relationship with food (fuck hydra); one (1) brief panic attack; bucky is called winter; bucky uses broken english & short sentences; protective!bucky; size difference (yes he’s huge, yes he has a big dick); non-sexual dominance (no ageplay; she takes care of him & he lets her be in charge); fluff; showering together; smut; sub!bucky; mommy kink; nursing as a soothing behavior; praise kink; handjobs; coming untouched; sensitivity; premature ejaculation; short refractory period (thank you, serum); unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); desperate & frantic sex; multiple orgasms; creampie.
word count: 17.1k
a/n: due to a few things happening irl, I had to post this today. what can I say, I just want to take care of this man and let him cuddle on my chest and feed him his favorite food 😭 thank you so much kie @metal-armed-muse for listening to my excited ass when I shared this idea with you, and for giving me your feedback 🩵
hope you’ll enjoy! see you next month 🫂
His hands grab onto the frame of the bedroom window and his weight shifts, but the noise of boots landing on the floor never comes. Endless years of practice have trained him to move like a snake, and just like the strategic reptile, it’s impossible to hear him approaching, unless he wants you to. Blood never stains what it’s not supposed to, his work being too clean, spotless. Methodical. And then, he disappears in the quiet of the night, as if he had never been there in the first place.
This time, he arrives silently for an entirely different– and definitely purer– reason.
You are lying on your side, back to the window, knees slightly drawn in as if looking for comfort. The blanket has slipped down one of your shoulders, just enough for that naked patch of skin to be covered in goosebumps.
The window closes behind him with a soft click he barely allows, leaving outside everything that doesn’t belong here. The cold air, the damp stone, the hum of distant traffic that never quite reaches this street.
The echo of gunfire; someone’s agonizing shout; the sharp electric snap of orders obeyed too fast to think.
He perceives the change of air at once. Warm, still. It smells faintly of laundry soap and perfume still lingering from this morning. The aroma of something brewed hours ago and left to cool travels languidly from the open bedroom door. The Soldier feels warmth seeping deep into his bones, and he might not notice it, but his shoulders lower a fraction as he breathes in the familiar mix of scents that with time he has learned to associate with you. With home.
The lamp on the nightstand is off, but the city lights leak in through the glass, thin stripes of amber light crossing the wall and the duvet.
He stands there longer than necessary, allowing himself to just exist in the only place where his mind doesn’t split apart and time doesn’t blur. No shouted derisions, no hands on him that don’t ask first.
They never do.
He moves closer, slowly, but the floorboard creaks under his weight anyway. The sound is barely there, but it’s enough to make you stir in your sleep. When he reaches the side of the bed, your body heat touches him like a hand stopping him from falling into the void. It’s human. He didn’t know it was possible for something like this to exist, so different from the artificial warmth of the machines deliberately built to break minds.
One of your hands is tucked under the pillow, the other rests open on top of the sheet. Your breathing is steady, each inhale and exhale is measured and unafraid.
Outside, a car passes, distant tires on wet pavement. Somewhere far below, a siren wails and fades, yet you don’t wake up.
Carefully, he lowers himself on his knees, mindful to not touch the covers. He studies your face like he’s afraid it might morph into something else if he looks away. Then, a hand trembling reaches out before he can stop himself. Just fingers grazing bare, soft skin.
Your cheek fits beneath his touch in a way that makes something in his chest tighten. The sensation grounds him, pulls him fully into the room.
Then, your eyes open.
You startle awake with a sharp intake of air, but the fear never comes. Recognition settles in instead, relieved and immediate.
“Winter.” You exhale a whisper.
He pulls his hand back at once. “Sorry.” He immediately answers, the word rough and uneven. “I… Woke you.”
You sit up, already reaching for him, your fingers brushing his wrist. “It’s okay,” your smile makes his stomach somersault. “You’re here.”
That’s enough. It always is.
You swing your legs out of the sheets and rub sleep from your eyes before turning the lamp on your nightstand on. Your squinting eyes flick over him automatically, assessing: dirty boots, no weapons, the dark smudge of some dark liquid dried on his sleeve. Worry tightens your mouth.
“Sit.” You murmur, patting the mattress. However, he stands where he is, rigid and contained.
“Winter.” You call out gently.
He shakes his head. “Dirty.”
You give a small nod, understanding. “Okay.” You stand up and walk to your desk scattered with books and your work pc. “Sit here at least.” You turn the chair so it’s facing the bed. “I’ll get the shower ready.”
That makes him hesitate, and you immediately understand why.
“Or… You can come with me?” He gives you an immediate, sharp nod, like he’s afraid you might change your mind.
In the bathroom, the light is a little brighter, and he fights back the instinct to cover his eyes. You lean over to reach for the shower faucet as he follows closely, too close maybe, but you never comment nor mind.
Winter stands amongst clean scents and cleaner tiles, dirty, booted feet huge and out of place on your fluffy bath mat. It makes him feel momentarily lost, so without much reflection, his hand reaches for the back of your sweater, fingers fisting the fabric hard, like a lifeline. It’s hard not to notice how his grip shakes.
“It’s okay,” you repeat, calmly. “I’m right here.”
The water starts to run, and he flinches at the sound, then steadies when it doesn’t change, doesn’t escalate. Steam begins to rise, fogging the mirror, and his head lowers, forehead nearly touching your shoulder blades. You can feel the shake in his entire body now— small, like he’s holding something back.
You keep moving, slow and deliberate, as you retrieve towels, test the water with your hand, adjusting it until it’s warm but not hot. Yet you never stray far from him. They might be mundane tasks, but having Winter standing behind you makes them feel like a precious ritual.
Finally turning around, you notice how he keeps his eyes fixed on a random spot on your top, chin tilted down as if too ashamed to meet your gaze. “Do you want my help to undress?”
His grip on your sweatshirt tightens for a moment.
“Yes. Just… Don’t leave. After.” He utters, words uneven.
“Do you want me to help you wash up?” He nods, but you gently coax him to give you permission with words.
“Yes, please.”
It feels like someone has just filled his ears with cotton wool, his mind suddenly feeling fuzzy and his tongue heavy as you carefully start peeling his dirty gear off of him. He finds his head tipping forward to rest on your shoulder as you work on his belt. Your hands stop short as you finally feel the weight of his head settle, moving them on his back.
“I’m not going anywhere.” You don't seem to care about the filth that covers him. You just hug him closer. “Just keep breathing and let me help you.”
You feel more than hear his sigh, his shoulders slumping as he leans more against you. You hold him for a long moment, yet for Winter it feels endless and not enough at the same time. When you slowly start pulling away, he fights the urge to bring you back in his arms.
Unknowingly to you, his cheeks turn rosy as you proceed to kneel down in front of him and help him remove his boots and then his pants. To anyone outside of this little sanctuary you created for him, he might be the cruel Winter Soldier, the fist of Hydra, nothing more than an asset. But here, naked and shaking, standing before you in his rawest, most human form, he’s just a vulnerable man craving love.
It’s been almost a year since the start of this tender relationship, but your breath never fails to hitch when your eyes fall on his freshly bruised body. Your heart breaks all the same for the old scars; they might not hurt anymore, but they will forever remain bearers of great suffering.
He knows the sight makes you sad. He notices the light in your eyes dim a little and your lips press together at the reminder of how much pain he must endure daily at the hands of those sadist bastards. He hates being the reason of your sadness, but there's nothing he can do to prevent new bruises from blooming on his skin.
Another way he keeps failing you.
His blue eyes briefly dart over your body, fingers fidgeting as you remove your own clothes as well, now standing alongside him in your underwear. You offer a small smile as you open the shower door, and the heat on his ears turns scorching hot. He likes looking at you, well— he adores it, actually. You are so pretty and your skin is always pleasantly warm under his cold hands.
With a soft hand on his back, you guide him inside. There’s barely enough room to move, with Winter being tall and muscular, yet you always make it work. A small, panicked sound falls from his lips when the hand on his back disappears; he abruptly turns around, his eyes frantically flying left and right, until they land on you, bent to retrieve the small white shower stool you bought deliberately for him. For nights like this one.
“Sorry, I forgot to pick it up before.” His shoulders lower at once, and when you finally get inside, you gently guide him to sit down.
“Can you tip your head back a little, baby?” A shiver runs down his spine at the familiar pet name, and he immediately complies. You hum softly as you start lathering his hair with your shampoo, and his eyes flutter close, prompted by the delicate, circular motions and your low voice. It could be the latest song of your favorite singer, or a hit from twenty years ago, he wouldn’t know. To him, you are the inventor of everything soft and fun.
You are noticeably tender in the way you scrub at his scalp, before shielding his eyes with one hand so the mix of water and shampoo doesn’t burn them as you rinse all the grime out. You do it twice, just to be thorough. He tried to mimic your actions once… There, but his handler has only ever given him five minutes to clean up. The last time the Soldier went over time, the agent in charge broke his human fingers for having still product in his hair.
The smell of your products is also noticeably better than the unscented shampoo Hydra provides him with. Yours is just… Well, you. He has come to associate that scent to your hair and body; as a matter of fact, he loves smelling like you. That must mean he gets to be closer to you, right?
“Smells… Like home.”
It’s quiet enough to be easily overridden by the water’s noise, if you weren’t always so focused on his reactions. Your smile is fond. “Yeah? Better than the cherry and sweet almond shampoo?”
“Too sweet.” You chuckle at the instant but subtle grimace appearing on his features, and the corners of his mouth twitch at the adorable sound before he can stop it. Your eyes catch it anyway.
“There he is.” You comment quietly, still grinning. Winter never knows what to do with your praises. His face flushes and he ducks his head, suddenly unsure where to put his eyes.
Letting the conditioner sit in his hair is his favorite part, because that means his body is next. You are even more tender with it, at the beginning he couldn’t understand why, when all his life he’s been used to rough hands and dismissive touches. They made him believe he was unworthy of such gentleness.
Your palms are tender and cautious as they reach every nook, even the marring on his left shoulder. His breathing steadies at your lack of hesitation, as your fingers trace the border where skin ends and metal begins, where the scars are now old, deep lines crossing and overlapping, reminders of a body altered without consent. He rarely looks at them; to him, they are just another proof of his uselessness.
Something in his chest tightens painfully at the distant realization that this might be the first and only time those scars are touched without nefarious purposes. Not to test. Not to repair. Not to weaponize.
Just… To be cleaned.
When your shower gel and the conditioner have been both washed away completely, Winter’s hands twitch where they rest on top of his thighs. The moment you’re done with his back, he stands up to face you.
“Are you okay?” You instantly ask, mentally retracing your steps. Did you touch something you weren’t supposed to? Did you push too much on a new bruise?
“You do everything.” He starts, sorrow creeping in his voice. “For me.”
You tilt your head, slightly confused.
“I don’t… Get a turn.”
I don’t get a turn to wash you, to return the favor, to care for you.
“You know, I was sweating under that blanket.” You blurt out with an easy shrug.
That does it. This time, he smiles, small but real. Gone almost as soon as it appears, but it’s there.
“You sit now.” He waits for you to remove your underwear, his eyes taking sudden interest in the wall. You find it so adorable the way he stoically frowns at it, yet his red ears traitorously give him away.
When you are done, he gently but firmly guides you to sit on the stool. At that, you have to bite your bottom lip to hide the endeared smile threatening to take over your lips.
Winter takes the bottle of body wash with reverence, his hands trembling, but he doesn’t hesitate. The process is slow, mimicking what you did to him. His eyebrows furrow in concentration as he cleans all around; you’re quiet, trying to not shudder when he grazes your breasts with the slightest hint of pressure while lathering them in soap. When he gets to your hands, he cleans each finger, one by one, delicately turning your hands several times until he’s satisfied.
He hesitates before moving lower, hands hovering uncertainly over your knees. He glances up at you, checking— always checking.
“Okay?” He asks quietly.
You nod with your eyes twinkling in adoration. “I’m alright. Go on.”
So he does. He kneels, slowly. The tiles are hard beneath his knees, but he barely registers it. All of his attention narrows to the task in front of him, he needs to do this right. His hands start at your thighs with careful, methodical strokes, completely different from the way he cleans his weapons— thorough, respectful. They are steady now, the shaking reduced to a faint tremor that comes and goes with his breath. He treats your skin as something entrusted to him.
The water runs over his fingers as he works lower, on your calves, rinsing away soap and the weight of the day you’ve carried with you. He doesn’t rush, there’s no urgency here when he’s in your company. Then, with one hand supporting your ankle, he washes your feet, his touch firm enough to be sure, tender enough to never startle. He frowns again in deep and sincere concentration, every motion is deliberate, conveying something akin to I am trying.
He rinses thoroughly, ensuring no suds lingers on your body, as if leaving even a trace behind would mean he hasn’t done enough.
When Winter's finished, he stays where he is. He looks up at you, water still dripping from his hair, ocean eyes searching your face with quiet intensity. He doesn’t smile, nor speaks. He simply waits. The waiting is familiar, but this time it isn’t fear driving it. It’s hope.
Hope that he’s done well.
Hope that this, at least, was right.
You meet his gaze, expression soft and sure. “You did perfectly.”
You notice the moment your words settle into him, slowly, and his shoulders ease. The tension he’s been holding finally loosens its grip. He nods once, accepting the praise the only way he knows how, silently and reverently.
Winter rises from the floor without the rigid precision he usually carries, his movements more languid now, less guarded. His naked chest moves gently as he takes your hand, helping you stand up.
“There,” he utters, quietly proud. “Clean.”
“Thank you.” You smile.
Once you’re out, your hand reaches for the towel– his towel, the yellow one. It’s his favorite, worn enough to be soft against his tortured skin, yet still in good conditions. You keep it folded in your vanity cabinet, untouched except for the nights he comes home.
You always start with drying his shoulders, wrapping the towel around him and blotting instead of rubbing, careful with the metal and the scars. Once his body is only slightly damp, you reach for your own towel, but his fingers wrap around your wrist, stopping you from drying yourself.
“I can.” He mumbles, already grasping the white fabric.
You pause, searching his face for any sign of discomfort. When you find none, you nod. “Alright.”
He dries you the same way he washed you, softly and focused, before you wrap yourselves in your respective towels and you guide him back to your bedroom. You open a drawer, and pull out a pair of black underwear and some clothes. They’re soft, well-worn, shaped by time and repeated washing. Clothes that you bought specifically for him after the first time you met. His chest tightens at the sight: red henley and grey sweatpants. He mentioned it once, how these two items feel familiar, safe, and since then, you’ve been making sure to keep them always clean and ironed, ready for the next visit.
Winter doesn’t comment, but his eyes linger on the fabric, memorizing it anew. He watches you approach with the henley folded over your arm and the sweatpants draped neatly beneath it.
“May I?” You ask once you stop in front of him, and he nods eagerly.
You help him step into the black boxers first, then the sweatpants, letting him steady himself with a hand on your shoulder when his balance wavers. He lifts each foot obediently, movements unhurried, trusting you to guide him. The henley comes next. You chuckle when he bends down to make it easier for you to reach his head, and that makes his lips twitch in amusement. You lift it over him carefully, then his arms raise, fabric sliding down warm skin, familiar and comforting. You adjust the collar and smooth the sleeves, fingers lingering just long enough to ensure nothing pulls or twists wrong.
“There.” You nod satisfied. “Better.” This shade of red softens him; it’s a color that feels chosen, not assigned.
He looks down at himself, then back at your form standing before your closet to retrieve your own things.
“I help.” He says suddenly, materializing behind you as you look for a pair of underwear.
You pause with your hand inside the drawer. “Help with…?”
“Your clothes.”
Your reaction is immediate, eyes softening at his eagerness to help you, to take care of you just as you are doing with him. “Alright.”
You pick a fresh pair of pajamas, and he gently pries it from your hands. He bends down, holds the fabric open, waits for your cue, helps guide your arms through. His gaze dutifully follows his hands as he smooths your top down; they started trembling again when presented again with your beautiful naked body.
This, too, grounds him. Being useful without being used, helping without being ordered.
“Thank you, baby.” He shivers again as you take his hand, leading him back toward the bed. This time, he doesn’t hesitate, but instead follows easily, willingly, allowing you to decide where he should sit.
Relinquishing control here doesn’t feel like losing it, it feels like setting it down somewhere safe. It’s like stepping off a ledge and trusting there will be a soft mattress to land on.
You kneel in front of him, this time dabbing water from his hair with patience.
For a moment, he’s here.
Then the stillness stretches.
The task is done, the praise has already happened. There is no next instruction.
His eyes unfocus, the room dulling around the edges, sounds flattening into something far away. His hands curl into themselves while resting on his crossed legs, fingers twitching faintly.
“Hey.” Your voice comes muffled to his ears, his head feeling heavy. “Baby, your feet.”
Your palms press against his knees, grounding him through contact. He startles, just a little, then sluggishly follows your lead, moving to sit on the edge of the bed to plant his feet flat against the floor.
“Good.” You nod. “Can you hold this for me?”
You guide his hand to the blanket you keep on top of the duvet for colder nights like this one. It’s thick, familiar, the weave uneven from years of use. His fingers fidget, rubbing the edge between thumb and index finger.
“Alright.” You continue, kneeling between his parted legs. “Stay with me. Can you tell me five things you see?”
His mouth opens. Closes.
“…Lamp,” he answers finally, his jaw clenched. “Window. The pictures on the wall. Desk. You.”
“Good. Four things you can touch.”
He tightens his shaky grip on the blanket. “This. The floor. The–” His breath hitches slightly. “The bed.” Then his hand tentatively reaches for yours, and you instantly intertwine your fingers, squeezing it once. “Your skin.”
“Good job, my love. Three things you can hear.”
He swallows. “Water pipes. Fridge, and… Your voice.”
You smile. “Excellent. Two things you can smell.”
“Shampoo, and… Soup.”
“That’s right, I made it just for you, hoping you would come by.” You nod. “And now, one thing you can taste.”
“I– water… From shower.” He blinks once. “That okay?”
“Of course, baby.” You lean closer, towel forgotten for the moment. “There you are.” Your fingers stroke his knuckles tenderly.
His breath catches. Then quieter, softer, like you’re tasting the word before letting it go. “Winter.”
The sound of it sends a shudder through him, sharp and electric yet not painful at all. Not Soldier. Not the title carved into him by force.
Just Winter.
Suddenly, he’s taken back to that night, when he met you. Snow crusted into his hair, fingers numb, barely able to stand. He remembers you asking what you should call him— remembers the blank space where his name should have been.
Then... I’ll call you Winter, you stated, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He lowers his head, breath steadying, warmth spreading through his chest, and suddenly the world doesn’t feel like it's been plunged under water anymore. His name sounds like silk on your tongue.
“I like…” He gulps shakily. “When you say it.”
The hand caressing his locks stills.
“I know.” You answer.
He loves to hear it. Means he is here with you, where he can just be Winter: grounded, wrapped in softness, allowed to be held together by someone else’s careful hands.
After his hair is mostly dry, you set the towel aside. The sharp edges of the panic attack have dulled, leaving a comfortable silence behind.
“I’m going to fetch the first aid kit, alright?” You explain quietly. “I’ll be right back.”
Winter gives you a faint whimper. “Fast?”
“Of course.”
He lets you go reluctantly, fingers still worrying the edge of the blanket and gaze diligently following you as you bring back your damp towels in the bathroom. He stays still where you left him, heart exposed and body waiting.
When you return, you press a water bottle into his hand.
“Here, drink this first, okay?” He nods, quickly chugging down the fresh liquid without pause. He pulls the bottle away only when his lungs beg for air, sharply gasping as his wide eyes search your face, open and desperate.
“Good boy.” He promptly ducks his chin down. You set the red bag on the bed, and open it slowly, as if even the sound might startle him back into something else.
He glances at it, then at you.
“You know... I heal.” He says, not defensive, just factual. “Serum… By morning.”
“Do they hurt?” The left corner of your lip lifts calmly, already reaching for a cotton pad.
His eyes glance down at the wounds on his knuckles. “... A bit.”
“Then we can take care of them so they don't.” You add, softer now.
He looks taken aback for a moment. “Okay.” Then nods, slightly slumping forward.
You start with his face, always warning him about what you’re about to do.
“I’m going to clean the cut on your cheek. It might sting a little.”
He nods and stills, eyes closing. The pad is cool against his skin, the pressure light, but he mainly perceives the careful fingers holding his chin.
“You’re doing great.” You whisper, not as praise, just as information. “How are you feeling?”
He searches for the right answer, words not lining up the way they should. “I’m… Here.” He says finally.
Your expression softens. “That counts.”
Your moves are sure, cleaning each scrape, each bruise with care. Every time your hands change position, every time you reach for something new, your voice narrates.
“I’m going to put ointment on your cheek.”
“I’m going to touch your jaw now.”
“I’m almost done.”
The predictability steadies him. The rigid line of his spine softens, inch by inch, like a bow finally unstrung, enough for his hands to abandon the blanket and clutch your sweater instead. When it’s time to take care of his hand, he tenses again— reflexive, old— and you pause immediately.
“Your knuckles,” you start. “I’m going to clean them. Is that okay?”
He swallows. “Yes.”
Your movements are unhurried even as you wrap his fingers, one by one, the bandages snug but not tight, and his wrist goes lax. By the time you finish, he's leaning slightly forward, toward you, without meaning to, exhaustion pulling him downward now that he’s safe enough to feel it.
Your fingers thread slowly through his hair, gently massaging his scalp. “Hey, are you hungry?” Your warm breath tickles his forehead.
He perks up at that, just a small, imperceptible movement before he nods, his eyes still peacefully shut. “Yes. But…” He clutches the fabric of your top, pulling it slightly, as if your body might dissolve if he lets go.
“That’s okay.” You soothe. “Just come with me.”
You place one hand at his elbow, the other steady at his back. His eyes are now open yet visibly hazy as he rises with your help. His movements are languid, almost boneless, as if the fight has finally drained out of him, completely.
“Alright, we’re going slow.” You keep mumbling. His heavy steps are sluggish, clumsy, almost childlike in his exhaustion.
“Good. That’s it. I’ve got you.”
You move together into the kitchen, step by step. The light here is not nearly as bright as the bathroom’s since you just turn the one above the stove on.
“Do you want to sit, baby?” He immediately shakes his head, tugging again at your shirt. “Okay. Then you can keep an eye on the soup.”
You move to the fridge, taking out an airtight container. Winter stays behind you, arms wrapped around your waist and fingers still tightly grasping the front of your sweater. You leave the soup in a pot on medium-low heat, while you take care of the grilled cheese. You spread a generous layer of butter on one side of four slices of bread, all the way to the edges, then repeat it with another four. After assembling the sandwich, you gingerly move back to the stove with Winter now pliant against your back. The skillet is already hot as you place the first two slices of bread, buttered-side down. His nose digs into the slope of your neck, pinning your body gently against the counter with his weight as you add the cheese, then place the other two slices on top, buttered-side up.
Your hand often picks up a wooden spoon, stirring the soup so it doesn’t scorch. The delicious smell quickly fills the apartment, simple yet familiar, and you gently squeeze his wrist, eliciting a small hum out of him. You also heat some milk, then pour it in a blue mug, the same one that he unofficially claimed as his almost a year ago. You test the temperature before setting it on a tray.
When the stove has been turned off, you scrupulously cut the sandwiches. Not diagonally, or halves, but into smaller, manageable pieces. Bite-sized then arranged neatly on the plate beside the bowl of soup.
“Let’s sit on the couch so you can finally eat. Alright?” He nods silently, not moving an inch.
After setting the tray on the coffee table in front of the couch, you carefully unwrap his arms from your body, guiding him to sit. His shoulders are still a little rounded and no longer braced for impact.
Winter stares at the mug for a moment, then at the soup, as if recalibrating. You just observe him in silence, patient.
Food is… Complicated.
Most of the time, his body is fueled without him even knowing; nutrients are delivered through tubes, systems that don’t require taste or choice. When he’s awake, eating is functional at best, discouraged at worst. Flavors are unfamiliar, overwhelming. Something to manage carefully.
That’s why you make sure this is always in your kitchen. Tomato soup, cheese, bread.
Things he knows and trusts by now.
Winter shakily reaches for the plate, balancing it in his lap. He lifts the spoon with measured care, brings it to his mouth. The warmth hits first, then the taste. His eyes close in ecstasy.
You relax beside him, close but not crowding, smoothing your hand on his back in long, steady strokes; a rhythm he’s learned to follow.
“That’s it, my love.” You murmur. “Is it good?” He dutifully nods, eating in small bites, pausing between each one. He switches to the sandwich after a few spoonfuls, fingers clumsy but careful around the bandages.
“Hot.” He mutters.
“I know,” you reply softly. “Careful. Don’t burn your mouth.”
Halfway through, he slows.
The spoon lowers. His gaze drifts to the plate, then away. You don’t comment, nor try to coax him to eat more. You simply cover the plate with one of the napkins and set it back on the tray, close enough that it can be reached again if needed.
You nod slowly. “We can wait.”
A few seconds pass, then a minute. Winter shifts, breath shallow, cheeks warming. His eyes flick toward your unoccupied hand resting on your thigh, then up to your face. He swallows, before quietly calling your name.
“Yes?” You perk up, lost in the hypnotic movements you kept going on his back.
“Can you… ?” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to, it's not the first time he has asked you to feed him.
You smile reassuringly and reach for the plate. “Of course.”
You scoop a modest bite, wait until he shyly lifts his chin. Then you bring the spoon to his mouth, keeping your other hand cupped under it in case any dribbles.
His lips part, trusting your timing, your pace. He swallows, breathes, nods faintly. You sit with him like that, feeding him slowly, praising him without pressure, alternating between a few spoonfuls of soup and a piece of grilled cheese.
“Just one more bite, sweetheart.” You coo. “You’re doing so good.”
When the bowl is empty and only crumbs linger on the plate, Winter sloppily wipes his hands on his sweatpants while you set everything back on the tray. You sigh, glancing at the unused napkins, but when you look up at him, his eyes are huge and expectant, his shoulders shaking slightly with every single quivery breath.
“Can I ask you something?” You lean back, turning your palm up so it rests on your thigh, an offering. Winter nods, immediately intertwining his fingers with yours.
“Do your muscles hurt today?” Then, more specifically. “Your shoulders— the left one.”
He tries to shake his head. It’s small, instinctive— the kind of denial that comes from habit more than truth. “I’m fine.” He says a little too quickly.
You don’t argue, never do, yet you don’t look totally convinced.
“I’d like to help.” You add instead. “If you’ll let me, I can massage it. Just like last month, do you remember?”
Winter hesitates, before nodding at your question. Of course he remembers the first time he allowed you near the metal, near the scars — makes something ripple through him. So you wait.
“…Okay.” He agrees quietly.
The corners of your mouth lift, relieved but measured, and your hands reach into the drawer beside the couch. You take out a small bottle: lavender-scented massage oil.
“Can you remove your shirt for me?” Winter eagerly takes the hem, his movements clumsy and fast to please you. You pour the liquid in your hands and warm it up. He watches the motion, the careful intention behind it.
“I'm warming it,” you explain. “So it won’t hurt.” Then cup your hands in front of his face “Inhale slowly, please.”
He nods, his shoulders raising and lowing slowly, deeply. You can already see his muscles relax further.
The smell is nice, yes, just not as good as your scent.
“Can you turn around for me? I’ll be right here behind you.”
Winter does as you ask, a little uncertain but compliant, giving you his back. Shifting closer, you kneel behind him so you can reach his shoulders without pulling him off balance.
“I’m going to start on your right side,” you warn. “Then I’ll move to the left. Tell me if anything feels wrong.”
Your hands settle on his upper back, firm but gentle, spreading warmth through muscle that hasn’t been allowed to rest properly in years. He exhales, a shaky little thing, the sound catching in his chest as tension begins to give way.
When you reach the left shoulder, your touch changes. Your fingers trace the edge where flesh meets something unyielding, not pressing yet— just acknowledging it. You work the surrounding muscle first, easing the strain there before coming closer to the scars.
“I’m here,” you murmur. “Breathe.”
The scars are pale beneath your hands, textured. You use only the pads of your fingers at first, careful to avoid friction, careful not to drag. The oil helps a lot, smooth and warm.
Winter shivers, not from pain, but from being touched there without consequence.
You lean forward and press a soft kiss to one of the scars at the edge of his shoulder— brief, like a benediction rather than a claim.
He inhales sharply, hands curling in his lap.
“Okay?” You ask immediately.
“Yes...” he breathes, dreamy. “Again. Please.”
You continue with a small smile, alternating gentle pressure with those small, grounding kisses, each one placed deliberately, as if you’re reminding his body that this part of him can exist without being a threat. The crease on his forehead smooths, his head bows. Even the rigid line of his spine softens under your care.
For once, the metal is simply there: acknowledged, included, treated with the same love as the rest of him.
He doesn’t notice when the massage ends, not at first.
Your hands have been moving in slow, patient circles across his shoulders for a long time, thumbs pressing into the muscle just enough to coax the tension out without startling it. You learned where to touch by trial and error— where his body allowed pressure, where it flinched, where it locked. Learned to listen to the rhythm of his breathing, the subtle hitch that meant too much, the slow exhale that meant stay there.
When your hands finally still, he only realizes because the warmth leaves him, and his body reacts before his mind can.
His back straightens. It’s instinctive, brutal in its efficiency. Muscles snap tight as wire and shoulders squaring as if bracing for impact. Somewhere deep in him, an alarm shrieks— a wordless signal that touch has stopped and something else is about to begin.
He hates that moment. Hates that his body betrays him even here.
But nothing happens.
No command, no pain, no hands forcing him forward or down.
Instead, there is a pause. A careful one.
Then he feels your fingers again, not on his shoulders this time but lighter, hesitant, brushing the nape of his neck. Then, fingertips slip into his hair.
He inhales sharply.
For half a second, every nerve screams no. Touch near the head is dangerous, hands near the skull mean restraint, electrodes, cold metal pressing against bone. His body remembers even when his mind refuses to. But your fingers don’t grip, they don’t pull. They simply rest there, warm and slow, sliding gently through the strands at the base of his neck.
The rigidity bleeds out of him gradually. Shoulders lower, spine curves again, folding back into the couch, into your space. He lets his weight settle against the cushions, his head tip forward just enough to give you better access.
Permission, offered without words.
Your fingers comb through his hair patiently, separating locks, untangling where it knots. He hasn’t let it grow this long on purpose— basic grooming like haircuts is low on Hydra’s priority list as long as it doesn’t interfere with his orders. The messy, long hair combined with a mask and goggles helps obscure his features. It makes it easier to change his appearance by eventually cutting it if needed after a mission. The unkemptness, though, bothers him in ways he doesn’t fully examine. It reflects something he isn’t meant to think about— the lack of choice, the absence of ownership over his own body. Yet when you comb through it, carefully, he doesn’t think about how long it’s grown or how uneven it is. He doesn’t think about how easily it could be to be cut away, reshaped, erased.
He loves the way your fingers linger, loves the unhurried patience of it, the way you treat each strand with reverence. As if it’s not another tool, camouflage, an accident of neglect. But something personal, something worth loving. With you, the hair doesn’t signify disorder or loss of control. He doesn’t care how it looks then.
“Today was… Kind of long.” Your voice is low, almost a murmur, as if afraid to disturb him. “Not even bad. Just long.”
Your fingers separate a section of hair.
“Hmm.”
“I had this meeting that should’ve lasted twenty minutes,” you go on. “It turned into an hour and a half, and no one actually decided anything. They just argued and talked in circles.”
You twist a strand loosely, let it fall.
“That… Happen often?” He asks quietly.
“All the time.” You chuckle, a hint of resignation in your voice. “And on my lunch break too.”
Your fingers keep moving, tracing slow paths across his scalp. You gather sections of his hair, twist them loosely, let them fall again. The repetition is hypnotic. His eyelids grow heavy, blinking lazily as the world narrows to your voice.
“Do you remember about that new intern I told you about last month? The one who doesn’t know how to send emails? Today he spilled coffee everywhere. Papers, desk, his shoes. He swore so loud he scandalized half the floor.”
Winter breathes out, something similar to amusement. “Poor papers.”
“Right?” You grin. “A colleague tried to help him but he stomped around and shrieked that he could clean it himself. It wasn’t very polite.”
He hums again, his body slightly swaying side to side.
“The elevator here got stuck for a second too.” You then add. “Well– not really stuck. It just stopped abruptly and then groaned back to life. But you know I get anxious in small spaces.”
He nods slightly. “I hear sound,” he says. “Now.”
You snort quietly. “Yeah, exactly.”
You let the braid unravel and start again, fingers patient.
“I passed this shop on the way home, there was a beautiful dress in the window, but the color... Eh. Though I stared at it like I was actually going to buy it.”
“Did you?” He perks up, suddenly interested.
“No.” You huff out a laugh. “I would never wear that color. But the thought of buying it crossed my mind for a hot second.”
His mouth twitches. “You… Think a lot.”
“Too much.” You agree with a sigh.
You gather his hair into a loose ponytail, holding it gently at the base of his neck, and he exhales, long and slow. His head tips back slightly, resting against your shoulder. The contact is accidental at first, then deliberate. He adjusts, settling more fully into you, trusting that you will support the weight.
When you release his hair, it spills loose again, brushing his neck. Your fingers continue to play with it absentmindedly, starting and abandoning small braids.
He could fall asleep like this.
The thought never fails to surprise him— not because he’s tired, but because the idea of sleeping without fear is so foreign it feels almost dangerous. Sleep usually comes to him drugged, forced, or not at all. Here, it hovers at the edges, optional.
A gift.
He shifts slightly, just enough to get more comfortable, and your fingers pause for a fraction of a second before resuming. Always checking, always attentive.
“The city was loud on the way home. Too much traffic for a Thursday.” You continue.
“Better now.” He murmurs.
“Yeah.” You look down at his closed eyes. “Better now.”
Your fingers twist a strand, smooth it down, then starting over.
“I know none of this is important.” You swallow.
He answers immediately, without opening his eyes. “It is. For me.”
You pause, then resume, gentler.
“Okay.” You answer quietly. “Then I’ll keep talking.”
You shift beneath him. It’s a small movement— just the subtle change in pressure as your legs tense and your weight begins to lift, but his body reacts as if the floor has dropped out from under him.
His eyes snap open.
The world sharpens instantly, edges cutting, heart slamming hard enough that it steals his breath. Before thought can catch up, his hand shoots out, fingers curling into fabric. He grips your sweater at the hem, fist tight until his knuckles turn white.
“Don’t—”
The word doesn’t quite make it out. It breaks apart in his throat, unfinished.
You freeze.
“I’m here,” you soothe immediately, not pulling away. Your hand comes down over his, warm and grounding. “I’m just getting your shirt and the blanket. That’s all.”
The word takes a moment to register.
Winter blinks, breath stuttering as panic drains in reluctant waves. His grip loosens, fingers uncurling as shame sharply burns in his veins. After he releases the fabric completely, his hand falls back to his side.
“Sorry.” He mutters.
You don’t correct him, nor say it’s okay or that he shouldn’t apologize. You never frame it like a mistake. Instead, you smile softly and reach for the folded blanket draped over the back of the armchair as he quickly puts his henley on, still avoiding your eyes.
When you return, you wrap him in it. Carefully at first, tucking it around his shoulders, then firmer— snug and enclosing. You pull it tight enough that he can feel the pressure along his arms and chest, the reassuring weight settling over him like an armor made of wool instead of scratchy, rigid cloth.
The blanket faintly smells of your detergent. It traps warmth, keeps the edges of him from drifting apart. He grips it reflexively, fists tightening in the fabric as if to test its solidity.
You lie back down with him, adjusting until you fit together along the length of the couch. One arm slides beneath his shoulders, the other wraps around his waist, drawing him closer.
He hesitates for half a second, then shifts, turning into you. His head comes to rest against his favorite place, your chest. The position is vulnerable in a way that makes his instincts recoil. Head exposed. Ear pressed against soft, unarmored flesh. Too close. Too open.
But then he feels it.
The rise and fall beneath his cheek. Slow. Steady.
Your breathing.
And beneath that, fainter, but unmistakable, the rhythmic thud of your heart.
Alive.
The realization hits him with unexpected force. It tightens his throat, sends a strange pressure blooming behind his eyes. He focuses on the sensation desperately, like committing coordinates to memory. The warmth of your body, the cadence of your breath... The proof that you are here with him now. Unhurt. Real.
He adjusts slightly, pressing closer, until his ear is aligned perfectly over your left breast. The sound of your heartbeat becomes clearer, more defined. His own breathing gradually syncs to it, instinctively matching your pace.
Your free hand picks the remote and turns on the TV. The volume stays low, barely more than a murmur, but he recognizes the opening notes of the intro immediately.
It’s the show you introduced him to months ago— something simple and predictable. He doesn’t understand every joke, every reference, and language still slides past him sometimes, too fast, too cluttered. But he catches enough: the rhythm, the emotion, and he knows the characters. Knows that nothing truly bad happens in it, not really.
It’s safe noise.
“This one… Good?”
“It’s your favorite episode.” You reassure him. “The one with the cheesecake.”
He hums in acknowledgment, the sound vibrating against your chest. He likes the cheesecake episode. The characters tell the story of how they came to meet and live together, and even if they disagreed at the beginning, they still stayed together, still chose each other. That's what friends do, apparently.
“I guess I do that too sometimes.” You shake your head as the woman keeps blabbering. “Instead of just letting things be, I dissect them. Over and over again.” You murmur half-amused.
Winter shifts slightly, his fingers curling into the blanket at your side. “You think a lot.” A pause. “Is good.”
You chuckle softly. “That’s a very nice why to put it.”
You go quiet for a moment, then continue, more thoughtfully. You tell him about how you promised yourself to read more literary classics, so you bought a popular one but haven't finished it because you keep falling asleep halfway through the same chapter. About your favorite coffee shop near the headquarters of S.H.I.E.L.D. that changed management, and now the coffee tastes awful.
“They ruined it.” You sigh. “It was the only good thing about going to work.”
Winter exhales through his nose, something close to a laugh. “A crime.” he says.
You laugh for real at that, the sound vibrating through your chest and into him. He clings to it, to the way your body moves with the sound. You lapse into companionable quiet again, punctuated by the low dialogue of the show. Your hand drifts slowly up and down his back, a repetitive motion that requires no attention.
Eventually, you speak again.
“Did you like the food?” You wonder. “I think the soup was too salty.”
He nods, then remembers you can’t see him. “Was good.” He states. “Easy.”
“That’s the goal.” Another pause.
He gathers enough courage to add. “You… Make it better. Eating.”
Your arms tighten around him almost imperceptibly. “I’m glad.”
The episode ends and another begins. He doesn’t track the plot as closely now, his focus narrows again to sensation: your heartbeat, the warmth of your palms, the steady pressure of the blanket holding him together.
This— this is what matters.
Not the missions, the handlers, the endless commands and resets.
Here, he can feel you alive beneath his cheek, and in doing so, remind himself that he is still alive too.
He closes his eyes again, not in panic this time, but in trust.
Sleep pulls at him early. It always does when he’s here, once the edges have been sanded down by warmth and proximity and the low murmur of the television. His body is heavy, reluctant to move, curled into the borrowed safety of your arms.
Still— he shifts.
The movement is small but purposeful so you feel it immediately.
“Sleepy?” He nods. “Do you want your journal?” He nods again, suddenly more awake.
You don’t try to stop him, even when his eyes are glassy with exhaustion, even when his movements are slow and stiff. You know this is not a habit he can skip, not without consequence.
Winter disentangles himself carefully, the loss of your warmth registering as a faint ache. The blanket slides from his shoulders and he folds it with surprising precision before setting it aside, while you slip inside your bedroom. Hidden behind carefully folded sweaters lies a plain, dark-covered diary.
When you come back, he gently takes it from your hands, sitting back on the couch as you keep yourself busy watching the episode where Blanche worries about menopause.
The pen is already there, snug in the black pen loop you bought for him. His hand aches faintly as he writes, yet he ignores it. Fatigue is irrelevant. This is survival.
He writes the date first, slowly. Then, he begins. The sentences are simple, concrete. Things that cannot be argued with.
Drank warm milk. Blue mug. Chip on the rim.
He pauses, considering, then adds.
Milk was sweet. Did not hurt stomach.
His handwriting is uneven but deliberate, each letter formed with intent. He presses harder than necessary, as if afraid the words might fade. Briefly glancing up, his eyes wander across the apartment, collecting details.
Blanket is the one her mother made. Wool. Heavy. Very warm. Smells like her soap.
Her sweater is soft under fingers. Loose sleeves. She wears it when too cold.
His grip tightens slightly on the pen. These details matter. Texture matters. They are proof. He flips back a few pages, scans what he’s written on previous nights, grounding himself in continuity. Evidence that this has happened before, that it wasn’t a dream. Because if there is something in this world equally terrifying as seeing you hurt, it's forgetting you.
They notice it before he can do something about it.
A hesitation that lingers too long. A second too slow to pull the trigger. The way his gaze drifts instead of snapping back to attention. Reports flag it as inefficiency, Pierce calls it degradation.
They restrain him in a room that smell like metal and disinfectant, hands rough and practiced, voices clipped and impersonal. He fights them harder than he ever has before.
Not to escape.
To remember.
He snarls, thrashing as they drag him forward. Hands close around his arms, his shoulders, his throat. He kicks, feral and wild, teeth bared, a sound tearing out of him that isn't language anymore.
Images flood his mind in sharp, desperate flashes: you asleep on your side; your hands warm against his back; the new set of lamps you bought specifically for him, gentler on his eyes than the bright ones installed in your apartment. And then your voice, whispering that he’s safe, even when he is forced on his knees for another order.
He can’t lose that.
Not you.
“I need—” he gasps, straining against their grip. “Please— I can’t—”
They don’t listen.
He twists free for half a second— enough to stumble back, enough for hope to ignite painfully in his chest— and then more hands are on him. Too many. He is forced down, strapped in, leather biting into his wrists and chest.
The chair looms. A mouth guard is forced between his teeth.
And then, panic explodes.
He screams.
Your name flicks over and over in his mind, he clings to it like a lifeline, trying to carve it into himself deep enough that it couldn’t be burned away.
The warmth. The quiet. The way you look at him when he finally comes home.
He begs silently, fiercely, for those moments to stay.
Then the world goes black.
A week passes in pieces he can’t track. No missions, no movement. Just pain and fragments. His head feels hollow, like a room after furniture has been stripped out.
When they finally deploy him again, he follows orders flawlessly. And when it’s over, when the noise fades and the night quiets… His feet take him somewhere else. He doesn’t know why.
The Soldier stands in the middle of your living room, rigid and uncertain, surrounded by objects that mean nothing and everything at the same time. The couch, the lamp, the faint smell of your lotion.
His head hurts.
Then, the door opens.
You freeze in the doorway, keys still in your hand. Your eyes widen as they find him, but neither of you moves.
Something is wrong. He could see it in your expression— fear, shock, something like grief— and it makes his chest tighten.
“I…” He swallows. Words feel wrong. “I don’t know why…” He says slowly. “But I needed… Come… Here.”
Silence stretches between you, fragile as glass. Your eyes instantly fill with tears.
You cross the room in slow steps, as if approaching a scared animal, and stop just short of touching him, like you are sure he might vanish if you do.
“Winter.” You whisper.
The sound of it cracks something open.
Not memory.
Instinct.
His gaze drifts past you, caught on the small desk by the wall. A notebook sits there, plain and worn.
He frowns, not understanding why that object suddenly feels important enough to be acknowledged. “That.”
Your breath hitches when you turn around and see what he is pointing at. “You—” You stop yourself, clear your throat. “You wrote it. For this. You told me to read it when I miss you, so…”
You carefully place it in his hands.
Inside are pages of his own handwriting— uneven, blunt, desperate.
She keeps you safe.
You are not a weapon here.
You love her.
The words land one by one, slow and devastating.
He sinks to the floor, clutching the journal to his chest like it might anchor him to the world.
Hydra wiped him. And still, somehow, he found his way home.
Once, he didn’t know what was missing. The emptiness was just another state of being, another blank space he learned to move through without question. Now he knows the shape of what can be erased.
The memory of that week sits in him like a bruise he can’t stop pressing. Not the chair, or the restraints. Those are familiar, manageable. What haunts him is the moment in your living room— the way your face changed when you saw his eyes and realized Winter was gone.
He remembers the fear in you. That’s what stays with him.
After that night, every time he leaves your apartment he catalogues it more carefully than any mission. The smell of your hair; the sound you make when you laugh quietly so you won’t wake the neighbors. He stores these things with the same ruthless precision Hydra engraved into him, as if repetition alone might burn them too deep to remove.
He also starts writing more.
The journal never leaves your apartment, but it grows heavier with pages. Dates. Details. Small things that wouldn’t matter to anyone else.
Drinks her tea too hot.
Bounces her right knee when nervous.
He writes not because he thinks it will save him, but because the thought of waking up without you terrifies him more than pain ever has.
The fear also changes how he touches you. He lingers longer, like every contact might be the last one. His hand rests at your back a second too long, and his forehead presses to yours when he thinks you’re asleep. He watches you more closely, to memorize your breathing.
Sometimes you notice, yet he doesn’t tell you that some nights he’s afraid to close his eyes because he might wake up empty again. That the warmth in his chest will vanish, leaving nothing but muscle memory and orders.
He becomes more careful with routine.
If he misses a visit, panic coils in his gut. If you move something in the apartment, he asks you to tell him where it went, and why. If you suggest changing your rituals— a different kind of food, a different chair— he stiffens before he can stop himself.
So you learn to reassure him in new ways.
“I’m here.”
“You’ll always find me.”
“If they take it again, we’ll rebuild it. I promise.”
He wants to believe you, but the memory won’t let him forget how close he came to losing everything without even knowing it was gone. That knowledge makes him love you harder, almost desperately.
And every time he walks back into your apartment, every time the lock clicks behind him and the warmth closes in, relief floods his bones so hard it nearly hurts.
He is still here.
You are still here.
And for now, that has to be enough.
It all comes to a head the following month. He notices it the moment he steps inside.
The mug is wrong.
It’s sitting on the counter instead of the table. A different one— slender, white, unfamiliar weight. The sight of it makes something inside his chest stutter.
You look up from the stove, surprised. “Hey.” Your smile should ease a little bit of the tension in his shoulders, but he’s too busy having a one-sided staring contest with the new mug. “You’re early.” You weren't expecting two visits in two days, not that you're complaining.
Winter nods, still by the window he came in, and you follow his gaze. “Oh— the blue one is still in the dishwasher.”
His throat tightens. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath.
“Okay.” He says quickly. Too quickly. “Okay.”
He moves deeper into the apartment, checking the windows, the lock, the corners. Everything is where it should be. Everything except that small, ordinary change that shouldn’t matter at all.
Your smile fades into a thin line.
You set the dishcloth down. “Winter,” you call softly. “Sit for a second.” He hesitates.
“Please.” You add, and that’s when he obeys, perching himself on the edge of a chair, spine straight, hands clasped together so tightly the metal plates in the vibranium arm hum faintly. He keeps his eyes on the floor.
You open the dishwasher, pick the right mug out, still wet, and set it in front of him. He exhales before he can stop himself.
“Hey.” You breathe out, crouching in front of him, always careful not to crowd him. “Talk to me.”
“I’m fine.” He answers automatically.
You’ve learned that rushing him won’t take you anywhere. The truth sometimes finds its way out on its own.
“You panicked.” You swallow. Not accusing, just stating a fact.
Winter shakes his head. “No. Just– The mug… Not here.”
“There was a different mug. Yours was not in his usual place, and it scared you.”
His jaw tightens, still keeping his blue eyes firmly on the table. So you reach out, resting your hand over his knuckles. “Is it happening again?” You whisper. “The fear of forgetting?”
Winter swallows.
“I remember,” he starts, the words coming out rough. “That week.”
Your breath catches.
“Didn’t know…” he quavers. “Didn’t know you.” His voice falters. His lips press together, forcing the rest out. “I thought… If I forget… Come back empty.”
Your other hand tentatively comes up to his cheek, softly but firm enough to turn his face toward yours. He regards you with distressed eyes, almost like he wants to burst into tears.
“Winter,” your voice is surprisingly even. “You found me without your memories.”
He shakes his head, breath uneven. “What if I don’t?” The words spill out faster now. “What if I– walk here but– don’t stop.”
You pull him into your arms before the demons can take him. He stiffens for half a second, then collapses into the embrace like he’s been waiting for permission. His forehead presses into your shoulder hard, almost as if trying to fuse together your bodies. His hands clutch the back of your shirt, desperate and grounding all at once.
“They can hurt you,” you murmur into his hair. “They can take pieces. But they will never get this.” Your hand presses over his chest, right on his heart. “They don’t get what you choose.”
“I’m scared.” He chokes on a breath, barely audible.
“I know. I am too.” You frown. “But I trust you to always come back to me. Whatever happens.”
You lean back just enough to look at him, hands cradling his jaw as your thumbs brush the tension off. “We’ll make more anchors,” you continue. “More than the journal, more than routines. You won’t have to carry this alone.”
Winter searches your face with a lonely tear sliding down his cheek.
“But you need to tell me, my love.” You add. “When it gets bad. You can't just hold it inside.”
He nods, a small, hasty movement. “I’ll try.”
“That’s all I’m asking.”
You rest your forehead against his, breathing him in. Slowly, his shoulders lower. The panic ebbs vertiginously, leaving him utterly drained and hollow.
That day the Soldier learned that being seen in his fear makes it hurt less.
On the bookshelf nearby, something catches his eye. A photograph. He frowns faintly, he doesn’t remember writing about it. He stands, retrieves it, studies it under the low light. You look younger in the picture, standing among a group of people, all smiling too wide, holding papers.
Graduation.
He sits back on the couch and writes again.
Photo on shelf. Her graduation. She is smiling, with friends. I forgot.
He underlines the last sentence once, not hard enough to tear the page. Just enough to mark it.
He frowns at it, then adds one more line, smaller.
Watched show. Cheesecake episode. My favorite.
Winter closes the journal with care. The cover makes a soft, final sound as it meets itself, and for a moment he rests his palm flat against it, as if sealing what he’s written inside. The facts are there now. Anchored and safe. He then hands it to you with a single word. “Wait.”
It’s not a request, nor a command. It’s simply a word that carries a deep meaning for you, honed by repetition.
You nod and stay where you are on the couch, blanket pooled on your crossed legs and journal safely pressed against your chest as your eyes follow him discretely. Winter rises, and his posture changes immediately— spine straightening, shoulders setting, breath recalibrating.
This is another version of him. Not the one who melts into your touch, not the Winter who closes his eyes and asks for snuggles against your chest.
This one is the Soldier.
He moves through the apartment without sound, bare feet finding the places that won’t creak. The living room first, then the narrow hallway. He checks the front door, fingers testing the lock once, twice. Not because he doubts it, but because certainty matters. You deserve to sleep behind a door that he knows, without question, is secure.
The deadbolt is firm, the chain untouched.
That's when he stops to listen. The building has a rhythm at night. He learned it in his second month here, memorized it the way he memorizes terrain. The movement of pipes at predictable hours; the distant hum of traffic softened by elevation. The occasional elevator cable groaning faintly through the walls.
Tonight, everything matches, so he moves on.
The windows come next. He doesn’t open them, just checks the latches, presses gently against the glass, notes how the frames sit in their tracks. One latch feels a little too loose when he tests it, so he tries again and again, toying with it a little until he hears the click seat properly.
Good.
There are things you don’t notice. Wouldn’t notice. The way footsteps in the stairwell sometimes echo wrong— too light. Pondered. The way a door should never close without sound in this building. The absence of noise where there should be some. When something doesn’t fit, his body knows before his mind names it.
Each night Winter spends here, he positions himself between you and the door. It’s not conscious anymore, his body simply arranges itself that way, a barrier of muscle and bone laid instinctively in the path of danger.
Only on certain nights he lets you take that place, because they are different.
Sleep turns against him, memories surface uninvited— too vivid, too sharp. His body reacts as if certain things are happening in that exact moment: his breath hitches, his muscles lock, his hands curl at his sides as if looking for weapons that aren’t there.
You know the signs, and you talk him back. Every time, unfailingly.
Your hand presses flat between his shoulder blades, grounding, firm. You tell him where he is, the date, his name. Your name. You remind him that the walls are painted a certain color, that there is a tile by the window that creaks and every single time he visits, he promptly forgets and steps right on it.
You stay awake until his breathing evens out. Sometimes, when it’s especially bad, you convince him to let you sleep on the side of the bed closest to the door, as if daring the world to come through you first. He hates that. Loves it too, how you refuse to let him carry everything alone, how you fiercely fight to give him some respite.
Yet it takes everything in him not to pull you back.
Winter’s not only good at noticing things out of place, but also all your little tells. The way your hands get cold when you’re tired, how you push yourself through chores even when your shoulders slump, your breathing changing when you’re stressed. When he sees it, he doesn’t comment— he just intervenes. Guides you gently to sit. Takes the dish from your hands. Finishes folding the laundry while you watch him with half-lidded eyes, amused as he lines the edges up with military precision. He cleans up before you can see the mess: broken glass swept away silently, coffee wiped from the counter before it can stain. Not because you can’t handle it, but because he wants your world intact, even in small ways.
He never tells you everything, and for that, his stomach often twists in guilt.
You ask sometimes, careful not to pry. He answers around the truth, trimming the sharp edges. Leaves out the blood, the names, the parts that would keep you awake at night. When memories surface that are too dark to contain, he removes himself. Steps into the bathroom. Onto the balcony. Anywhere the weight of them won’t bleed into your space.
When you apologize for worrying about him with a small voice, he shakes his head.
“Not your fault.”
He keeps supplies stocked without telling you: batteries replaced before they die, water bottles cycled so the oldest are used first, first-aid replenished. He memorizes alternate exits in your building, calculates the fastest routes away, times his arrivals and departures so no one sees patterns forming.
He teaches you safety in pieces small enough not to frighten you. A suggestion here, a quiet reminder there.
“Always look peephole first. Even if wait someone.”
“Leave lights on when not home too.”
If you mention having to go somewhere for work, or with your friends, he warns.
“Crowded.”
“Only one emergency exit.”
And you choose accordingly.
On rare days when he can stay longer— when missions are short or delayed— he sits with you through work phone calls, holding your hand beneath the table, his head resting on your shoulder when voices on the other end get too insolent.
Despite the danger of being caught, he stays nearby whenever you’re sick, just enough to watch the building from a distance. He makes sure to check on you in his own ways.
So even if he’s gone, part of him still lingers in every precaution, every habit you follow, like an unspoken promise: he will always try to keep you safe, whether or not you can see him.
By the time Winter finishes with his safety rounds, the edges of his vision have gone soft with exhaustion. You are curled at one end of the couch, knees tucked up and eyes glued on the screen. The television is still on, low volume, but you instantly give him all your attention when he sits beside you.
“There you are.” You mumble. His hand reaches out before he’s fully aware of it, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. “Everything okay?”
He nods once. “Good.”
“You want to go to bed?” He nods again, and promptly follows you as you rise. He stays half a step behind you down the hallway, fingers still hooked into your shirt, his presence a shadow that isn’t threatening. When you reach the bedroom doorway, he hesitates.
There’s something else.
He shifts his weight, searching for the right words. His brows knit, and his grip tightens slightly, not in fear but in hesitation.
“Uh,” he starts. Stops. Tries again. “We… Do face thing?”
You turn, already beaming. “Skincare?”
“Yes.” He nods quickly, hopeful. “Skincare night.”
There’s something almost boyish in the way he says it, his eyes flicking up to your face, thrilled.
“If you’re not too tired.”
His answer is immediate. A firm shake of his head. “Not tired.”
It isn’t a lie. His body is exhausted, but this doesn’t cost him anything; on the contrary, he loves spending time with you, doing what you like.
Your smile widens. “Okay. Come on, then.”
The first time you’d introduced him to skincare, it was nothing short of endearing.
Big blue eyes full of confusion followed your movements as you adjusted the fuzzy Shrek headband on his hair. It was yours, a gag birthday gift from your best friend.
“What?” Winter frowned over your shoulder, staring down at the two two colorful face mask packets.
“Face masks. The pink one is a moisturizing and soothing mask with chamomile. The yellow one is supposed to give your skin a glowing boost. And…” You explained, opening the first one. “They feel nice on your face.”
Winter’s eyebrows rose in interest, slightly leaning in to tentatively sniff the fabric. “Warm?”
“Nope, they’re slightly cold.” You carefully opened the mask sheet.
“Pretty?” You hummed in confusion. “My skin… Pretty like yours with… This mask?”
Oh.
You looked up at him then, your chest suddenly tightening at the way his eyes blinked down at you, curious and innocent.
“Oh baby, your skin is already pretty.” The apples of his cheeks gained a beautiful rosy shade. “Now bend down a little please, this is for you.”
He tried his best to stay still as you set it on his face, a chuckle falling from your lips at his grimace when the hem briefly got caught on his lips. You carefully adjusted the mask, before pulling away to admire your work. Pierce would probably have an aneurysm if he saw the menacing Winter Soldier wearing a Shrek headband and a pink face mask.
“Alright?”
“Cold.” Winter muttered. “And wet.”
You tore open the other pack, giggling. “Just let it sit for a few minutes, I promise you'll get used to it.”
He did in fact not get used to it. It was slimy, and it actually forced him to keep his chin up, worried it would suddenly lose its grip and slide right off his face. But he loved the way you doted on him with your little products. He also couldn't deny the normalcy of it all. And when you cupped his cheeks as you checked for any left over cream? He instantly melted like ice cream under the sun. You also gave him a kiss at the end… So that's how he promised himself to never skip skincare.
You reach under the sink and pull out his headband.
“Wolf?” He perks up.
You nod. “Wolf.”
He bends without being asked, lowering his head so you can slip it over his hair. The fabric brushes his temples as your fingers adjust it, and he closes his eyes.
You bought it on a whim, and then hesitantly showed it to him on his next visit, shyly explaining how you had seen it at the store and thought of him. He nodded at the time, unsure how to respond. But that night, he held it in his hands for hours after you fell asleep, committing the feel of it to memory.
You brush your teeth first, side by side at the sink. He observes you in the mirror while pretending not to. The way you unconsciously lean forward, the small crease between your brows when you concentrate. The domestic normalcy of it all makes his chest ache. This is what other men do, he thinks. They stand in their bathroom with the women they love, arguing about how toothpaste should be squeezed. Just existing in these quiet spaces without fear.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been staring before you glance up and catch his eye in the reflection.
“You okay?”
He nods, a little embarrassed. “I like this.”
Your smile softens. “Me too.”
Afterward, you reach for the cleanser. He turns toward you automatically, chin lowering just slightly in invitation.
“Do you remember what this does?” You pump a small amount into your palm.
“Cleans skin and make it... Nice?” He asks.
“Yes.” You smile. “Makes it healthy… And also nice.” You work it into his skin slowly, narrating the motions. He focuses on the sensation: your thumbs circling his cheekbones, the faint scent of something clean and mild. He breathes in deeply, grounding himself in the moment.
The mask comes next, he recognizes it by the packaging.
“This is funny one.” He murmurs when you unfold it.
You snort, carefully smoothing it on his face. “You say that every time.”
He shrugs, lips twitching under the fabric. “Animal masks are funny.”
You put on yours as he starts examining all the other products, humming after reading each name. His flesh hand is still gripping your shirt.
“Serum.” Winter says suddenly. “What do?”
You turn to him, eyes bright. “Serum helps with a lot of things. Let's say it gives skin the targeted support it needs.”
He hums absentmindedly, absorbing the sound of your voice more than the information itself.
“Sunscreen?”
“Protects your skin from the sun’s aggressive radiations, and prevents aging.”
He frowns. “You are not old.”
You laugh at his offended tone. “It’s preventative.”
With a huff, he goes back to the next product. “Retinol?”
“It stimulates the production of collagen. Basically it smoothes wrinkles and fine lines.” You explain patiently. “But it can be harsh, so I don’t use it every night.”
He nods solemnly, as if this knowledge is vital. In a way, it is. It’s part of you, part of the world you exist in that doesn’t involve violence.
He studies your face while you talk, his heart beating a little faster when your pretty eyes light up while explaining the things you enjoy. He loves this version of you– relaxed, trusting. Because this is what you look like everyday, in the moments he's not allowed to be part of.
When it’s time to remove the masks, he sits on the closed toilet lid as instructed and closes his eyes without being asked. This is the part he likes best.
“Okay.” You mumble. “Moisturizer.”
Your fingers are gentle as you take your time smoothing the cream into his skin like it’s an act of devotion. He leans forward slightly, chasing the touch without meaning to. When you finish, Winter waits with bated breath until he feels the soft press of your lips against his. The reaction is immediate. He freezes, before blushing violently. His breath stutters without him allowing it.
Then his eyes open, and he swallows, mustering all his courage. “My turn.”
Your smile is radiant as his hands carefully grasp your shoulders, leading you to sit down. He frowns in concentration as he applies the moisturizer to your face with precise movements, trying to not let his eyes linger too much on your features now that your eyes are closed and he can admire your beauty all he wants without his cheeks going on fire.
When Winter hums satisfied, you know he's finished. Once your eyes flutter open, you instantly catch his expectant eyes.
“You did good. Thank you, baby.” You chirp warmly.
His eyes twinkle with something unspoken yet very evident. On the outside, he simply allows himself to give you a nod, unable to speak, before he clumsily leans in and kisses you— quick, shy, barely there.
You bite your bottom lip to hide a grin. “Ready for bed?”
He nods and reaches first for your hand, fingers threading through yours.
You ease yourself back onto the mattress; it dips under you, sheets rustling softly, the pillows shifting as you settle into them. You move around a little until you’re comfortable, until your back is supported and your arms are relaxed at your sides.
Then you look up at him.
Winter stands at the edge of the bed, hands hanging uselessly for a moment before one of them finds your outstretched arm, closing around your palm. The lamp casts your face in warm light, softening every line, the room now feeling like a little, tender haven where the rest of the world doesn't matter. Like time itself has slowed just to savor this moment.
“How do you want to sleep?”
Some nights, he knows immediately; the answer rises up in him like instinct. Other nights, like this one, the want is there but tangled— wrapped in hesitation, in the lingering belief that wanting too much closeness might be a burden.
He swallows, shifting forward, movements enough clumsy that they would shock anyone who’s ever seen him in motion elsewhere. Precision isn’t what he needs right now. Control isn’t either. So he climbs onto the bed slowly, carefully, knees sinking into the mattress between your legs. The action is awkward, but earnest. He pauses, hovering for half a second, checking your face for any sign of discomfort.
“Come here.” You encourage him softly, immediately understanding and opening your arms.
Winter lowers himself with meticulous care so you don’t have to bear the full weight of him. He’s acutely aware of the difference between you two, of his density, his strength. He would never forgive himself if he hurt you, even by accident.
When he’s adjusted himself into a careful balance, he finally lets his head rest on your chest, fingers shakily clutching the fabric of your sweater to further anchor himself.
The effect is immediate.
Your heartbeat meets his ear like a signal. Not loud, not insistent. Just there, constant and reliable. He exhales, a long breath that feels like it’s been waiting in his lungs all night.
His body exists in a world that is often abstract— rooms blur together, nights collapse into each other, days are measured in objectives rather than hours. But this? This is measurable.
Your heart gives shape to time, each beat is proof of continuity. He adjusts his head slightly, angling his cheek so more of him is pressed into your warmth. The cotton of your shirt brushes his face, and he closes his eyes, not because he’s tired, but because opening them feels unnecessary.
Your chest rises and falls beneath him, slow and deep. Without thinking, he begins to match it. He’s learned, over time, that when he listens to your breathing long enough, his own stops being sharp, like something he has to monitor. You bring one hand up to his back, palm settling between his shoulders. The contact is firm enough to be grounding, gentle enough not to startle. Your other hand finds his hair almost immediately, fingers threading through it in slow, patient strokes.
Winter lets out a low, shaky exhale, the sound so raw it makes your ears perk up.
“Are you alright, my love?”
He clings harder onto the fabric, and you are certain that he is going to tear it off with how hard he is gripping it.
“Closer.” He shifts once, twice, restless. He buries his face harder against your chest, moving his mouth blindly, mouthing you through the cotton of your top. Desperate and clumsy, a low whine slips from his throat when the fabric denies him skin.
The first time this happened was three months in your relationship. He jerked in his sleep, his eyes squeezing shut, whimpering... He was stuck in a nightmare. Then he shot up, his breaths ragged and uneven.
Winter whipped his head frantically, his eyes still adjusting to the darkness of the room, only relaxing a little when he heard your voice beside him.
“Hey, Winter– Winter, it’s okay, it was just a nightmare.” Your hand tentatively touched his arm, and his reaction was immediate. He dived onto you, head heavy on your chest as your arms wrapped around him, your hands rubbing his back up and down as he trembled, holding you tighter, trying to be closer.
“It’s okay, you’re safe.” But your words didn’t seem to soothe him at all as he continued to restlessly fidget.
“Baby? You’re okay, you’re in my apartment… What do you need?”
“I–” You wiped the tears that started streaming down his cheeks as he continued to squirm, burying his face further as if he needed to crawl into your rib cage.
“Yeah?” You tried to coax it out of him.
Winter shook his head, still trembling in your arms “Closer.”
“Closer?” You looked around the room as if it had the answer, but the Soldier beat you to it. He suddenly sat up, hesitating for a moment before wordlessly slipping his head under your shirt. Your gasp of surprise made his muscles immediately freeze. That was it, your breaking point. He had taken advantage of your kindness for too long, and now… How could he do something like this? Dive under your shirt… And for what?
His body flinched as a reflex when your hands rested on his back, slowly starting to rub the rigid muscles in circular motions.
“It’s okay, take what you need, Winter.” Nuzzling his face further into your chest, his arms went slightly limp around your waist. Finally, his breaths started to even out, and he fell asleep.
After that night, Winter sought after your breasts not only for sexual pleasure, but also for comfort. At first, he was more subtle about it. He would inch his way closer to you after a nightmare, careful to not press too much onto you, even if he wanted to do. So badly. Then, he started doing it when you two lounged on the couch, or before falling asleep, quietly resting his head against them. If you stirred, he’d only cling onto you tighter.
Huffing, Winter’s hands reach for the hem of your sweater, tugging it upward. You help him, shifting enough so he can remove it completely.
“That’s okay, there we go.” You cradle the back of his head, guiding him back down.
You hear him sigh happily, and despite his beard tickling your bare skin, you do your best to not squirm, worried he might interpret it as you trying to free yourself from his hold. Your fingers gently comb his locks, without urgency. Winter moans, arms circling your waist to pull you impossibly closer as the fog in his mind grows thicker. It feels safe, comforting, like open arms ready to catch him.
His face nuzzles into your breasts for a while, until you feel something wet around your nipple. You instinctively bite your bottom lip to stifle your gasp, though Winter feels the little flinch of surprise. His warm mouth suckles in soft, absent pulses; that's when his body completely melts. Not dramatically, nor all at once. But gradually, muscle by muscle.
Your legs shift slightly, closing just enough to cradle him there, and his hips press closer, a subtle movement to seek more contact. His nose brushes the fat of your breasts, inhaling deeply so your scent blesses his lungs, clean and familiar.
A whine is muffled against your flesh when you press a kiss into his hair, just above his temple.
“You’re safe.” You murmur, not as reassurance but as a statement.
His breathing evens out further, a shiver running down his spine as your your nails lightly graze his scalp. The repetition is soothing in a way that sinks past thought, settling somewhere deep and silent.
Minutes pass. Maybe longer, and he’s now more awake than ever, a primal need racing through his veins. You can pinpoint the exact moment his actions take a different turn. He latches more greedily onto your nipple; his tongue flicks the turgid nub, rough and desperate; the suction turns almost bruising. His hard suckles speak of a specific need right now, so you cradle him closer, core throbbing as the wet sounds fill your bedroom.
His eyes shut close as if in a trance while his tongue swirls over the sensitive bud. He uses his flesh hand to play with the other, gently twisting it. But the tremors in his body only grow worse: he needs more. More skin, more warmth, more of you wrapped around every broken part of him.
He whimpers, the sound pitiful, hungry. His hips keep jerking forward in clumsy, desperate thrusts, rubbing his now heavy cock against the mattress, but the friction is not enough.
“Winter.” You swallow. “Do you need me to touch you, baby?” His nod is eager, quick. “Okay, okay. Lift your hips a little for me.” He immediately obeys, allowing your hand to slip past his pants.
His eyes drift up towards you, glassy and filled with desire as you gently squeeze his length, running your finger with a featherlight touch over his delicious tip. His hips buck immediately into your hold, a gasp promptly falling from his lips. “Mommy please– feels too good.” Your hand squeeze him tighter, going up and down faster now, prompting him to bury his face back between your breasts.
“Yeah? Feel good, baby?” Your fingers briefly dance downward to tease his balls, stroking gently. “Am I making you feel good?”
“Tell me. Please.”
“What, baby?” Your thumb swipes over the leaking head..
“That–That I’m–”
“What?” You tilt your head. “Good? My handsome boy?” He blushes with his whole body, a fevered glint lighting up in his eyes as his hand desperately kneads the supple flesh of your tits.
He grows impossibly harder in your hands, his hips thrusting forward, turning into a moaning, stuttering mess. “Yes–Yes, I am!”
You feel his body tense, thighs tight and bulging, as he lets out a long, deep groan. “So big, so smart… You are my best boy, Winter.”
Oh, he whines so loudly at that, his balls drawing up tight. He craves your praises, especially when you call him smart. The Soldier is not used to that word, not when he's been considered a dumb mutt his whole life.
“Come for me, Winter.” He squirms and moans helplessly on your chest, bursting all over your hand, curling his toes at the force of his orgasm. You keep jerking him off until the very last twitch, until he collapses on you, his cock still throbbing, refusing to soften.
You know he always needs more before being completely satisfied.
Winter exhales harshly, one of his hands already fumbling with your pants.
“Let me.” You lift your hips, helping him lower your pants and panties at the same time. His hands frantically take the hem of both, carelessly tossing them on the floor. He does the same with his own pants and underwear, clumsily tugging at them with his free hand. In the end, his feet remain tangled in the fabric, and he leaves them there, too desperate to feel you.
He shudders when his still sensitive cock comes into contact with your wet core as your thighs spread wider to give him more access, his hips starting a graceless grinding motion. His lips latch again on your tender nipple, suckling greedily.
“C’mon, baby.” You murmur against his temple, still keeping your fingers gently tangled in his hair.
Winter doesn’t even line himself up properly at first, just thrusting blindly, rutting against your folds. He gasps when your hand wraps again around his cock, gently guiding the tip to your hole. That’s when he sinks inside you with a single, shaking move that has you clenching.
“Mommy!” He cries out into your chest, desperately driving into you. You adjust yourself a little so your legs properly wrap around his hips, holding him firmly since his movements are so chaotic and frantic.
“So good, baby.” You sigh in bliss, gently running your hand up his bare back, encouraging him to continue.
His rhythm falters almost immediately, embarrassingly fast. His whole body goes rigid, and with a broken cry he comes again, cock pulsing deep and warm inside you.
He whimpers low in his chest, urgently clinging at your waist. “Filled me up so good, darling.” You murmur into his ear. His hips give a weak thrust at that, face pressing deeper into your neck.
A needy little sound falls from his lips. “Kiss?”
“Of course, c’mere.” You soothe, hands cradling his cheeks to lift his flustered face. A yelp rips out of your throat as his lips messily and hungrily attach to yours. An ache claws at his lungs as he explores your mouth with his tongue. He doesn’t have time to breathe, not when he can spend it kissing you. The urge to taste every single corner is so intense his hands tremble as they squeeze your hips, and with his chest heaving against yours, he sucks on your tongue, coaxing it into his mouth.
Slowly, yet inflexibly, you pull away. Winter confusedly chases after you, voice breaking as he protests at the loss.
“Baby, breathe. You need to breathe.” You whisper, compensating by dragging your lips along the length of his jaw.
A mix of shame and hunger curls into his stomach at his own desperation, at the need to please you, to earn the sweetness of your praise. He rocks his hips once, just enough to make you gasp. His cock, flushed dark and leaking, is still throbbing and very much hard inside you.
“I can–” He mumbles against your neck. “Need again– came too fast, please mommy, please again.”
“Yes darling, yes. Make me feel good.” You push your hips back against his. Winter chases your heat with awkward but hungry jerks, so eager to feel you clench around him.
“Oh God! Yes, just like that, baby!” You arch up, the knot inside your belly ready to unravel. His breath hitches sharply, so easily aroused by your praise.
“Making mommy… Feel good.” He gasps. Your hand slowly moves between you two, landing on your clit.
“Yes.” You exclaim against his temple, clenching as you start circling your throbbing nub. A shattered little sound breaks out of his throat at that, before his head momentarily ducks down.
“No!” Your wrist is suddenly caught by his fingers, bringing your hand back to his hair. “I can– I do it.” His fingers move right where you need them, a tad faster than yours, but it’s still so good.
“Oh fuck– yes, yes, yes!” You almost scream, rocking your hips back into his frenzied thrusts.
“So good my love, you feel so good.” You moan shamelessly, the wet noises of his cock sliding in are so animalistic and obscene you pray your neighbors are both working their night shift at the hospital; or at least that they were so drained they fell asleep on their couch.
You are so close when he whimpers brokenly. “So pretty mommy, so beautiful when you come… Please, wanna see it, please come.”
He still remembers when he saw your naked body for the first time, his cock hardening so humiliatingly fast as he’d never seen anything so gorgeous before. He came all over himself that day, whimpering as you touched him for the first time. He wasn’t used to this kind of attention, and having a beautiful woman stroking his cock while gently caressing his inner thigh, murmuring against his lips how much of a good, smart man he is… Well, the Soldier just couldn’t help himself.
You smile at his adorable pleas, when your orgasm finally hits you, powerful and mind-breaking. You writhe underneath his body, crying out his name over and over again, with your heart beating so fast you think it’ll come out of your chest any moment.
Winter lets out a strangled moan as you clamp around him, forehead pressing insistently hard against the valley between your breasts and arms trembling, still caging you.
“C’mon baby.” You whimper, so sensitive. He whispers, whole body shuddering as he keeps humping you without rhythm, crudely.
The second your palm cradles his cheek, Winter shatters. He sloppily thrusts into you, face twisted into a tortured, beautiful grimace as he comes for the third and final time tonight, hot spurts of cum stuffing your pussy so intensely you both gasp.
“So good, my sweet boy. You did so good for me, Winter.” You mumble sleepily, still your arms tightly hold his shaky form against yours, while your hips rock gently to milk every single little drop out of him.
He clings to you, all soft and sweet. “Thank you, mommy. Love you.” He groans. “Love you so much.”
You press a kiss to his temple, your heart so full it feels like it'd burst. “Love you too, baby. So so much.”
When his breathing begins to slow down, you gently thread your fingers through his hair again, scratching lightly at his scalp until he makes a soft, pleased hum.
“Winter.” You whisper, already recognizing the change of weight. He is about to fall asleep. “I need to move, honey. Need to clean us up before sleeping.”
He immediately perks up at that, whining and burrowing his face harder against your neck, refusing to let you go. His cock is now soft inside you, yet he doesn’t want to pull out, as if being there would keep you on your bed under him, forever.
“I promise I’ll come back quickly, I just need to clean up.” You cup his cheek, slowly lifting his face to look into his eyes. “Please, baby.”
He blinks slowly and heavy, eyes hazy as if he just woke up from the best nap of his life, like the ones that leave you wondering what year it is. Wordlessly, he pushes himself up on dangerously trembling limbs, grunting as he pulls out. As soon as you are able to move freely, you catch his wrists, helping him lie back down on your bed.
You leave a kiss on his slightly parted lips. “Be right back.” He nods sleepily, ferociously fighting back his drooping eyes until you come back. You quickly clean yourself up, before dampening a clean cloth with warm water. When you come back, you chuckle silently as his head slowly falls to the side, literally on the brink of sleep, when his eyes abruptly shoot open. He frowns, shaking his head as if that would be enough to push fatigue away, but when he sees you, his whole face instantly lights up.
“Hey.” You greet him, giggling as he sheepishly waves his hand at you. You kneel by his side, gently wiping him until you are satisfied. Taking a shower would be better, but Winter is too exhausted. He is so stubborn and eager to please you that he would dash to the bathroom this instant if you even dared to hint at it. So you do your best with the damp cloth, later throwing it into your washing machine before sprinting back to your room.
His head immediately goes for your chest as you lie back beside him, his naked sweaty body clinging to yours without question.
“Time to sleep, my love.” You kiss the top of his head, slowly smoothing your hand up and down his back.
His breath gradually evens out, and just when you think he’s fallen asleep, you hear a deep mumble. Your name. “Thank you.”
You keep stroking his back until you drift off as well.
The first pale light of dawn slips across your bedroom quietly. Winter would have slept longer, curled into your warmth, listening to the steady reassurance of your breathing, but some parts of him never fully shut down. Awareness rises gently, and he stays still for a long moment. He takes a long, deep sigh before shifting carefully, yet your eyes flutter open even before he can fully get up.
“Don’t.” He whispers. “Sleep.”
“I can’t.” You say, voice tight. “Not today.”
It’s always like this, the moment you both have to face the harsh reality again. And without failing, that devious, gnawing realization that this might be the last time you see him forms a knot in your throat. You don’t let him see it, never, even if he notices it in the way your hands tremble as you set up the table for breakfast. He notices it in your eyes, when you pretend to not stare at him, trying to memorize every single detail of his face; in the way you help him dress up, glaring at his gear as if it’s its fault he has to go. In the way your voice chokes when he hugs you by the door.
And then he hears it as he hesitantly walks away, when you fall to your knees and cry your eyes out, shivering and alone.
You help him to the bathroom, guiding him under the shower. You ask if he needs help, as usual, but his answer is always the same, without fail.
“No, or I never leave.”
You don’t even know where you find the strength to giggle. Maybe it's because you are so desperate to see that little satisfied smile of his when he realizes he is the one to have elicited that melodious sound out of you.
You then sit side by side at the kitchen table, knees occasionally bumping as he basks in your care. Winter eats his eggs and toast sluggishly, tasting each bite and savoring every second of you asking him if he wants more eggs, or if he’d like some juice beside the usual cup of warm milk.
Next comes the tactical gear. He stands still while you help him, letting you guide his arms into sleeves, fastening straps, adjusting the fit. All the while he grasps your sweater with white knuckles. Your lips stay in a thin line, your gaze lingers a fraction of a second too long on each buckle, each seam. He swallows when your fingers brush his arms and shoulders, as if trying to memorize his body one last time.
When you secure the final strap, your hand lands on his chest. You pause, just for a heartbeat, then smooths the fabric flat before leaving a kiss on his cheek.
He wants to say something, something that would make this easier… But the truth is, nothing can.
When time comes, you reach for a plastic container on the counter. Winter already knows what’s inside: neatly cut fruit– apple slices, grapes, something bright and citrusy. He promptly takes it, and something in his chest fractures open.
Tears sting his eyes before he can stop them. He blinks hard, jaw tightening, but they come anyway, blurring the edges of the room. He stares down at the fruit like it’s evidence of something unbearable.
A small parting gift, something you quietly added to your rituals so he wouldn’t have to go back alone. Something that reminds him of you.
His blue eyes are firmly fixed on yours as he momentarily places the container on the console table, before stepping forward abruptly and pulling you into him. His arms wrap around your waist with careful force, his face pressed into the slope of your neck, breathing your scent in, clinging to the warmth of your body like it’s the only real thing left.
This is what he hates most. How good it feels to hold you, how natural.
How wrong it seems to walk away from it.
Your arms come up around him instantly, holding him just as tightly, forehead pressed to his chest.
Maybe if he stays like this long enough, the world will forget to pull him back.
When Winter looks at you, he lifts a hand to hold your cheek, leaving a gentle kiss on your forehead. Then another, on your lips.
“Can pretend I’m normal man.” He rasps out. “Go to normal work.”
Your breath hitches for a moment. A quick, cruel image of you sending him off to a normal job crosses your mind. A wife kissing his husband goodbye. A girlfriend giggling in her boyfriend's arms at the promise of a romantic date. A parallel universe where he gets to live his life without violence, control, death.
Yet you manage a small smile, for him, thumb brushing his wrist. “And I can pretend you’ll come back to me at the end of the day.”
The Soldier can only gulp through another fresh set of tears. It hurts too much to say more.
You hold each other’s gaze for a moment, something unspoken passing between you— an understanding carved out of repetition and trust.
“Remember me.” You choke out.
“Always.” He breathes out, hands desperately clutching at the back of your sweater. “I love you.”
Your lips quiver. “I love you too.”
Winter reluctantly pulls back. It’s a slow, torturing process that leaves the both of you terrifyingly cold. He picks up the plastic container, tucks it safely under his arm, and turns to open the front door.
He takes a step forward, then, because the hundreds of swords piercing through his bleeding heart are not excruciating enough, he decides to look over his shoulder.
You stand framed in the doorway, arms crossed tightly around yourself as if trying to hold your body from shattering into a million of pieces. Your wet eyes follow his, lips contorting in various shapes to keep your trembling chin at bay. Then, you force a small smile, because you know how important it is for him to remember you like this– serene, safe.
He commits the image to memory with ruthless precision, before fully walking into the silent hallway. He doesn’t look back once he steps onto the emergency stairwell, the door cautiously closing behind him to not alert your neighbors.
To you, it sounds like thunder cracking the sky open.
By the time the city truly wakes, the Winter Soldier has already vanished.
general bucky taglist: @jimmywoosimp @iambuckyswifey @metal-armed-muse @shotinthedcrk @picuappled @dugiioh @hiraethmae @siemprx @its-in-the-woods @bunnybuckys @squishyfruitloop @buckybarneswife08 @sambuckystony @obiwansito @espressopatronum454 @my-drvidess @fictionalmensexual101 @annelouise321 @supersoftspidey @bitter-semi-sweet @wintrsoldrluvr @alialialisstuff @sergeantsebastian @avgdestitute @herejustforbuckybarnes @applesauce-pouch-queen @lillianacristina @delusionfeed @bubblessunshinehoney
if you want to be added to or removed from the taglist, just leave a comment or an inbox (my whole account is nsfw, so you need to be 18+ and have your age displayed. it is impossible for me to go through every account, therefore I trust you to be honest and respectful of my rules and boundaries, thank you).
Unabashed
Summary: Aemond wonders whether his pretty new wife is as shy in her sleep as she is awake, and intends to find out | Word Count: 1.6~k | Warnings: somnophilia, dubcon, oral (f receiving), feelings of shame
Thank you to @targaryen-dynasty for organising the event! <3 Make sure to check out the others!
The early dawn light filtered through the gossamer curtains, casting a soft glow across the spacious chamber. Aemond stood at the edge of their grand bed. His gaze softened as it fell upon his wife, a gentle and shy creature, who seemed out of place amidst the grandeur of a Targaryen prince's bedchamber.
They had been married but a few weeks, and her timidity was still evident in her every movement. She lay there, her breaths even and soft, her face relaxed in sleep. Aemond's heart swelled with a mixture of affection and protectiveness. He knew she struggled with the expectations placed upon her as his wife, especially when it came to intimacy.
He thought back to their wedding night. She had blushed deeply, her cheeks a rosy hue as she avoided meeting his gaze. Her hands had trembled slightly as she undressed, her shyness palpable. Aemond had taken her hands in his, his touch gentle, hoping to reassure her, but with a deep desire to claim her as his. Her skin had been warm, and he could feel the rapid beat of her pulse under his fingers. He had moved slowly, each touch deliberate, wanting to make her feel safe and cherished. Despite his efforts, she had remained tentative, her actions hesitant and reserved.
Many at court whispered that she was ill-suited for the intensity that came with being bound to a man like Aemond. They said she lacked the fire needed to stand beside him. Aemond had often wondered if there was another side to her, one hidden beneath layers of gentleness and timidity. A side that perhaps only he could reach, given time and patience.
This morning, he found himself wondering again. As she lay there, serene in sleep, he considered the possibility that in her dreams, she might be free from the constraints of her waking shyness. Perhaps, he thought, he could gently coax that hidden side of her into the light.
The sheets framed her form in his plush bed, her hair in somewhat disarray, a few pieces having escaped her careful and perfect braiding the night before. It had been hot in King’s Landing since their wedding night, and so as his eye drifted over her, he could see the gentle rise of her chest, and her perk nipples forming peaks against the near-translucent cotton bedding. A shy thing she was, but most certainly not without allure.
Aemond's breath caught at the sight, a primal part of him stirred by her unintentional seduction. The stark contrast between her modesty and the sensual image she presented tugged at some place usually kept hidden. She was a puzzle he was determined to solve, a delicate flower he was eager to nurture.
Before he knew it, his fingers bunched the sheets in his grasp, watching with deep satisfaction at the way her body was slowly revealed to him, inch by perfect inch. A map of unmarked territory he was determined to explore. The fabric slid against her skin with such ease, as if she were made of water and they were simply a ripple in her perfection, until eventually, once she was bared to him and she gave a quick breath-like shudder, he was able to take his time in forming his plan.
Aemond leaned closer, his breath hot against her skin. His lips pressed gentle, reverent kisses along the smooth expanse of her stomach, moving lower with each caress. Her body trembled slightly beneath his touch, her breath hitching in her sleep, as if her dreams were becoming more vivid and enticing.
When he finally reached the apex of her thighs, he paused, glancing up at her face. Her eyes were still closed, her lips parted slightly, a soft sigh escaping her. Taking a deep breath, Aemond pressed a tender kiss against her inner thigh, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath his lips.
His tongue flicked out, tasting her, a heady mix of sweetness and desire. She stirred, a soft moan escaping her lips as her body responded to his touch. Encouraged, Aemond continued his ministrations, his tongue moving with careful thought, exploring every inch of her glistening slit with the precision he afforded everything else in his life.
Her hips shifted slightly, a subconscious response to the pleasure building within her. Aemond's hands gently gripped her thighs, holding her in place as he deepened his efforts, his tongue moving in slow, deliberate strokes. Each moan, each soft gasp she made was a testament to the pleasure he was giving her.
There was a deep, primal part that glimmered in his eye at the way she responded, her subconscious sounds and movements a stark contrast to her demeanour when she was awake. Her slumber seemed to lower her carefully built walls, imprisoning her sexuality inside. Her hands gripped the sheets the same way he gripped her thighs, the warm muscle of his tongue dragging over her sex up towards her bud, enclosing his lips around it, the smirk he wore hidden in his actions.
The sounds were so sweet to his ears he could stay between her plush thighs all day. A part of him was surprised she hadn’t woken yet with the way her hips were chasing his lips and tongue, and her fingers carding through his loose hair and pulling lightly at the roots to ground herself. Her movements were by no means erratic, enough for him to know without looking that she was still in whatever sleep-addled bliss she imagined, but it appeared his little wife was more and more an exciting enigma with every passing day.
Her breathing grew a fraction more erratic, her stomach clenching and unclenching with the warm, numbing climax that was steadily rising. She would blush and apologise profusely if she could see the way she was acting right at this moment, moaning and writhing with her cunt on his mouth. Aemond worked in rhythmic, intoxicating strokes, taking everything she was giving to him, the tartness of her arousal was addictive in a way he had never imagined.
His little wife’s body arched only slightly off the bed, her grip tightening and thighs trembling, her release washing over her in powerful waves. The only sound she gave was a breathy, elongated moan, too sweet for the carnal, forbidden act he was performing on her sleeping form. Aemond watched with satisfaction as she slowly relaxed, her breathing returning to a more even pace. He placed a final, tender kiss against her sensitive skin before drawing back, his eyes lingering on her peaceful, contented expression.
He found it almost comical that his wife hadn’t woken to her husband devouring her sweet cunt, but that she had woken to the feeling of the mattress dipping as Aemond righted himself, looking down at her bare form, her chest shimmering with a dew of sweat.
Her eyelids fluttered open, and she blinked up at him, her gaze initially hazy with sleep. As her awareness sharpened, she noticed her state of undress and the lingering warmth between her thighs. Her cheeks flushed a deep crimson, a mix of surprise and realisation dawning on her features.
"Aemond," she whispered, her voice trembling with both shyness and residual pleasure.
He wiped his face, a victorious, cat-like smirk on his features, as if to emphasise her embarrassment. “Good morning, my love.”
She averted her gaze, her hands moving to cover herself instinctively, but Aemond's firm yet gentle touch stopped her.
"There is no need for that," he said softly, his smirk fading into a more tender expression.
She looked up at him, her eyes wide with a mixture of emotions, embarrassment, curiosity, and a budding sense of trust. "Did I... did I embarrass myself?" she asked hesitantly.
Aemond chuckled, a deep, satisfied sound that made her cheeks flush even more. "Not at all," he replied, his voice filled with genuine amusement and pleasure. "You were perfect, and it was a delight to see you respond so…unabashedly"
Her blush deepened, but she managed to meet his gaze, her curiosity overcoming her shyness. "I did not wake up," she murmured, almost to herself. “I thought it was a dream.”
"A dream, perhaps," he said, brushing his fingers gently along her jawline. "But one that I was more than happy to make real."
Feeling her cheeks burn at his brazen behaviour, she tugged the sheets to her chest to cover herself, her expression pleasured but shy. “Such actions will not result in a child.”
"No, it will not," he agreed. "But there are many ways to show my desire. Not all of them are about creating heirs."
“Well I know that.”
His expression took on a predatory gleam, moving swiftly to hold her wrists down to the bed with ease. “You might know,” he murmured, “but you will feel it, every day and every night.”
Her breath hitched, a mixture of fear and excitement. The hardness in his gaze tempered by the affection she saw there. Something shifted in her eyes, a spark of defiance and curiosity he hadn't seen before. She reached up, slipping from his hold, her fingers trailing lightly over his chest, her touch both hesitant and bold. Her lips curved into a small, sweet smile that almost dared him to do more.
His innocent little wife had a hidden fire, one that both intrigued and excited him. He felt his desire flare even stronger, spurred on by the need to explore this new side of her, to see just how far she would go.
“And I intend to make certain you never forget.”
General Taglist: @1lluminaticonfirmed @aemondsfavouritebastard @bellstwd @blackswxnn @blairfox04
@buckybarnesb-tch @castellomargot @eddieslut69 @emmaisafictionwhore @eponaartemisa
@hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @justbelljust @minholy223 @mochi-rose
@natty2017 @nenelysian @nixiefics @primonizzutto @qyburnsghost
episode 4
painter
Aemond Targaryen x fem!Painter!Reader
Summary: you are a royal painter, and Alicent wants Aemond to get his painting made after so long. But Aemond finds out you have a secret as an artist.
Notes: MDNI, kissing, teasing, arguing, tension, dirty sketches, pussy eating, handjob, almost getting caught
7.4K
NOT proofread
might make a part 2 might not idk
----------
A royal painting. It was a staple for the royal family, a way to show off their wealth and a way to brag about their children. And finally, it was Aemond’s turn.
His last painting had been before his eye was carved out. Ever since then, he didn’t want to get painted. He didn’t want the world to see his disfigurement, didn’t want to see it come to life. It would feel too real, too close. But there was no way out of it this time.
He had woken up with a heavy feeling in his stomach, his head already pounding. His outfit had already been prepared and was hanging by his closet, almost laughing at his upcoming fate.
His mother had a new eyepatch made for him, for this ‘special occasion’, she’d said. The new leather had felt too rough against his skin when he tried it on, his old eyepatch already worn and soft. It had only added to his discomfort, and therefore added to the feeling of being mocked. His brother already had his made, and even though his brother was a drunk and probably indulged far too much, he looked like a proper prince in his painting.
But Aegon didn’t have half of his face carved out.
Aemond finally sat up, pinching the bridge of his nose. Today the painter would probably need him for a couple of hours, the person sketching out his body and whatever lush surrounding his mother had picked to be around him. Aegon’s painting was of him standing close to a Targaryen banner, the rich fabric draped behind him. Aemond knew he would probably get something similar, maybe instead of a red banner it would be black, leaning into his entire ‘scary one-eyed prince’ facade he had gotten from the people.
The night before he had ordered his servants not to bother him in the morning, needing some time to himself to prepare for the upcoming humiliation ritual. He had tried to talk his mother out of it, but she had insisted.
He stood up, walking over to his closet where his outfit was prepared. A black leather tunic, engraved with dragons on both sides. Just regular black breeches and boots, and of course his sword belt. He had, surprisingly, cleaned his sword the night before. If they wanted a polished painting, he would at least know his weapons were in order. And in a strange way, he felt comforted by that.
He took his time getting dressed, fumbling a bit with the buttons on his tunic. And for the first time in a while, he looked into the mirror to put his new eyepatch on. And he hated looking in the mirror.
The new leather was digging into his skin, and felt far too tight around his head as well. He looked at his usual eyepatch, seeing it resting on his desk. He was tempted to put it on, but he knew his mother would look him over before the painter would start his work.
Instead, he put it in his pocket, and exited his bedchamber.
He wore his usual impassive expression on his face when he entered the grand hall where his mother was already having her breakfast. She smiled when she saw him, standing up.
“Aemond,” Alicent breathed out, urging him closer. And as he expected, she took in his new tunic and the new leather that covered his missing eye. “How are you feeling? You look every inch the prince, my dear,” she said softly, though her words didn’t make a smile appear on his face. “It’s uncomfortable,” he said quietly, Alicent sighing. “It is just for the painting,” she murmured, cupping his face. “And you know it gets more comfortable as you wear it longer…”
Aemond pulled away from her, taking a seat at the table. He didn’t feel like talking any longer.
----------
After breakfast, Aemond was walking along with his mother towards his doom--the painter. They had chosen an empty chamber, Alicent explaining her ideas a bit to him. But he wasn't listening, not really. He was imagining his upcoming days, stuck in a dusty chamber with probably an old man who would try to hold a conversation with him. He would probably ask him about how he spends his days and--heavens be good--he would ask about Aemond’s scar.
“Here we are,” Alicent said, entering a room. Aemond just sighed, taking a deep breath before entering.
He had been right. The chamber was dusty, a black Targaryen banner was hanging and a random stool with props was set before it. He looked up at the painter, and froze.
Alicent saw his reaction, and she walked over to him, her voice low and quiet.
“She is the best painter,” she murmured to him, “I know it might be… unorthodox to have a female painter, but… I only wish for the best paintings. And hers stood out.”
Alicent took a step back, returning back to where the painter was. Aemond could only stare, though to you, it read as a very threatening look. You cleared your throat awkwardly, bowing before him.
“Prince Aemond…” you started carefully. You introduced yourself, noticing that you stumbled a bit over your words. You had heard about the prince, of course, of rumours and horror stories. And seeing him now, glaring at you, it did little to ease your nerves.
Alicent moved Aemond towards where the banner was, posing his body as if her was a mannequin.
“A woman,” Aemond finally hissed lowly to his mother, looking at the way you were gathering your supplies. “I am being painted by a woman?”
“Be quiet,” Alicent hissed, making him hold a hand on his waist. “I will not tolerate disrespect.”
“Being painted by a woman is disrespect,” he retorted, his eye hardened. “I am a prince of the realm, so surely I deserve more than a low, female painter.”
Alicent stared back at him, her posture relaxed yet her gaze hard.
“Aegon’s painting was made by her, as well,” she told him, “and unless you were lying when you praised the painter…” she trailed off, Aemond’s eye simply narrowing at her.
“I will pose, and have my painting made,” he finally said, “I do not see any reason te be kind.”
“Princes are civil,” Alicent replied.
“Not one-eyed ones.”
She fell silent at that, hating the way he spat out his crude alias. “She is kind,” she finally said softly. “If you do not wish to talk, then don’t.” She touched his shoulder, seeing him sigh in defeat. “Do it for me. I shall be most happy with a painting of my smart son.”
Aemond shook her off, casting his gaze down. He watched his mother return to the painter’s side, probably explaining her ideas to the other woman. And then the painter looked at him, truly looked at him, and it sent unpleasant shivers going down his spine.
Then, Alicent turned back to Aemond. “If you wish, I can stay-”
“I do not wish that,” Aemond said, a bit harsher than intended. Alicent just nodded once, before exiting the chamber.
And then they were alone.
You were hesitating, he could tell. Aemond was good at reading people’s body language, knew it in the way they held themselves and the way they looked around. And it was clear that this painter wanted to leave.
“I shall start with a sketch,” you suddenly said, making him stare right into your eyes. You faltered for a moment, then continued. “I might need to make a few sketches, so if you want to try a different position…” you noticed the way he grasped the hilt of his sword, “t-then that is alright, of course.”
“Do whatever is best and quick. I do not wish to have it taken anyways.”
You paused at that, taking a breath before grabbing paper and charcoal. You started sketching him, noticing his tight posture and the glare in his eyes. Something had told you, deep inside, that perhaps the rumours and whispers surrounding the prince were not true. But seeing him now, in all of his glory, that little voice had died off completely.
You sketched him from a few different angles, the silence becoming suffocating. Usually you conversed a bit with your subjects. His brother had been very chatty--flirty, yes, but also very chatty. But prince Aemond was standing almost as still as a statue, barely blinking.
“So…” you started carefully, “being a Targaryen, I believe you have a dragon, too?”
You already knew the answer, but you were hoping this could be a start to a conversation, maybe a small peek into his mind.
“I believe,” he started, his eye narrowing slightly, “you should keep silent and work faster.”
You fell silent. Maybe working in complete silence wouldn’t be too bad… but your sketches so far felt impersonal, uninspired.
“I do not like to rush,” you tell the prince as you sketched out his figure, “I like delivering paintings I am most proud of.”
He stayed silent.
“I finished the painting of prince Aegon a few days ago. Have you seen it?”
More silence.
He had seen it, and he had been impressed by it. But that was before he knew the painting had been made by a woman.
“I have seen it,” he said after a moment of silence. “It was… adequate.”
You suppressed a small smile.
“Thank you, my prince,” you just replied. “Queen Alicent picked out what to put in the background. She had a creative mind.”
Even though his mother annoyed him at times, he still loved her. And the fact you spoke kindly of her, made him the tiniest bits less aggressive towards you.
“She is a smart woman,” Aemond replied, “she knows what is best for us, for the royal family.”
He spoke slowly, but controlled. You could tell that as he spoke, he was changing his posture in the slightest bits, a little less stiff and a little bit more relaxed. His hand was still on the hilt of his sword, but it was less harsh.
You wrote down tiny notes on the paper, little reminders for yourself.
“A strong family head is most important,” you agreed with him. “A person leading everyone in the right direction and who guides the lost.
Aemond quietly agreed. “She is smart, and strong,” and after a moment, he added; “for a woman.”
You stopped sketching for a moment, giving him your full attention now. You saw the glint in his eye, almost a clear challenge. And though he was from the royal family, you couldn’t help yourself but give in.
“For a woman?” you finally said after a moment, “does her sex have anything to do with it?”
Aemond was nearly happy you took the bait, a small smirk forming on his lips.
“Of course,” he replied simply, “it has everything to do with it.”
“Please,” you said, sketching another line, “do elaborate.”
His eye turned hard again, just as harsh as it had been when he entered the chamber and saw you for the first time.
“It is a known fact women are emotional,” he started, talking as if he knew every single little thing about the opposite sex, “being emotional makes a person dangerous, unpredictable. As the head for a family, sure, they can be fine leaders. A woman’s duty is to become a mother, after all, so she should be able to take care of said family.”
You listened silently, though you were shaking your head at what he was saying. And of course, he noticed.
“You do not agree?”
“I do not,” you said simply, noticing the way he adjusted the leather covering his eye for a moment. “A lot of people call women emotional…” you started, looking up at the prince, then back down to your sketch, “but I never understood why.”
“They are,” he said, cutting you off. “They are unpredictable, and emotional, and…”
“Every lady I have met,” you said, boldly cutting him off even as his sentence had trailed off, “has been demure, and silent, and listened. And I have painted a lot of families. The higher their rank, the more silent the woman had been. But-” Aemond looked at you, surprising you by simply listening, “But, the second I started up a conversation with them, they had the most interesting things to tell. About their hobbies and ways they raised their children in the most creative ways.” You sighed softly, grabbing a new paper and choosing a different angle. Aemond just watched you silently. “It is why I enjoy painting women, too. They are kind souls, and they are creative. They do not start arguments for fun. Or to prove me wrong.”
Aemond scoffed, knowing that you were hinting at him. But your words had given him pause. You were right, in a way. The most dramatic people he had ever met were in the small council, or lords bickering over an inch of land. The women were subdued and introverted, silenced by the men around her.
“I see,” he finally said after a moment. He wouldn’t apologise, he simply didn’t have a reason to. But the way you had spoken so boldly, yet so controlled, it made a tiny bit of respect flare up inside of him.
A silence fell after that. You found an angle you liked most, deciding to sketch it once more before putting it on the large canvas you had prepared.
“I hadn’t expected the royal painter to be a… woman,” he said finally, making you look up again.
Aegon had said the same thing to you, but in a far more flirty way. You smiled softly.
“Queen Alicent keeps it a secret,” you tell him, “or else I could get in trouble. But, yes, I am a woman.”
Your dress may be far simpler than his mother or sister would wear, but it was plenty enough for you. It was already covered a bit in charcoal, and once you would start using paint, the mess would only get worse.
“Why pursue something that could get you in trouble?” he asked you, making you pause for a moment.
“I love art,” you tell him finally, “I love creating things, putting my all into something. I have been creating since I was a young girl, and kept practicing ever since.”
You sighed, cleaning off your hands. “Only becoming a broodmare for a man I am forced to marry didn’t seem too interesting to me. I felt there simply must be more to life.”
Aemond’s eyebrow arched in surprise at your words, not expecting such crude ones about the life of a woman. But he could understand, in a way. Pursuing something that people said you would be unable to do. He himself had been told he wouldn’t be too good with his sword after he lost his eye. And in the end, he had proven them all wrong.
“You are bold,” he said finally, “but your secret is safe with me.”
You felt a bit of relief at his words. One word from the prince, and your secret would be out. You could get thrown in the dungeons, or… or perhaps even hung. A shiver went down your spine.
“Thank you, my prince,” you said again, this time softer. And then it was silent again.
You finished the sketch, setting down the charcoal and moving closer towards the prince to show him. He stiffened for a moment, his posture anything but welcoming.
“This is the general idea,” you told him, pointing to a few items on the sketch. You showed the pose, the angle, how you would put emphasis on the dragons carved on his tunic, and how the painting wouldn’t turn out too gloomy, even if the banner behind him was black.
“I would be honoured to hear your thoughts,” you said when he stayed quiet, only eyeing the paper. But even then, he stayed quiet for a long moment.
“I wish to change the scenery,” he said finally. He walked away from the appointed spot, over to where the window was. The view of the city was incredible, mountains reaching as far as the eye could see. An idea bubbled up inside of his mind, perhaps a mean one.
“I want to stand near the window. I want my painting to show the grandness of our realm.”
You walked closer to him, looking out of the window as well. The amount of detail and work this would take was immense. But when you saw the challenging look in his eye, you knew you couldn’t back down.
“I… see,” you said slowly, seeing the castle wall, the mountains, the bright blue sky…
Aemond smirked, turning to move the black Targaryen banner towards the window. “Yes, this is a lot better, no?”
You just nodded, your brain working a mile a minute as you tried to make this work with the sketch you had made and the change of scenery. The lighting would be different, and the draping of the banner as well, and…
“Well, was that all for today?” he asked, looking awfully pleased with himself. You swallowed, nodding. “Ah… yes, of course…”
You set your supplies down, bowing before the prince. “The day after tomorrow… we can start with the set-up of the painting.”
“Excellent,” he replied, and exited the chamber. You were left alone, staring at the new layout of the painting. And you were ready to scream.
----------
The next day was entirely spent prepping the new chamber. You had woken up early in your bed, the queen graciously having given you quite a luxurious chamber. But no matter how comfortable the bed was, you had been far too stressed to sleep well.
You had woken up early, forced a young servant boy to follow you as you walked towards the room.
“Stand right here,” you commanded the child, the boy looking around uncomfortably as he stood there. You adjusted the banner hundreds of times, writing and sketching down how the sun was falling on the scenery at around what times.
“Stand still,” you ordered the servant boy when he shifted his weight again.
“I can’t!” he whined, “we have been here for hours, can I leave now?”
“Of course, you are dismissed,” a deeper voice rang out, making you turn quickly. And there he was, smirk and all on his face, the prince himself.
The servant boy quickly bowed and ran out of the room, leaving you alone with the prince. You cleared your throat, storing the sketches away in your leather binder. “I thought we were meeting tomorrow?” you said evenly, not looking back at him.
Aemond walked further into the chamber, looking at the changes you had made. And though he wouldn’t admit it, the small changes you had made looked quite good.
“I was wondering what all the commotion was,” he simply said, turning back to you. You noticed that he was wearing more laid back clothes today, the leather tunic worn and scratched up. His eyepatch, too, seemed to be a different one. And he looked far more… relaxed. More than yesterday, at least.
“There was no commotion,” you retaliated, the prince laughing drily.
“No? I’m sure I heard one of my servants nearly cry.”
You turned sharply, brows furrowed. “He was not crying,” you said, focusing back on your binder. “He simply… had to stand still. That is all.”
Aemond walked closer to you, looking into your binder. He could swear he saw a leg, before you abruptly closed it.
“I was simply making sure everything is perfect for tomorrow,” you told the prince, “I do take my job seriously.” Aemond studied you for a moment, but didn’t say anything.
“I see,” he said finally, taking a step back. “I can respect an artist who takes their work seriously. After all, this painting is most important to the royal family…”
He looked around, before walking back towards the door. “Until tomorrow,” and then he was gone.
You took a deep breath, sitting back down on the small stool. You couldn’t believe how much this prince was getting on your nerves. You looked back at your binder, seeing all the different sketches you had made. You grabbed one, looking at it with some appreciation. He might have interrupted the moment, but you had managed to get the perfect angle right before the prince had dismissed the servant.
You sighed again, looking through your other sketches, finding the ones you had made for a different client. Being an artist was no easy task, and though the royal family paid well, it wasn’t enough to sustain your entire life. But there were always… certain people who wanted to get painted. Or wanted to get something painted. You were lucky you had to return next week, and not this week. Because you were certain this prince was going to keep you very busy.
----------
“Could you move a bit to the right, please?”
Aemond sighed deeply, before moving. You almost wanted to scold him, to say that this was his fault for wanting to be painted right next to a window, but you kept your mouth shut. He was far taller than the servant boy had been, meaning you had to figure out the lighting once again.
You squinted your eyes, taking steps back to see the total image.
“A tiny bit to the left- yes, yes, that’s perfect!” You felt giddy when the sun finally hit the prince at the perfect angle, making him look every inch the prince and warrior. He stood still, watching you rush to your canvas and starting the rough sketch.
You worked in silence, looking from the prince to your canvas and back. He studied you in turn, wondering if he truly was supposed to stand in utter silence for the next few hours, or if you would start a conversation with him. But you seemed too focused to start a conversation.
“Will I need to stand here for the entire painting?” he asked you finally, you looking back at him, though not stopping your work.
“Not necessarily," you told him. “I hope today I can start blocking out a few colours, and then tomorrow start working on painting your face. Once that is done, you do not need to pose anymore.”
Aemond nodded slowly, feeling a bit of relief. “And if I choose to stand every single day until it is finished?” He was clearly teasing again, wondering if you would react the same you had just two days ago. You hummed, nearly having finished the sketch now.
“Well, be prepared to stand here for a month, maybe even more.” His eyebrows raised at that.
“Really?” he asked you, “a painting takes that long?”
“Well, to complete one, with details and all… and this size canvas as well… yes, probably.”
He was silent again, shifting a tiny bit to your dismay. But you stayed quiet, focusing on your work.
“Does it never get boring?” he asked again, and you shook your head.
“Not really, I like doing detailed, precise work.”
He thought back to yesterday, how he had seen part of a sketch with what seemed like a bare leg.
“Do you only make portraits?” he asked suddenly, which made you freeze a bit. Aemond smirked, feeling like he was about to discover something major.
“Well… mostly, yes,” you started carefully, “but I also like painting landscapes.”
“Anything else?”
You were quiet.
“Pets and animals, too.”
Aemond’s single eye narrowed, but he stayed silent. He knew there was something you were hiding, but he didn’t know what. But he would certainly get to the bottom of it.
----------
A few more days passed, you working more on the sketch, then getting ready to paint and start blocking out the colours. And every single time, Aemond’s gaze fell on your binder.
He knew you were hiding something, he was certain he had seen something when you were storing away your sketches. But what?
Call him foolish, but he had stayed awake just so he could sneak into the room at night.
The castle was dark and abandoned, save from a few guards at their post. They simply greeted him, before continuing their surveillance. The chamber wasn’t too far from his bedchamber. Just two stairs, a long corridor to the left, and…
He softly pushed the door open, wincing when it creaked a bit. He entered the chamber, the moonlight giving him just enough light so he could see where your supplies were. He took a moment to look at the painting you had left to dry, noticing you really were making a lot of progress. He pushed down the feeling of awe, focusing back on what he came to do. He wasn’t here to admire your work, he was here to find out more about you. He found not one, but three binders that you had left.
He took a deep breath, opening the first one. He didn’t see anything weird about this one, just a few old sketches of ladies you had painted, and some sketches of animals. This one was normal.
He opened the second one, seeing much of the same. He did find a few sketches you had made of his brother, reading the small words you had written around it. He smirked, noticing the words ‘drunk’ and ‘direct’ around them. But again, he didn’t see anything weird.
He grabbed the final one, noticing that this one was tied more firmly, as if you really didn’t want it to accidentally open.
He fidgeted a bit with the knot, before deciding to open it anyways. He had come so far already, there was no turning back. He fumbled with the knot, picking and tugging until he finally opened it. He held his breath, slowly looking through the sketches.
And he found… normal ones. He found sketches of himself, more sketches of animals, and he wanted to groan in frustration. He was certain he had seen something weird, something different when you had put away his sketches, but where… and then he saw it.
He fell silent.
There, on the paper in grey tones, was a drawing of a man. And a woman.
He knew artists sometimes had studies of naked subjects, so they could practice anatomy, but this? This was not an anatomy study, he was certain. He looked at the small text you had written around it.
‘Comission Olly and Nora’
He knew it. He knew you needed to do something other than simply painting commissions from wealthy families. You drew people nude; coupling. Aemond smirked at this new information. Now this… this could get you in trouble. And as a woman, no less…
He looked through different sketches, seeing a few more. More names, more positions and different people. Aemond would be lying if he said the images weren’t affecting him. He felt a flush creep up on his neck, his hands less steady than they usually were.
You were a… great artist. And these indecent sketches certainly proved that. He slammed the binder shut, putting knots in the ropes holding it together. And then he went back to his bedchamber.
----------
“I believe I may be finished with the face after today,” you told the prince, adding details to his face. Aemond had been awfully quiet, watching you with a closer eye than normal. “As in… you do not have to pose anymore after today, probably…”
Still no reply.
It was almost unnerving, the way he was staring at you, as if he was simply waiting for the right moment to strike. You cleaned your brush, clearing your throat before continuing putting more details in his hair.
He finally cleared his throat. “May I look?” he asked politely, and you didn't see any reason to deny him. You took a step back from the painting, making space for the prince to look.
“Hmm…” he said, looking at the canvas. It already looked great, the amount of detail in his face actually giving him pause. He looked at the rest, seeing the sketch you had made of his body, the way you had blocked out the colours of his clothing and the banner. He also saw the background slowly being formed, the view out of the window indeed showing the beauty of King’s Landing.
“You are very talented,” he murmured after a while, glancing towards you. “The… anatomy in particular. However did you become so good at that?”
You stiffened a bit, focusing on cleaning off your brush instead. “Lessons, I suppose,” you told him, “I learned the basics of anatomy. With practice I got better.”
“What kind of practice?” He asked, cutting you off. He laughed drily when he saw your expression, shifting his weight. “I am just curious, my lady, no need to get defensive.”
“I learned it the same way a man would,” you bit back, growing more annoyed and defensive. “You learn by drawing live models.”
Aemond hummed at that, his eye meeting yours. “I see… and you have practiced the nude form of men and women, then?”
You stared back at him, the hairs at the back of your neck standing up. There was no way he knew, you had hidden everything away.
“Well, yes…” you started carefully, the smirk on Aemond’s face not faltering. He just nodded, looking back at the sketch you had made of him.
“I have seen work like this before,” he said after a moment, his hand rubbing his chin, “in… less polite establishments.” He studied your face, seeing a nervous flush forming on your neck.
“I do not know what you are talking about,” you said dismissively, taking a step back. But Aemond knew he was close to getting the truth from you, and he stepped closer.
“Tell me,” he murmured lowly, “do you truly earn enough from creating these paintings? Or… do you have a secret business on the side?”
You stayed awfully quiet, your lips parted as you looked at him.
"You must have a most... extensive set of sketches hidden away somewhere. I would be most curious to see them."
You took a shaky breath, shaking your head. “I do not know what you are implying," you whispered again, desperate for him to give up on his questioning. You took another step back, the brushes still clenched in your hand. “I earn… I earn more than enough painting lords and ladies alike. I have no need to… to have another business.”
“Oh, I think we both know that is not true…” he nearly purred, walking even closer to you. Any distance you tried to have between you two got closed immediately by the prince.
“I want to see them,” he said finally, his eye moving to your lips for just a split second. “Show me those sketches you make… and I will consider keeping it a secret for the world.”
You closed your eyes tightly, shaking your head. “I cannot show them,” you whisper, finally giving in, “it is not proper.”
“I think we passed the point of propriety a while ago, my lady,” he teased, his voice smooth as he teased you. He leaned in closer, his lips next to your ear. “Show me,” he whispered again, “tonight. Or else I will make sure the entire realm knows of your… dirty artworks.”
Your eyes widened, and Aemond pulled back, a smirk on his lips.
“Meet me here, at the hour of the owl,” he stated, “and if you don’t…” he trailed off, but the warning was clear enough for you. You watched breathlessly as the prince exited the chamber, leaving you alone with your thoughts. And you knew then that you were in trouble.
----------
You hadn’t been able to do anything more that day. His words were ringing in your ears, and there was nothing that you could do. The hour of the owl arrived far too slowly, and after you had grabbed your hidden binder, you made your way towards the chamber where he would probably already be waiting for you.
You moved silently, not wanting anyone to see that you were sneaking about at such ungodly hours.
And when you finally arrived, the prince was already there. He turned when he heard the door open, a small smile on his lips. “Ah, my lady,” he greeted, immediately noticing the binder under your arms. “You came bearing gifts?”
You couldn’t even smile at his joke, too worried that you were going to get thrown in the dungeons for this.
“You cannot tell anyone,” you whispered, setting the binder down. Aemond raised his hands, crossing one over his heart. “You have my word,” he murmured, far too eager to look at your drawings.
You took a step back, allowing him to open the binder and go through it. Aemond started undoing the knot, feeling awfully eager.
“I do make money from this,” you breathed out, “people pay a lot for works like this. And… and I need the income.” You fidgeted with your hands nervously, Aemond opening up the binder and going through the countless sketches.
Aemond flipped through the pages of the binder, his eye widening with each turn. The sketches were... exquisite. Explicit, even. The prince felt a familiar stirring as he looked at the naked forms captured on paper. Men and women alike, posed in intimate, provocative ways. Even a few where there was a man and a woman portrayed, being awfully close.
He paused on a bold sketch, a drawing of a woman laying on a chaise, her legs spread, one of her hands brushing against her revealed breasts. Aemond took a deep breath, almost able to imagine that this was a sketch of you.
He turned back to face you, noticing the way you were staring down at the floor. “These are…” he said slowly, making your eyes snap back to him, “exquisite. Sinful.”
You flushed.
“Tell me, sweet lady, do you watch these people when you create these? Watch them as they lose themselves in pleasure while you simply watch, and draw?”
You took a shaky breath, shaking your head. “N-no,” you whispered, “I do not watch them.”
This surprised Aemond. He could already imagine you sketching two lovers intertwined, squeezing your thighs tightly as your own arousal got pushed to the side.
“No?” He asked, taking a step closer to you. He was holding a sketch of a man and a woman together, the man taking his lover in missionary. “Then however do you sketch this with such… detail?”
“I have a book,” you replied, barely audible. This surprised Aemond even more. “I-it is a book where… where there are different… positions…” you murmured carefully, “and then the… the couple chooses which one they want… to be immortalised.”
This was good. This was too good, Aemond thought. Here you were, the cutest and most talented painter, admitting you have a book filled with sexual positions. Does that mean you were still…
“Are you untouched?” he asked boldly, making your eyes widen.
“W-what?” you stammered, wanting to take another step back, but the brick wall of the castle held you in place. Aemond smiled at you, caging you in.
“Are you…” he repeated, “untouched? By others… and yourself?”
"I... I don't see how that's any of your business," you finally managed to choke out, even as a traitorous part of you ached to confess the truth. That yes, at your age, you were still a maiden. But you had touched yourself. How could you now, after all of the things you had seen in that book, after seeing the things you had created yourself.
“I am a lady,” you whispered, shivering when you felt his lips brush against your cheek. “A lady…” he repeated, “who creates such wanton artwork.” His hands moved to your waist, his touch nearly electric. “Tell me, sweet lady, do you not wonder?” His eye searched yours, seeing the effect he was having on you. Your walls were crumbling down, he could tell. “Do you not wonder what it would be like… to be in the position of the ladies you draw so well?”
A soft whimper escaped your lips, something the prince didn’t miss.
“I… I…” you stammered, unable to even think straight anymore.
“Show me your favourite one,” he said quietly, “your favourite sketch… and I might make that a reality for you.” His teeth grazed your earlobe, nipping gently.
Your breath hitched, a shiver going down your spine. You tried to stay quiet, to not admit the fantasies that roamed your mind at night. But he was making it awfully difficult. His hands were roaming over your body, his fingers skipping the lines of your bodice before his hand cupped your breast. You gasped, arching into his touch as he squeezed the flesh gently.
“Come on…” he urged you on, “tell me.” His lips grazed the delicate skin of your neck, pressing soft kisses to it. You could feel his hardness pressing against you through his breeches, your knowledge on anatomy enough for you to understand exactly what it was.
“It’s-” you managed to whimper out, “it’s the last one you had looked at.”
Aemond paused for a moment, a smile spreading on his lips. “Ah… I see…”
He took a step back from you, walking back over to the table where your sketches were lying on. He grabbed the last one he had looked at, smiling at the scene. It was a woman, laying down on a chaise while her lover was between her spread thighs, his face buried. He let his eye roam over the scene, his heart rate speeding up. He turned the page to you, showing you the familiar lines of the scene.
“Such a naughty girl,” he purred out, putting the sketch back down. “To sketch such a dirty scene…”
He walked back towards you, one of his hands tangling in the hair at the back of your skull. “You want me to do this to you, sweet lady?” he breathed against your lips. “You want me to spread that sweet cunny open? To devour you whole?”
You shivered again, your own hands holding onto his tunic. All you could do was nod, not trusting your own voice.
“I have been wondering,” he murmured against your lips, “if your pussy tastes as sweet as you act.”
He dropped to his knees before you, your body leaning heavily against the stone wall. His hands tugged up your skirts, his breath halting for a moment when he saw the wet patch in your smallclothes. He smirked, leaning in to press his face against the fabric. He inhaled deeply, moaning softly.
“By the Gods, I want you,” he groaned, sounding almost like he was in pain. He managed to pull back, grabbing your hand. “Lie down for me,” he urged you on. “I cannot wait any longer.”
You allowed him to pull you along, almost in a trance. You knew this was wrong, so wrong. He was a prince, and you were still a maiden. You should say no, leave now with your virtue still intact, but the ache between your thighs was now impossible to ignore. You allowed him to lead you to the chaise, removing the cloth that was covering it.
He grabbed your hands again, playfully nipping at your fingers. You watched him with wide eyes, your arousal now soaking through your panties. He stepped closer, holding your body close against his, and kissed you.
He kissed you deeply, his lips moving against yours before brushing his tongue against your lips. You clutched his sleeves, allowing him closer, needing him closer. His tongue slipped between your lips, moving against yours. His movements grew needier, more impatient. He pressed you harder against him, his hands at the back of your dress undoing the lacing. You could only kiss him back, try to mimic his movements as you held onto him for dear life. Your dress felt looser, and with a sharp tug, the prince pulled it down. He managed to pull back, eyeing you up and down.
“Gorgeous,” he breathed out, walking you back towards the chaise. You fell down on it, staring up at him with that gorgeous, needy expression. He looked down at you, adjusting himself in his breeches.
“Undress,” he ordered, “Now. Do not make me wait.”
You scrambled to take off your boots, then your stockings and your thin shift. Your movements were hurried, clumsy.
“I-I have never-”
“I know,” he cut you off, staring at your nude body. He crawled over you, pressing another deep kiss to your lips. His hands roamed over your skin, groping and squeezing and teasing. “You are a work of art,” he purred against your breast, taking a nipple into his mouth. You mewled and arched into his touch, one of your hands burying in his long hair. “And I am the first to claim you.”
He moved further down, propping himself up between your thighs. You looked down at him breathlessly, your heart pounding. And then, he attached his mouth to your cunt.
He moaned at the taste, your sweet arousal coating his tongue. He lapped eagerly, his hands holding your hips tightly into place.
“Oh!” you moaned out, your hips bucking.one of your hands moved to tangle in the prince’s hair, mewls and moans escaping you. “Oh, Gods-”
Aemond groaned against your core, moving to attach his lips to your clit. You were so soaked, so warm--you were perfect. He moved down again, fucking your tongue into your pussy while using his free hand to rub at your pearl.
You were nearly sobbing, the new, intense sensations setting every single nerve ending on fire. You felt a knot forming in your stomach, growing tighter, and tighter, and-
You sobbed his name out, bucking your hips hard into his face as your orgasm washed over you. Aemond groaned in satisfaction as he felt your release, lapping up every drop of your ambrosia, his own cock throbbing almost painfully in the confines of his breeches. He slowly let up, resting back on his heels while staring down at your panting, flushed body. He could only smile, watching the way you covered your face in exhaustion and embarrassment. He leaned down to press a final kiss to your mound, before covering your body with his.
He kissed you softly, pulling your hand away from your face.
“Beautiful,” he breathed out, seeing the satisfied and tired look in your eyes. He pressed another kiss to your lips, his nose nuzzling against yours.
“That was… amazing,” you breathed out, a smile forming on the prince’s face. He palmed his aching cock through his breeches, unable to look away from you. His free hand grazed over your breast, before sliding down your arm and grabbing your hand. He guided it to his cock, a soft groan escaping him.
“Touch me,” he murmured, guiding your hand along his clothed length, “make me feel good.”
You whined softly, following along his movements. He throbbed under your touch.
He placed his hand over yours again, pressing you firmer against him. His hips bucked, a low moan escaping him. “Please me,” he ordered gently, “I’ll make you feel good again, too.”
He slowly undid the laces to his breeches, shoving the fabric down his thighs and taking himself in his hand. You whined softly when you saw him, and he guided his hand back towards his hard cock. “Yess-” he hissed, hips bucking, “Be a good girl and please me-”
A sudden noise outside on the hallway made both of you pause.
“Fuck,” he murmured, pulling away and tugging his breeches back up. He peeked outside of the door, noticing which hour it was.
“Get dressed,” he ordered, even though the thought of you covering up your gorgeous body pained him. “We must leave.”
He walked over to your binder, storing all of the sketches carefully before locking it up again. You rushed to get dressed again, putting on your dress and boots. Aemond paused for a moment, pressing a kiss to your hand.
“We’ll meet again,” he promised, not wanting to let you go yet. He handed you the binder of drawings, a small smile on his lips. “Tomorrow, to be exact.”
You took a shaky breath, a small smile forming on your lips.
“And perhaps,” he said softly, “you can make one of those lovely sketches for me. Of your body, of course.”
You felt your skin heat up again, but you nodded regardless.
And with a final kiss, you both snuck away, back to your chambers. But you couldn’t sleep.
From The Waist Up
Masterlist
Pairing: Aemond x f!reader
Content/Warning: 18+, arranged marriage, enemies to lovers, smut, loss of virginity, fingering, oral (f receiving), p in v sex, mentions of blood
Word count: 7.1K
Summary: Aemond and his betrothed are not fond of each other, spending more time bickering and ignoring one another. As a result, the young woman grows bored in her solitude in The Red Keep. But one day after arguing in the library, Aemond decides to relieve the young woman of her boredom unorthodoxily.
When she had learned she had been betrothed to Prince Aemond Targaryen, a mix of dread and curiosity had struck her. Not long after the betrothal that had been forged to strengthen the bond between their families, she had been sent to live the Red Keep in King's Landing to further strengthen the alliance and get to know the one-eyed prince.
She felt that she had done what was expected of her; smiled politely, asked him the correct questions and showed a general interest in him. But though Aemond had reciprocated her initiatives to conversation with answers and asked questions back, she found that his answers were curt and held an undercurrent of haste, as if their interactions were but simple, dreadful business to him; like she was a member of The Small Council or the likes. His once somewhat tempered answers and sentences shared with her, had evolved into short, absentminded hums, barely even giving a glance her way. She grew angry at first. She'd come all this way, left her family behind to live in a castle with no friends and kin, all to be treated like a careless nuisance to him. Did he not realize that this was for their families’ best? Was it too much to ask that he be grateful to have her?
She had tried to press him in further conversation, but that only earned her rebuffs. He hardly even bothered with raising his voice at her to voice his irritation with her — mostly he just rebuffed her and left the room.
Eventually, she gave up and decided to pay him back in kind. So they ignored each other. And when they didn't do that the few words exchanged held an air of annoyance and tension between them as if they couldn't stand to be near one another. It was only on the rare occasion that she shared her meals with the entirety of his immediate family that they somewhat bothered to bear a mask of polite decor. But the smiles and quiet exchanges were fleeting and in private replaced by either indifference or bickering and a sharp choice of words.
The young woman no longer cared to maintain her proper appearance. In her quiet mind, she had come to hope that the silver-haired nobleman would seek to have their betrothal annulled, so it didn't really bother her should he find her to be but a nuisance in his proximity.
With no one to bond with and little to do, she often allowed herself to succumb to boredom.
On one particularly dull day she let her solitude lead her to the library. Feeling careless as ever, she had stepped out of her slippers and climbed the step ladder leading up to the taller shelves where she pulled out a small collection of Essosi short stories. She settled on the top step with her feet resting comfortably a few steps down, as she read with the book in her lap, not even bothering to step down to the floor and find a proper chair to sit and read in.
She dived half-hearted into the stories of ship traders and travellers in the book, feeling but slightly entertained and distracted. After roughly half an hour, the silence of the library was broken by the thuds of familiar boot steps on the stone floor. Aemond stopped short of the bottom of the ladder. He looked at her discarded shoes on the floor, and his mouth twitched in something akin to disgust. His gaze lifted to find her sitting up there, like a lazy bird perched on a branch. She made of course no move to acknowledge his presence.
“Tell me,” Prince Aemond's voice came smooth and clipped.
“Do you consider this exemplary behaviour for a woman of your station?” He asked her, smoothly but chilled.
She flipped a page, taking her time to answer, as she felt a heat of irritation rise in her chest and make the tips of her ears turn pink.
“Mayhaps,” she muttered, keeping her gaze down.
“Why do you care?”
“Well, I don't,” came the clipped reply.
“How you decide to carry yourself is of little matter to me. However, I'd say that I do have a say on how my betrothed dares to present herself to the world”.
Aemond's tone grew more tight with each passing sentence.
One of his hands wrapped its lithe fingers around one side of the step ladder on which she sat.
“Come down,” he commanded in a warning tone.
She ignored him. Her eyes travelled over the same sentence in her book a third time.
“No,” she nearly sang in a careless tone.
Aemond's only physical reaction was the tiniest widening of his one functional eye and a flare of his nostrils, as a testament to the fury simmering beneath.
His hand squeezed the ladder.
“You dare defy your prince?” He spoke quietly, but taut like a bowstring.
“I said… Come. Down”.
The girl arched her brow and for the first time dared to crane her neck to gaze down at the one-eyed prince. The parts of her hair that weren't braided fell over her shoulder.
“What's with you?” She asked defiantly and shut the book in her lap with a clap.
“Did the prince get bested in the training grounds?” She nearly mocked.
He scoffed.
“You're asking about my temperaments? Mayhaps it is you, My Lady who is the cause of them,” he smirked coldly.
“I come here in the hopes of a quiet hour and I see this-” he gestured vaguely with a hand from her in the ladder to her slippers on the floor.
“- Careless display of disturbance. I hardly reckoned you for a scholar of the written word, quite frankly”.
She ignored his obvious jab.
“The library is large enough for the both of us, I would've assumed,” she shrugged, keeping her hands on the book in her lap.
“Even so, I do not applaud my betrothed for looking down on me, while she sits barefoot on a ladder like a child from Fleabottom,” Aemond gritted out and gave the ladder a warning jerk that made her heart flutter with alert at the slight sway. Her left hand scrambled to the ladder’s top, grasping tightly for safety, while the right one nearly had the book slipping.
“Stop that!” She shrieked in shock.
“Get down,” Aemond scolded coldly.
“Fine!” She finally complied and turned to place the book back on its shelf, before she took the angry steps climbing down the ladder.
Her feet nudged into her slippers once she made contact with the flagstones again, and Aemond was the one towering over her.
Aemond's eye followed her all the way down. Now that he had gotten his way, he showed little sign of feeling gratified from her reluctant compliance. He stood there, watching her put on her shoes, no book in hand.
“... You did not intend to finish the book?” He heard himself ask. Where that dry curiosity came from, only the Seven could tell.
The young woman brushed off an imaginary wrinkle in her dress and looked up at him.
“No. It was boring,” was the response.
“Mm. Strange you'd make that pick then,” Aemond mused with a hint of a jab.
“Well, I didn't come in here to read Essosi fishermen's tales,” she countered and crossed her arms softly.
“I was bored. Thought I might come looking for ‘A Caution For Young Girls’”.
She was only half serious. Her remark earned her an arched brow from the prince.
“Did you now?” He spoke smoothly with a fraction of challenge.
“And what praytell were you hoping to find in that particular piece of litterature?” He asked and took a small step closer that threatened to crowd her space.
She didn't move, but the slight sway in her shoulders and flicker of her gaze betrayed a sense of unease or fluster at his challenging tone. Her arms remained crossed as she shrugged.
“Nothing. Just… An end to my boredom,” she said, shifting lightly on her feet.
“Mm,” Aemond hummed.
“Boredom,” he repeated as if the concept was foreign to him. Or at least beneath him.
“Well, the maesters have been diligent with hiding it away. My mother did not wish to have that filth within arm's reach of young, bored ladies such as yourself. It is distasteful and not in good faith with The Seven,” he spoke the last bit with a hint of bemusement as if he didn't quite believe it himself.
He was quiet for a beat as he regarded her with a sense of contemplation.
“But they didn't hide it well. I have it,” he stated. The slight smirk that curled on the corner of his lips revealed his bemusement at her reaction.
“You have it?” She asked with skepticism, narrowing her eyes a slight.
“I do,” he smirked, with a hint of smugness.
“I had a curiosity that I needed… Sated. So I took it into my possession”.
She blinked at this revelation, and it seemed curiosity was getting the better of her as well when an idea formed in her mind.
“... Can I see it?” She asked.
Aemond scoffed out a grin.
“See it?” He asked in amusement over her audacity.
“My Lady, I hardly think it becomes you to gaze upon such depravities. Are you truly that bored or are you simply seeking inspiration?”
Aemond tilted his head and folded his hands behind his back as he taunted her.
The girl’s cheeks blushed in irritation.
“And what about you, huh?” She countered.
“Did you keep the book to sate your curiosity over and over again?”
The slight flare of Aemond's nostrils was a satisfying reaction for her.
“Well,” she continued, and straightened her back, placing her hands on her hips.
“If you're not going to show it to me, mayhaps I should just go to your chambers myself and look for it”.
Aemond's smirk had completely vanished and been replaced with a warning scowl.
“You wouldn't d-”
The words had hardly spilled from his lips before she sprinted past him. With her skirts clutched in her fists and a grin on her face that signaled mischief and trouble, the young lady bolted out the library with an agility that caught Aemond off guard. For a second or two, he was dumbstruck at her audacity as well as stamina. When he finally came to, after giving her an unintentional head start, he hurried on after her.
“What do you think of yourself?!” He shouted as he ran after her.
“Running in the halls of The Red Keep as if you were a mere child!” He scolded, but the woman's steps did not falter. If anything, she seemed to be giggling as she remained at a surprising distance ahead of him. Aemond felt his blood rush as his anger intensified as he witnessed her round the corner to Maegor's Holdfast.
She shoved the doors to Aemond's private chambers open. The surroundings were just like him; neat, tight and practical. Her curious gaze wandered over the vast room, as her heart thundered with adrenaline. With eager steps she headed towards the bookshelf.
Aemond had caught up with her almost immediately as she entered his chambers, witnessing her pranze in as if she owned the damn place. His chest heaved slightly in ragged breaths as he glared at her with intesity. With a steady hand he clicked the heavy doors shut behind him.
“You've got some nerve,” he hissed. His boots clanked against the stone floor when he stepped over to her, surprisingly quiet and calm in exterior.
“You ought to be whipped for this very insol-”
“Is it here?” She interrupted with a furiatingly carefree tone as she pointed towards the books on display. No ‘A Caution For Young Girls'.
Aemond blinked in shock and rage as he could not begin to comprehend this behavior towards him.
“Were you raised in the dungeons?” He hissed.
“You come into my private chambers just to search for that filthy book? Have you no shame at all?”
She turned and looked at him with a stare that was unaffected by his reprimand.
“I'll leave, if you show it to me,” she offered.
Aemond's jaw twitched and after a tense second he let out a sigh that came all the way from the tightness of his belly.
“Fine,” he snarled.
“I ought to hurl you out the window,” he muttered irritatedly as he turned his back to her and stepped to a large chest. The hinges creaked slightly when he opened it. His hand rummaged a little and then summoned a book that had withstood the tooth of time. It was handed over with a tension to the prince’s movement.
The young woman opened it somewhere in the middle.
Her eyes darted over the page she had settled on.
“Oh”.
A small unwilling flush formed on her cheeks, and her thoughts could have might as well been written in the plane of her forehead. Could a man and woman really do that?
Aemond found that the corner of his mouth lifted into a smirk.
“‘Oh’?” He echoed.
“Is it too depraved for your liking?” he asked, folded his hands behind his back and took a step closer.
“No, it's not,” she tried and flipped another page, refusing to meet his gaze.
“Hmm. Read it out loud,” he dared.
She lifted her head to look at him, lips parted in surprise at his demand. Refusing to go down on his challenge, lest she showed she was but a mere blushing maiden, she looked upon the page again and read:
“‘The Lord parted my thighs and greeted my parts by-... By gathering a good amount of saliva on his tongue and delivering it to my- erhm… my pearl, where I ached for him the most and then let it trickle down to the gates of my most sacred castle’... Aemond!”
The prince let out a small chuckle.
“Oh? Are the descriptions too vivid for the young maiden?” He taunted.
“They're not, they're just-…!” She licked her lips, still holding the book.
“It's just so… Stirring. Is this truly what a man and woman are meant to do in private?” She baffled in disbelief.
Aemond's smirk morphed into something more contemplative as he held her gaze.
“Some,” he replied.
“That book is meant to excite the reader, not as much inspire the means of creating successors,” Aemond mused flatly, as if the contents were as interesting to him as reading a map of Westeros.
He paused and tilted his head, regarding his soon-to-be wife.
“It is depraved. Do you find that… enticing?” His tone was analytical, like she was but a subject of study to him.
Her eyes widened.
“No! I mean-… It's not… Uninteresting”.
She blushed and glanced down at the open book in her hands again. One of her hands left the book and without realizing, the young woman nervously let it thread through a loose lock of her hair, the shiney lock falling over her shoulder.
Aemond's eye followed the slow movement of her delicate fingers, as they combed through the tresses, gliding down past the clavicle that peeked out over the neckline of her dress. Her hair had a smooth shine to it; a testament to its softness he presumed, though he had never touched it himself. Her hands were soft too. Those he had only ever touched once back on the day they were formally introduced to each other. He'd greeted her, and politely taken her small hand in his grasp to place a chaste kiss to the back of it. The recollection of how damp her palm had been, softened with a sheen of sweat against his, was something he hadn't thought about for months. It was clear that the girl had been nervous to meet him. But that nervousness had soon evaporated as their arranged relationship had turned sour and stale. The nervous fleeting glances from her had been replaced by scowls and rolled eyes that nearly provoked him to poke them out on a bad day.
That nervous girl showed a small glimpse of herself now. He couldn't remember the last time he'd stood this close to her besides their day of introduction. Aemond noted the perfumed oils she'd dabbed on her skin this morning; it was sweet with a floral roundness to it that was subtle but still added a softened edge to her presence. His eye observed how her lips turned inwards as she read the obscenities that Lady Coryanne Wylde had supposedly experienced with her undivided attention, eyes darting over the page in jagged, nervous movements. The flush on the girl's cheeks deepened, and Aemond felt the muscles in his lower abdomen tense to his own surprise.
“‘Not uninteresting’,” Aemond repeated.
“So you find the book adequately entertaining to save you from the boredom that had you acting like a brat mere moments before?” He challenged and folded his arms to his front.
“I-” she looked up at him, unsure if she ought to bite back.
“Or do you expect me to find something else to entertain you with that will keep you intensively preoccupied?”
It sounded like a mix between a challenge and an offer.
Her eyes narrowed in skepticism.
“Like what?”
Aemond's lips twisted into a lopsided smirk like he'd been waiting for just that question.
“I could exhaust you with physical activity. Show you what Lady Coryanne Wylde tries to warn you against… Unless My Lady considers herself too prim and proper for that?” The last bit was delivered with a teasing edge.
The young woman’s lips parted and eyes widened upon realization of his intentions.
“You mean-...?” She felt her cheeks bloom with warmth and color while, paradoxically enough, it felt as if all colour had drained from her face.
“But… We're not allowed to! Not before we are wed-” she reasoned, a thousand thoughts running through her mind. Had he truly just offered that or was this some sort of cruel prank to get her all flustered? To humiliate her mayhaps?
“We're not supposed to,” Aemond corrected with a small shake on his head, and that same smug smirk lingering.
“And since when have you held any rules in high regard?” he took a step closer, threatening to crowd her space.
“Is it so that your careless streak only takes you as far as to have you sit barefoot in the library for all to see, but you refuse to rebel in private, between my sheets?” His words were smooth as paper but cut just the same.
Her cheeks were practically burning now, and her throat dry as parchment. She thought she had shrunk to the size of a mouse as she stood there before Aemond with no answer ready.
It's not that she was particularly afraid of the act - she had been curious about it for some time now, and had often explored her own body in the dark beneath her covers. And she knew of course that she was bound to get introduced to it on their wedding night after a less than humiliating bedding ceremony. With that in mind she mused that—from a more pragmatic point of view—that whole ceremony would most likely go a lot smoother if she had already been acquainted with the art of coupling beforehand.
“I mean-” her throat bobbed as she swallowed.
“I suppose we… Could,” she peeped out from a less convincing tone.
“You ‘suppose’?” Aemond challenged with a more seriously edged demeanor, devoid of amusement.
“If you do not wish for it, I will not convince you. But if so I suggest you make your leave right this ins-”
“It's not that!” She blurted out.
“It's not that I don't want to, it's just…” her cheeks were piping hot and it felt as if her spine was made of air.
“I don't know… How”.
Aemond's smirk returned again. This time not so much with a smug, taunting edge but more acknowledging.
“I didn't expect you to,” he answered plainly, but softly.
“And it is not a problem at all. I can teach you,” he offered and gently took the book from her that she had completely forgotten the relevance of.
“You've… Done it many times?” She questioned in a cautious, curious murmur.
Aemond placed the book on a nearby table and gazed back at her. There was something steely in his eye.
“Once”.
She parted her lips, wanting to ask more about this one encounter of his, but the shield behind his eye, made her stifle her words. Her throat bobbed as if she physically swallowed them. Then, she opened her mouth again to ask something different, but no less of great importance to her:
“Will it hurt?”
His eye remained fixed on her trepidatious face.
“Yes,” was the simple answer.
“A bit. But it will lessen if we-... If I prepare you properly”. In the moment it seemed like the most galant thing to make that his full responsibility.
She bit her lip with an incisor and nodded, not so much in compliance, but understanding that that was simply a term she’d have to accept.
Surprise came over her when the prince suddenly took a step closer, threatening to invade her space, and took her hand in his.
By the nature of their relationship so far, she would have been less surprised if he had punched her in the kidney.
Instead of that, his calloused thumb traced a soft line over the back of her hand. His hand was massive compared to hers. For a fleeting moment she wondered if every part of him matched in size.
“I will guide you,” Aemond reassured in an uncharacteristically gentle tone. No smirk, no malice, just a mentoring presence.
“Will you let me?”
Having him so close reminded her that she had only thought of him as handsome once before; the day they had met. When they had been introduced she had let her eyes travel over the chiseled nature of his face, the smoothness of his hair and the tall posture on him. Of course, the first thing she’d noted was his eyepatch but that didn’t matter so much and did little to take away from the handsome face. It had not been long after that her awe of his physical appearance had faded and made way for her indifference and distaste for his person.
But right now, in this moment, she gathered recollection from that one fond memory, feeling a warm flutter in the deepest pit of her belly.
“Yes,” she murmured.
“I want to, but… Why do you?” She asked, letting the last bit of remaining skepticism slip through her cracks.
“Why?” Aemond repeated almost carelessly and gazed down at his hand that still held hers. His thumb traced circles on her skin.
“Because I am a man, and you are a woman. You are to be my wife, and mayhaps if I let myself break the customs this once, it will make way for us to find some sort of common ground”.
His gaze flickered up again, and that darn smirk of his returned to his lips.
“And because I’ve wondered what sounds may protrude from that pretty mouth when you’re not using it to throw insults at me”. His tone was slick and his words made a warmth mixed between arousal and irritation twist and swirl in her stomach. His thumb pressed on her hand.
“I dare say you haven’t even been properly kissed before, have you?”
Her eyes widened and cheeks flushed as she glared at him.
“You d-” she was cut off when Aemond’s lips captured hers. His free arm wrapped around her waist while the hand that had been holding hers let go, and now snaked up to tangle into the softness of her hair. She gasped against Aemond’s lips, and squirmed in his grasp, until she finally relented and closed her eyes, trying her best to reciprocate. Her hands fumbled, unknowing where to settle, before they finally clutched at the front of his doublet. He was a prick. But she couldn’t deny that the kiss felt nice. His lips were softer than she had anticipated and the fervor and dominance with which he kissed her was more than enough to make desire flare up between her thighs.
Aemond pulled back a fraction to catch his breath and look her in the eye.
“Yes?” He asked for confirmation. His pupil was dilated.
“Yes,” She murmured, her eyes hazy and cheeks ruddy. Surprise was written all over her.
Aemond grinned approvingly before kissing her again, and backed her towards his bed.
Once she was on the mattress with Aemond sleekly climbing on top, caging her in, he wasn’t long to smooth a hand behind her back and pull at the lacings of her dress.
“N-No!” she exclaimed almost in panic and pulled back.
Aemond raised an eyebrow at her quizzically.
“I mean-... You first!” she insisted, suddenly being struck by self-awareness from the whole ordeal. Aemond moved out of the bed. She would have been certain he had taken offense and decided to call it all off, had it not been for the fleeting bemused smile on his lip.
“As you wish”.
He stood beside the bed, facing her, as his hands niftily and without the shadow of tremor started unfastening his doublet. The entire time he was undressing he kept his gaze locked on her; all determined and without anything resembling the least amount of shame about what he was doing and what he intended to. Somehow, despite him being the one who was stripping down, she felt as if she could have just as well been naked by the way his gaze bore into her.
Aemond’s doublet fell. Then his undershirt. Then his boots… He slowed his motions just as his dex fingers were starting to pull at the laces of his trousers.
The last thing to be removed was his eye patch. Her lips parted at the sight of the sapphire stone he revealed. The skin was shrunken, reddened and it looked tense around the blue gem. She was surprised by the sight of it, but didn't dare to mention it.
“It will be much more comfortable for us both if you disrobe as well,” Aemond spoke smoothly like he were a scholar guiding his student..
She felt shy, but nonetheless nodded, and sat up to reach around herself and started unlacing her bodice. It was more difficult to do by herself without staff to assist her.
Aemond didn’t ask for permission, but just leaned down and helped her loosen up the garment. He was so close that she could smell the musk of his perspiration and fully appreciate the tone of his muscles.
So that’s what daily hours in the training yard does to a man, she thought sheepishly to herself, and promptly looked away when she heard him chuckle in her ear.
“Let us parallel each other, My Lady,” he smiled approvingly, while he helped her out of her dress.
Once they were both fully nude, she pressed her back down into the bed like she was ready to disappear into it, the reality of what they were about to do suddenly hitting her. Her cheeks still blushed profusely and her arms tried to half-heartedly cover her breasts, though it was futile. Aemond smirked and leaned over her. His lips pressed to her cheekbone in a surprisingly soft kiss.
“You are not uneasy on the eyes,” he whispered.
Then he made his ascent down till he was facing her hips. He gently, if however a little decisively, pried open her thighs to reveal a glistening vertical line faintly hidden under a patch of hair.
“What are you…?” She tried.
“I told you. I’m preparing you properly,” he grinned wolfishly, before he lowered his face and experimentally dragged the tip of his tongue all the way up over the line of her cunt. She gasped from the sensation and nearly jolted back against the headboard.
It was far from unpleasant. She could swear she nearly felt Aemond smile against her flesh, before he dove in, large hands holding her thighs open, as he licked and sucked at her. The sounds that left her lips were sounds she didn’t even know she could make.
“A-Aemond…!” She gasped, feeling her legs tremble as he feasted on her cunt.
“You’re already so wet,” he mused approvingly and circled her little with his tongue, which earned him a sharp groan from her. He locked his lips down on her again and kissed, sucked, licked as if she was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted. Aemond groaned and hummed against her, the vibrations causing her to shiver again. She was surprised to find herself rocking her hips back and forth against his face, chasing the ministrations that his tongue was granting her. Unsure of what to do with her hands that were growing frantic and restless, they switched position from grasping at the sheets, to Aemond’s hair, while her breathing came out in ragged gasps. If Aemond felt distracted by her fidgeting, he didn’t let it show.
“Aemond, fuck-... Aemond, please I’m…!”
If she had intended for him to stop, she had another thing coming. Her mewls ignited a larger flame in Aemond who damn near growled against her as he pressed his tongue firmer down on her, eager for her to erupt in what he knew would soon be eminent.
Her back arched, pressing her cunt desperately against Aemond’s mouth as she cried out her climax, fingers digging into his scalp. Aemond breathed out heavily as he withdrew, his mouth and surrounding area of his face moist and shiny with her slick. He wiped his mouth lazily with a hand like a man recovering from a task well done. There was something pragmatic and stoic about the way he regarded her as she laid there, a panting, ruddy mess, all wet and shivering with eyes half-lidded and unfocused.
He smirked smugly, terribly pleased with the state he’d brought her in.
“You ready for more?” He asked in a teasing tone, and let his right hand wrap around his already half hardened cock, and started stroking languidly.
She swallowed and tried to find proper words to rasp out as she looked up at him.
“I-I suppose I-...” She gasped when Aemond haphazardly placed his open hand on her cunt again. His thumb had entered her, rubbing upwards to a textured spot that made her squeeze around the finger, while the top of his palm nudged against her sensitive bud. She groaned when he lazily pulled it out and traced upwards, never seizing contact, and in the end let it circle her bundle of nerves which damn near made her fall apart all over again. Aemond watched his hand work her with an analytical look, as if he was experimenting with what reactions he could elicit from her, like they were words in a foreign language to be studied.
“You’re so sensitive,” he mused with intrigue as he absorbed all these new discoveries, while letting his thumb gently press against her.
She gasped, her hands halfway to covering her mouth.
“Don’t…” She panted, looking up at him with pleading, hazy eyes.
“Don’t tease me…”
Her cheeks were rosey, and her lips ever so delicately parted as she breathed – no rasped, while he continued to touch her. She was a ruddy mess, and Aemond thought it might be the most beautiful she'd ever looked.
He had put her in that state.
The sight of her like that accompanied with that breathy, needy voice made him slow down and nearly forget what he was doing. It went straight to his cock, making him ache for her.
A deep, primal sound rumbled up from the lowest of his abdomen, up through his chest and almost made him growl. His hand left her perhaps for a moment when he decided for each of his hands to land on her thighs, squeezing so hard on the inner parts it made her squeak in surprise.
“Apologies, my lady,” Aemond rasped, feeling his cock throb with need to feel her around him.
“It appears my reactions to you are less chivalrous than I'd first anticipate,” he murmured and leaned over her, letting his lips graze the edge of her jaw.
“Are you ready for me?”
She felt her blood rush through her veins at such speed, it felt like her body was on fire. All forethoughts that had filled her mind with apprehensions in regards to pain and the state of her virtue had vanished, now replaced by a dire, primal need for him. Her legs spread wider open under Aemond, nodding, while air left her in soft breaths through parted lips.
There was a shadow of a twitch at the corner of Aemond's mouth. There and then gone. His head dipped, gazing down at her, as he guided himself to her cunt, with a firm hand around his base.
A soft hiss left Aemond when he swiped the head through her folds, feeling how wet she was. She grunted lightly when he pressed on. There was a stretch at the foreign intrusion, a faint sting, and then an outlandish sensation of being filled up. A shiver ran through her at a tingling sensation in her lower belly.
It was done – she had overstepped where she was not supposed to and there was no turning back.
Aemond sucked in a sharp breath as she engulfed him with how tight she was.
She barely had time to recollect her thoughts before Aemond started to move, pulling his hips back and then thrusting back inside.
“Oh,” she sounded like a surprised fool. Then a gasp, then a moan.
Aemond gave a low, deep groan as he thrust into her.
“Fuck,” he whispered. The warmth of his breath hit her cheek while he kept her caged in under his arms.
“A-Aemond,” the young woman groaned, her hands nervously fumbling to rest at Aemond's ribs. The prince cursed himself, feeling a dire need to have her grab at him, and do something that'd permit him to give into his urges of fucking her harder.
“You speak my name so sweetly,” he murmured, tracing his lips over the shell of her ear.
“I knew you would”. He sounded almost smug again.
Aemond's thrusts were steady, almost gentle, till his breathing grew labored and his hips started to move in tact with it. His skin slapped against hers, and the sounds they both made grew more primal, more animalistic.
She gasped sharply when he pounded into her. There was a bit of discomfort, but it was drowned out by the pleasure, the tingles, the warmth that absolutely insisted on consuming her.
Was this how it was done? Was she even doing this correctly, she thought to herself. Her toes curled and she subsequently squeezed around Aemond, which elicited a hiss from him through his teeth. The sound made her flinch, planting a thought that she'd done wrong, mayhaps even brought him discomfort.
“You're doing so well,” the prince suddenly muttered in her ear. She was surprised when she felt new warmth coil in her belly at his praise, causing her to clench around Aemond once more.
Her reaction was not lost on him, and he gave a small appreciative sound.
“You're taking me so well,” he cooed in his betrothed’s ear, while tracing his lips over the peachy softness of her earlobe and rosey cheek.
“Oh, gods…” she whimpered in reply, feeling herself melt from his words. A new rush of ecstasy made it feel like a ripple of wetness flowed down between her thighs. Her hands trembled, nearly clinging for dear life to the muscular planes of his back.
“Is… is there any blood?” She asked.
Aemond slowed down, and finally stopped, balancing his weight on one hand, while the other swiped a couple fingers between them where they were joined together. He rubbed his fingers together as he looked at them.
“A little bit,” he concluded and placed the hand back next to her head, caging her in once more.
“Are you alright?” Aemond's voice was uncharacteristically ever so slightly out of breath.
“Yes,” she nodded, a couple of her fingers twitching slightly on his back.
“Good”. He resumed his movements, languid and controlled at first, letting her settle before he grew bolder in vigor and sounds. Aemond groaned, closing his eye as he lost himself in ecstacy. The young woman under him made sounds made up of soft gasps and mewls.
Delightful music.
Aemond opened his eye, never seizing his movements, and he witnessed her small hand seek down between their bodies where they were joined and started almost timidly, shyly touching herself. She sighed in relief and Aemond gave a low guttural sound from deep within. The sudden urge to take her and be rough with her was nearly overwhelming as he witnessed her take the reins of her own pleasure.
But no, not yet, not tonight.
She was still so green to this. She deserved patience and the comfort of learning.
She blinked quizzically up at Aemond as she, suddenly feeling self-conscious, realized he was watching her please herself.
“Is it a problem…?” She asked skittishly, wondering if this was considered impolite to a man's efforts.
Aemond huffed out an amused breath, the corner of his mouth twitching lightly.
“Not a problem,” he assured, and snapped his hips a little firmer against her, making her cry out so exquisitely.
“But I would like to be the one to touch you”.
She swallowed visibly and then nodded.
“Y-You may”.
Without missing a beat, the one-eyed prince gently swatted her hand away and replaced it with his own. He pressed gentle circles with his thumb. The feeling of having someone else touch her there than herself was much more intense than she'd expected now that it was convoyed by the new sensation of having his girth fill her up.
“Like this?” He asked, searching her face for reaction with that methodical expression he often had when studying old texts.
“Uhm… A little firmer” was the apologetic request.
She amused Aemond. He had finally found out how to strip her off all that guarded disposition she'd shown up with when she'd first arrived in King's Landing. Always so closed off, having that attitude about her. Now she laid here, blushing, cheeks ruddy, eyes teary, hazy with lust and completely pliant.
Letting him fuck her like he wanted to.
Letting her learn that he knew a few things that she didn't.
He complied with her request, and she granted him a soft moan in return.
Aemond smirked almost smugly in triumph, and continued massaging that most sensitive part of her in that way that proved fruitful. His hips never stopped moving, as he carried himself to his own pleasure..
From the way her breathing grew more and more laboured and her cunt twitched around him, it was evident that she was nearing her precipice. Aemond sighed softly, enjoying the way her legs started to shake.
“You're close, sweet thing,” he stated, and got more insistent with his thrusts, his thumb working in tandem.
“Aren't you?” He teased and dipped his head to place a soft kiss to her jaw. She tasted slightly salty.
The young woman mewled, lips and eyes squeezed shut, as if trying to protect herself from revealing her own eminent demise.
She nodded.
Aemond gave an amused tch.
Still refusing to give in, he mused to himself and as a result let his thumb on her cluster of nerves move slightly faster. She yelped from the punishment.
“W-Wait-, I-...!” Her eyes opened wide with a start.
“Tell me you're close,” he demanded softly.
“I-I am…!” She yielded, perplex and shocked by how much more intense this felt than when she reached her peak alone by the touch of her hand.
She fell, her voice leaving as a strained moan from a stretched throat.
“Fuck-” Aemond gritted out between clenched teeth, as she squeezed around him, insisting he follow her. She was so unbelievably wet and tight, it made him see stars. He snapped his hips against her, harder than ever, causing her to gasp from the overstimulation. Aemond fucked her like a man possessed, until he finally, suddenly pulled out, grabbing his cock, stroking himself to finish.
He came with a sound akin to a roar, letting his pearly release land on her belly. No sound left her upon the surprise of the sudden wetness. It was as if he had fucked out all verbal communication out of her, so she just laid there, breathing heavily and looking up at him with heavily lidded eyes filled with awe. She said nothing, and instead let herself be acquainted with the afterglow of what had just conspired between them. She knew she ought to feel ashamed but she was taken aback by how little regret and shame was present in her mind and body at this very moment. It felt sinful, but rightly so in a sense.
Her chest heaved slightly as Aemond's gaze travelled over his betrothed, appreciating the state he'd brought her in. His taut muscles relaxed, and he certainly didn't mind witnessing how she too was taking in the shape of him with enjoyment.
A small huff left his lips, reckoning she'd never looked so correct as she did now. He leaned down, silver hair falling over his shoulders and caged her in again, underarm on either side of her head.
He kissed the curve of her jaw, letting his lips linger for a moment.
“Now you know,” he stated smoothly, voice slightly husky from his earlier strain.
“You know what will transpire in our bedding ceremony,” Aemond murmured. He couldn't help but chuckle as he'd moved back slightly to see the widening of her eyes and the slight increase of flush on her darling cheeks.
“Now that it is done, I reckon we may find time to… rehearse some more, should the mood strike us,” the smirk on his face told her.
She was about to protest with irritation right before Aemond dipped again, this time pressing a deft forefinger on the softness of her lips.
“However, sweet girl,” he said with a low voice, eye half lidded.
“Under our bedding I intend to spill myself inside of you, and make you swell with my heir. My seed will not be wasted on your soft skin then,” Aemond promised, letting his lips trace over the shell of her ear.
“Don’t you agree?”
This time, she felt no need to argue.
How I look at my phone screen when y/n does/says something I would never do/say
Like girl, that's not me
I really have a type 👀
(Handsome men with long white/blonde hair🧝🏻♂️😏)
its so sad they dont exist in real life
creation
Creature!Aemond x Fem!Frankenstein!Reader
Summary: Your creature lives. And he loves you. A story where you teach your creature how to live; how to exist.
Warnings: mild gore (?), kissing, handjob, PiV, i forgo
Wordcount: 14K
Notes: this was a self-indulgent fic at first, reader gets referred to as 'lady' sometimes, because I needed a name to insert. later on you get referred to with pet names. I did my best to keep reader descriptions as neutral as possible !
i feel like this is lowkey so wordy and i feel like the ending was kinda bad but i dont know i just wanted to post this. also i need a banner i think the -- are kinda ugly . rant over
------------------------
The entire experiment had been a failure. You had worked for months on end; researching, finding the best parts, combining the bones of different men and sewing skin together. And it had failed. The second the lightning had hit, sparks had flown everywhere. Your machine hit overdrive, sending too much electricity into your creation’s body, his right eye bursting.
“No!” you had screamed, running towards it, but the rain and the lightning was too intense, the static making the hair on your body stand up. You had watched as the blood seeped through the bindings on his eye, tears spilling down your face.
The machine powered down, the storm grew less harsh. And then, silence.
you stood still for five minutes before gaining control over your limbs again, slowly stepping closer to your creation. The chair lowered, your creature finally close enough for you to touch, and…
Nothing.
No heartbeat. No breathing.
You had gone to bed heartbroken. Your machine broken, your creation never seeing the light of day. You had fallen asleep crying, exhausted, and heart broken.
As you slept, something had awoken downstairs. The creature stood up, the cold floor under his feet making him shiver. He was still covered in bandages, unable to see where he was going. There was a throbbing pain in his right eye, or better, the lack of eye. Carefully, bumping into things and wincing when he knocked something over, he managed to make his way upstairs. His breathing was harsh, almost sounding uncomfortable. His skin felt clammy, tight and wrong. But he knew he had to keep pushing.
Who had made him? What was he? Where was he? He needed to know. He pushed open your bedroom door, hearing distant breathing of something gentle, something real.
And then he found you. His left eye was uncovered, the purple colour darkened in your blackened bedroom. He held tightly onto your bedframe to steady himself, and stared.
It was you. His creator.
The feeling of another presence in your bedroom woke you up. Your eyes squinted in the low light, still thick and puffy from crying. And then you saw it.
It.
Him.
Your creature.
Yours!
You gasped, shooting upright in your bed.
The creature stumbled back a bit at your sudden movement, his hands tightening on the bedframe. Slowly, carefully, he moved to look at you from behind the bedpost, the bandages around his face loosening slightly with his movements. His purple eye, slowly adjusting to the low light of your bedroom, blinked as he took in the sight of you; of his creator. His lips, dry and chapped, part as he tried to say something, anything, but no sound escaped him.
You stared right back at him, unable to speak as well. You watched as he stood there, unsure and unsteady. But alive.
He reached out a trembling hand, wanting to touch his creator, so he could make sure this was real; that you were real.
His heart pounded in his chest, a steady rhythm that he has only recently begun to feel. It ached and strained, but it was strong, just like the rest of him. He was alive, and he knew that you were the reason why.
His breath came in short, sharp gasps as he stared at you, his eye filled with a mix of fear, curiosity, and desperate, aching love. He had found you, his creator, the one who brought him into this world. And now, he never wanted to let you go.
Finally able to move, realising this was not a dream, you reached out to touch his hand, a soft gasp escaping you.
“You live,” you whispered. “I thought I failed, yet here you are—“
You blinked back tears, feeling his hands in yours. It was big, and he was so tall. And strong, growing stronger already.
“Oh, my… my creation. My perfect creation.”
Your creation could feel your soft, warm fingers wrap around his own. Your touch was gentle, as if you couldn’t believe that he was real.
He tried to squeeze your hand in return, to let you know that he understood your words, even if he couldn’t speak them back yet. His fingers were clumsy and uncoordinated, but he put all of his newfound strength into that one action.
His hand then moved closer to cup your cheek, his palm covering the entire side of your face. He could feel the softness of your skin, and he felt nearly amazed when you stayed put, allowing him to touch you, trusting him.
His heart raced in his chest, a steady drumbeat that seemed to grow faster. You were his creator, his everything.
He leaned in closer, his lips parting slightly as he tried once more to speak. This time, a rasping, grating sound escaped his throat. It was not a word, not yet, but it was a start. A promise of things to come.
“Yes!” you said encouragingly, a watery laugh escaping you. “My goodness, you are perfect. So perfect.”
You placed a hand on his chest, feeling the steady heartbeat beneath it. You looked back at him, seeing his eye. Only one, yet sparkling. Shining.
“I am lady…” you said slowly as you spoke your name, explaining. “La…dy….”
He listened intently to the sound of your voice, the way you spoke your name. He tried to repeat the sound, to form it with his own lips and tongue.
“Lay… dee.”
The words felt foreign on his tongue, but he was determined to learn, to please you. He wanted to be the perfect creation you believed him to be.
He pulled you closer, until your foreheads touched, and he breathed in the scent of you. You didn’t pull away, not even feeling a slither of fear. He was alive.
He could feel the way your heart raced under his touch, the way your breath hitched in your throat. You reached out to touch his chest, feeling the unmistakable drum of a heartbeat. And warmth. And the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed; in and out, in and out.
His hand moved to cover yours on his chest, his fingers curling around yours. He held onto you tightly, never wanting to let go.
With great effort, he parted his lips and tried once more to speak. This time, the words come out a little clearer, a little more distinct.
“Lay… dee.”
“Yes!” you said excitedly, never backing away. This was your creation. Yours.
“And you… are Aemond,” you said softer. “Ae…mond… that’s you.” you tapped his chest.
He looked down, following the movement of your hand, and then back up at you with a mix of curiosity and confusion in his eyes.
He tried to repeat the sound you made, the name you gave him. His tongue felt thick in his mouth, but he was determined to get it right.
“Ayyy… mund.”
It was not perfect, but it was close. Close enough that you understood.
Aemond's hand moved back to the side of your face, his thumb brushing gently across your cheekbone. He could feel the way your skin was still damp with tears, and he wanted to brush them all away.
He leaned in closer, his nose brushing against yours, and he breathed in the scent of you. You smelled like home, like family, like everything that he could ever want or need.
Aemond's heart swelled in his chest, beating faster and harder than ever before. He was alive, he was Aemond, and he was in love. In love with his creator, with the woman who brought him into this world and made him who he is.
With a soft, rasping sound, Aemond spoke once more. This time, he said your name, the name of the woman who created him, the woman he loved with every fiber of his being.
“Yes,” you whispered again, touching his face. “That is me.”
You touched the scars on his body, where you had stitched him together. Only the best parts, yet still… imperfect.
You reached up, removing the last bandages off his face, his hands, his legs. Imperfect, but alive. He was alive.
“Aemond.”
He looked into your eyes, and he saw no disgust or revulsion. Instead, he saw a deep, abiding love. A love that transcended the imperfections of his flesh and saw straight to the heart of who he is.
As you removed the last of the bandages from his face and hands, Aemond blinked in the sudden light. His eye met your gaze. He was alive, and he was free.
You stared at him for the longest time, your brain already working overtime trying to think of a way to fix the eye that had burst in his awakening. And as you stared, he looked back at you, his breathing still harsh, your name falling brokenly from his lips again.
----------------------
You adored your creation. He was clumsy, yes, but that was part of learning, wasn’t it?
You dressed him, giving him socks, boots, underwear, and lavish clothes. Anything he would need. He would follow you around, his legs growing stronger as he learned how to walk better. You were amazed, but your mind was not really set on the dangers that were lurking in every single corner of your home.
You were working on cleaning up, when he grabbed a razor, a hand razor, and squeezed it in his hand.
“No, no, what are you doing-?!” you gasped when you noticed, running over to where he was seated.
“Let go, let go!” you saw the blood splatter on the floor, Aemond slowly complying.
“Goodness-“ you gasped, rushing to grab bandages and antiseptic to clean his wound.
Aemond looked at the red liquid dripping from his hand onto the floor. He didn’t understand why you were upset, why you were rushing around in a panic.
He dropped the razor to the floor with a clatter, his eyes wide as he watched you clean the wound. He could feel the sting, the burn of the cut, but it was nothing compared to the fear and worry in your voice.
Aemond reached out, his uninjured hand grasping at your arm. He squeezed gently, trying to comfort you, even as you tended to his wound. As you wrapped the bandage around his hand, Aemond leaned in closer. He nuzzled against your cheek, his lips brushing against your skin. He wanted to make you feel better, to take away the pain he saw in your eyes.
“Shh, lay… dee.”.
It was a soft, rasping sound, but it was filled with a gentle, soothing tone. Aemond wanted to comfort you, to let you know that he was okay. That he was strong, and that a cut like this couldn’t hurt him.
“You shouldn’t-“ you started, seeing the deep cut in his palm had already… sealed?
He had healed.
So quickly.
“Aemond, you cannot do this again,” you whispered, taking shaky breaths. “you need to be careful.”
Aemond tilted his head, not fully understanding your words, but sensed the concern and fear in your voice. He nodded slowly.
“Careful,” he repeated the word back to you, trying to mimic the way you said it.
Aemond looked down at his hand, seeing the way the bandage had already stopped leaking red liquid. He flexed his fingers, marveling at the way the skin underneath was already healing, already sealing itself back together.
Aemond reached out, taking your hand in his own. He squeezed it gently, reassuringly, as if to say 'I understand. I will be more careful.'
You finished bandaging him, then took a deep breath. “I am sorry for yelling at you,” you said, cleaning his blood off of your own hands. “I… we have a lot to learn, still.”
Aemond watched as you finished wrapping his hand, your fingers gentle and careful as you tied off the bandage. He could see the way your hands trembled slightly, the way your breath came in shaky gasps.
When you spoke, your voice was soft and apologetic. Aemond doesn't fully understand the words, but he can feel the emotion behind them. He can sense your regret, your concern, your love.
“It is… okay,”
He said your name slowly, carefully, still learning to form the sounds. But there was a newfound gentleness in his voice, a new understanding.
-----------------------
Raising and teaching Aemond everything was… difficult. Very difficult. He hurt himself a lot, and you would grow worried in turn, and you’d start crying and shaking and…
It was a long journey. And the progress was slow. From teaching him how to dress himself, to how to use the restroom himself. Long, and slow. But you were patient.
Aemond watched as you took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to compose yourself. He could see the tears that threaten to spill down your cheeks, the way your shoulders trembled slightly with each inhale and exhale.
He knew that he was the cause of your distress, that his constant injuring himself and needing your guidance and care was taking a toll on you. But he didn’t understand why. He couldn’t grasp the concept of patience, or the effort it took for you to be so consistently kind and understanding.
Aemond reached out, his hand cupping your cheek. He tilted his head to the side, studying your face with a mix of confusion and concern in his purple eye.
“Why… cry?” He asked the question softly, his voice still rough, but filled with a genuine desire to understand. He didn’t like seeing you upset, and he wanted to know how to fix it.
His other hand came to rest on your shoulder, squeezing it gently. He leaned in closer, his forehead coming to rest against yours, as if he could absorb your emotions through the contact.
You heard his words, your creation learning more every day, speaking better every day. Your Aemond.
“Forgive me,” you said softly. “I am just… tired. And when I am tired… I am a bit more emotional.”
You smiled wearily. “But you did put on your socks alone today. And I am very proud. And I shouldn’t have cried over that.”
Aemond felt a warmth spread through his chest at your words of pride. He may not fully understand why you were tired or emotional, but he knew that he had done something right. Something that had made you happy, even if only for a moment.
He smiled back at you, his lips still a bit chapped, his teeth showing a bit too much, but it was filled with a genuine, joyful expression. His eye crinkled at the corners, and he let out a soft, rasping sound that was almost like a laugh.
“Thank you, lay… dee...”
He said your name slowly, carefully, doing his best to pronounce it right. He knew that he was learning, that he was improving, even if the progress was slow. And he knew that you saw it too, even if you were tired.
That evening, you were with him in his bedchamber. You had given him his own, though it was not too big, and it was close to yours. It had become a ritual, you undressing him and preparing him for bed. But as the weeks went on, and he learned more, he would learn to do this part himself as well.
“When we undress, what do we take off first?” you asked him.
Aemond looked at you with a mix of concentration and confusion in his eye. He tilted his head to the side, considering your question carefully.
Slowly, he reached up and grasped the collar of his shirt with his hands. He tugged at it gently, as if seeking confirmation that this was the right answer.
“Shirt?” He said the word softly, his voice still rough, but slowly growing steadier and confident as the weeks passed on.
“Yes! Of course. But,” you said, pointing at his feet. “It may be nice to remove the boots first. And where do we place the boots when we have removed them?”
Aemond glanced down at his feet, then back up at you. He nodded slowly as he reached down and grasped the heel of one of his boots. He lifted his foot, balancing on one leg as he started to tug the boot off.
As he does, he looked around the room, his gaze landing on a wooden rack near the door. He pointed to it with his free hand, a question in his eyes.
“There?” He asked, his voice still rough, but softening. He wanted to make sure he was doing this right, and wanted to place his boots where you wanted them to be.
“Yes!” you said, not believing the progress. “Exactly, the boot rack. Where they can air out!”
you watched as he walked to it, placing them on the rack, and walking back to you.
Aemond felt a surge of pride and accomplishment as he set his boots down on the rack, just as you instructed. He straightened up, turning back to face you with a soft, shy smile on his lips.
He could see the approval and amazement in your eyes, and it made his heart swell with happiness. He knew that he was pleasing you, and knowing that he did made him feel happy. Content. Proud.
Aemond took a step closer to you, then another, until he was standing right in front of you. He reached down with his hands, grasping the hem of his shirt, and started to pull it up and over his head.
“Shirt next,” he said, his voice filled with a newfound confidence.
“Very good,” you said, watching him remove the linen shirt. He placed it on his bed, standing back upright. You watched him, your fingers tracing over his scars again. They healed, in a sense, though they were still very clear.
“Alright,” you said when you finished inspecting him. “What is the next step?”
He thought carefully, his brow furrowed slightly as he tried to recall the order in which they dressed earlier that day. Slowly, he reached down and unbuckled the leather strap of his belt, letting it fall open.
“Pants,” he said softly, his voice filled with a hint of pride. He knew that he was remembering correctly, and he wanted to show you that he was learning.
Aemond hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his pants, ready to tug them down over his hips. He looked up at you, seeking your approval and guidance, eager to continue with the next step.
“Very good,” you said, nodding. You turned as he took off his pants, moving to his closet to grab his nightgown. It was easier to sleep in, and quite comfortable. A simple, linen nightdress.
Aemond shimmied out of his pants, letting them fall to the floor. He stepped out of them, kicking them to the side. He stood before you now in just his undergarments, his scarred body on full display.
As you turned to retrieve his nightgown, Aemond watched you, a strange feeling stirring in his chest, a warmth bubbling up.
When you turned back to him with the simple linen nightdress, Aemond took it from you carefully, his fingers brushing against yours. He held it up, looking at it, then at you, a question in his eyes.
“How…again?” He asked softly, not quite sure how to put it on. He wanted to do this right, wanted to please you in every way he could.
“Ah,” you said. You grabbed the nightdress again, showing him how to put it on.
“Your arms go through here…” you said to him, helping him step by step. “And your head through here…”
He slipped his arms through the sleeves, the soft material sliding over his scarred skin like a gentle caress.
He paused, looking down at the garment, then at you. He pointed to the opening at the neck, a question in his eye.
“Head… here?” He asked softly, wanting to be absolutely certain.
“Yes, Aemond, that’s right,” you gently encouraged, helping him into the nightdress. “How is that?”
Aemond felt the soft linen nightdress settle around his shoulders as you helped him into it. He looked down at himself, taking in the way the simple garment hung on his frame. It was comfortable, soft, and warm against his skin.
“Good,” he said softly, his voice filled with a hint of pride. He knew that he had done well, that he had followed your instructions perfectly.
You helped him into bed, covering him with the warm bedsheets. His body didn’t cling onto heat too well yet, but you hoped it would soon.
“There,” you said as you covered him with another blanket. You looked at him, seeing the start of… hair growing on his head.
You smiled delightedly, touching his head. “Oh, Aemond… you have hair growing. It seems you are a blonde… and quite a light blonde at that. Almost silver.”
Aemond settled into the soft bed, feeling the warm sheets and blankets envelop him. As you ran your fingers through his new hair, Aemond's eyes fluttered closed, a soft sigh escaping his lips.
He opened his eyes, looking up at you with a sleepy, contented expression. A small smile played at the corners of his mouth as he heard your words.
“Silver?” He repeated the word, testing it out. Aemond reached up, running his own fingers through the short, downy hairs on his head. He could feel them, soft and fine, and he knew that this was another sign of his body growing and changing.
“Yes, silver,” you said softly. “It means you have very light hair.” You smiled when you saw him feel his own hair, ever curious and eager.
Aemond reached out, taking your hand in his own. He brought it to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles, a gesture of love and devotion.
You smiled, cupping his cheek a final time before letting go. You blew out the candles, and made sure his fireplace was dead before leaving.
“Goodnight,” you whispered, “my Aemond.”
Aemond leaned into your touch, his cheek resting in your warm palm. He could feel the gentle pressure of your fingers on his skin, the way your thumb brushed lightly over his cheekbone. Aemond's eye fluttered closed as you whispered goodnight. A small smile played at the corners of his mouth as he heard you call him 'my Aemond.' He knew that he belonged to you, completely and utterly.
“Goodnight, my lady,” he whispered back, his voice heavy with sleep and love.
---------------
Months passed.
He could talk even better, and he could read. He was quite self-sufficient, though you struggled to let go. You just liked helping him, making sure that all was well. And you couldn’t help but worry, even if it was completely unnecessary.
Like now, when Aemond decided to take a walk outside. Your mansion was huge, with acres of land where no one else was around. But you still worried. What if someone saw him? Attacked him?
“Jacket? And thick boots, there may be mud-“ you said, pacing back towards the closet.
Aemond listened patiently as you fretted over his planned walk outside, your voice filled with worry and concern. He could see the way your brow furrowed, the way your hands fluttered anxiously at your sides.
He reached out, taking one of your hands in his own. He gave it a gentle squeeze, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a soothing gesture.
“It's alright,” he said softly, his voice now clear and easy to understand after months of practice and learning. The rough, rasping tone was gone, replaced by a deep, warm sound that was uniquely his.
“I know the land is empty, and I'll be careful. I promise.”
Aemond released your hand and moved to the wardrobe, pulling out a sturdy jacket made of thick, dark fabric. He slipped it on, the material warm and heavy on his shoulders.
He sat down on the bed and pulled on a pair of thick, worn boots, lacing them tightly around his ankles. He wiggled his toes, feeling the sturdy leather encase his feet.
“See? I'm prepared,” he said, standing up and turning to face you with a reassuring smile. He could see the worry still lingering in your eyes, and he wanted to do everything he could to put your mind at ease.
Aemond stepped closer to you, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. He tilted your chin up gently, forcing you to meet his gaze.
“I am stronger and faster than any man. I will be fine, I promise you.”
He leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. It was a gesture of love and comfort, a silent vow to return to you safe and sound. A gesture you had shown him countless times before.
“Okay, well…” you said, still hesitating a bit. You knew you had to let him go in some things, but still…
“Be careful,” you said again, “don’t stay away too long… please…”
He took both of your hands in his own, squeezing them gently as he looked deeply into your eyes. His gaze was intense, filled with a quiet strength and reassurance that he hoped would calm your fears.
“I will be careful. I promise you that. I know these lands, and I know my own limits. I won't stay away for long, I swear it.”
Aemond brought one of your hands up to his lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your knuckles. He held them there for a long moment, his lips lingering on your skin, before slowly lowering them back down.
“I will return to you, my lady. You have my word.”
With that, Aemond turned and strode towards the door, his boots thudding softly on the floor. He paused at the threshold, glancing back over his shoulder to give you one last reassuring smile before stepping out into the crisp morning air.
Aemond walked through the front garden, turning one last time to see you in the opening of the door. You waved, and Aemond smiled wistfully as he waved back, and then walked further.
He walked through the neatly manicured gardens, the crisp autumn air filling his lungs. The leaves crunched beneath his boots as he made his way down the winding path, the sun warming his face. He breathed in deeply, savoring the scent of the changing seasons.
As he walked, Aemond's mind wandered back to you. He knew you were worried, but he also knew that you trusted him. And that trust meant everything to him.
He came to a fork in the path and paused, considering which way to go. The woods called to him, the dappled sunlight and the sound of birdsong beckoning him deeper into the trees. But the worry in your voice echoed in his mind, and he knew he should stay close to the house.
The sound of hoofbeats caught Aemond's attention, and he turned to see a horse and rider approaching. The man was dressed in hunting attire, a rifle slung over his shoulder. Aemond tensed, his body coiled and ready to react. He knew he had to be careful, had to protect himself.
As the rider drew closer, Aemond realized that the man seemed to be alone, and not paying any attention to his surroundings. He was focused on something in the distance, his horse trotting at a steady pace.
Aemond quickly ducked behind a nearby tree, his heart pounding in his chest. He watched as the rider passed by, close enough that Aemond could hear the jingle of the bridle.
As soon as the rider had passed, Aemond exhaled slowly, his body relaxing. He knew he had to be more careful, had to stay hidden until the coast was clear. He couldn't afford to be seen, couldn't risk drawing attention to himself or to you.
With a deep breath, walked from behind the tree, his eyes scanning the path ahead for any signs of danger. He would be back with you soon, just as he had promised. But for now, he would explore, and he would be careful. For you. But as he walked, the hunter found a deer. He grabbed his gun, aimed…
Aemond heard the gunshot ring out, the sound echoing through the crisp autumn air. He froze, his heart leaping into his throat as the realization hit him - someone had fired a gun, and it had come from the direction of the path he had just left.
You were reading when you heard it.
A gunshot.
Your eyes widened, and you stumbled up, nearly tripping over yourself as you ran to the front door.
“Aemond? Aemond! Aemond!” you screamed, panicked, not knowing what had just happened.
You ran outside blindly, needing to find him, needing to make sure he was safe.
“Aemond!”
Aemond took off running, his long legs eating up the distance between himself and the house. He leaped over fallen logs and ducked under low-hanging branches, his heart pounding in his ears. He had to get to you, had to reassure you that he was unharmed.
As he burst out of the tree line, he saw you running towards him, your expression horrified and eyes wide with fear. You were calling his name, your voice rising in pitch and panic with each step.
“Aemond!”
He heard you scream, and it spurred him on, making him run even faster. He had to reach you, had to hold you and tell you that he was alright.
He was almost to you when he spotted the hunter, the man who had fired the gun. He was mounted on his horse, looking in their direction with a confused and somewhat guilty expression. Aemond knew he had to act fast.
Aemond came to a halt in front of you, his arms outstretched. He caught you in his embrace, pulling you tight against his chest as he tried to calm you.
“Darling, stop! I'm alright, I'm here,” he said, his voice low and soothing as he stroked your hair, your back, trying to soothe you. He knew you were scared, but he needed you to listen to him.
“That man, the hunter, he didn't mean any harm. I'm sure of it. He probably didn't even know these lands were private property,” Aemond murmured, rocking you gently in his arms. He could feel your heart pounding against his chest, could feel the way your body trembled against his
“Oh, god,” you sobbed, clinging onto him and checking him with a feverish touch. “What happened? I thought—I thought you—“ you were gasping, still panicking. But he was alright. Safe.
You stared at the hunter, the man who dared intrude your private land.
“Leave!” you screamed out. “Leave my property!”
Aemond held you close, feeling your tears soak into his shirt as you clung to him. He could feel the way your body shook with fear and relief, could hear the hitch in your breath as you tried to compose yourself.
He looked over at the hunter, seeing the man's shocked expression as you screamed at him to leave.
Aemond, still holding you protectively against his chest, took a step towards the hunter. He used his free hand to make a calm, dismissive gesture, trying to get the man's attention.
“Sir, please, you need to leave these grounds immediately. This land is private property, and you do not have permission to hunt or trespass here,” Aemond said, his voice calm but firm. He kept his tone even and non-threatening, not wanting to escalate the situation. But there was an undercurrent of steel in his words, a silent warning that the hunter would be wise to heed.
The hunter's eyes widened as he took in the sight of Aemond - a tall, scarred man, as if not of this earth. He glanced at you, then back at Aemond, and seemed to come to a decision.
“I... I apologize, miss. I didn't know these were private lands. I'll leave at once,” he said, tipping his hat to you before urging his horse around and trotting off in the direction of the main gate, never once looking at Aemond.
Aemond watched until the hunter had disappeared from view, then turned his attention back to you. He cupped your face in his hands, tilting your chin up to look at him.
“Shh, it's alright, my lady. I'm here, I'm unharmed. You don't have to worry,” he murmured, brushing away your tears with his thumbs. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, trying to pour all of his love and reassurance into the gesture.
“Let's go inside. I'll make you a cup of tea, and we can forget all about this unpleasantness,” Aemond said, keeping one arm wrapped protectively around your waist as he guided you back towards the house. He knew you needed comfort and care, and he was determined to give you both.
You could not stop crying, your heart pounding. Though Aemond could talk now, and care for himself, he still looked… different. The scars where he was stitched together, his eyes, his length, the pale, blue-ish colour of his skin.
And yet, that hunter…
You thought… you thought someone might have shot at him.
Aemond could feel your tears streaming down your face, your body shaking with the force of your sobs. He knew you were frightened, terrified by the thought of him being hurt. So he held you close, rocking you gently as he tried to soothe you.
“Shh, my love, please don't cry. I'm here, I'm alright. No one shot at me, I promise you,” Aemond murmured, his deep voice low and soothing. He pressed soft, lingering kisses to your temple, your cheek, your jaw, trying to comfort you any way he could.
“I know I look different, that I'm not like other men. But I am strong, you. Stronger and faster than any human could ever be. A bullet could never harm me-”
“You do not know that-” you gasped out, cutting him off.
His hand came up to cup your cheek, eye meeting yours. He tilted your face towards his, his brown eyes filled with a fierce, protective light.
“You don't have to fear for my life, because I will never leave you,” Aemond vowed, his voice thick with emotion. He knew that he would do anything, sacrifice anything, to keep you safe and by his side.
“I’m sorry,” you breathed out. Aemond had noticed you always seemed to apologise after crying. After… almost anything, really.
“I was so worried. You were alone, and…” you cupped his face in your hands. “I know you are strong, Aemond. I know, but…”
Aemond covered your hands with his own, giving them a gentle squeeze as he looked deep into your eyes. He could see the fear and worry still lingering there, even as your tears began to subside. He knew you needed more reassurance, more comfort.
“You have nothing to apologize for. Worrying about me is not a weakness, it's a sign of the depth of your love,” he said softly, his thumbs brushing away the last of your tears. He leaned into your touch, turning his head to press a kiss to your palm. He then pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around you in a tight, protective embrace.
“It was just—just a lost hunter,” you repeated, “the-the sign in front of my land probably fell, or…”
you took another deep breath. “you’re right, you are strong. I saw how fast you ran to me. I’m so—so proud.”
Aemond felt a warmth bloom in his chest at your words, a sense of pride and love that threatened to overwhelm him. He knew you were trying to be strong, trying to put on a brave face for him. And he appreciated it more than he could ever express. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours as he closed his eyes, savoring the feeling of you close to him.
“We will fix the sign, and make sure no one else can trespass on our land.” He said softly, his hands sliding down to rest on your shoulders. He squeezed gently, a silent promise of his unwavering devotion and love.
“Now, let's go inside and put this behind us,” Aemond said, his voice a low, intimate rumble. He took your hand in his own, intertwining your fingers as he began to lead you back towards the house.
--------------------
You ended up fixing the sign alone, not wanting Aemond to go outside again. You knew you couldn’t keep him inside forever, but… but just for this week. To make sure any trespassers were truly gone.
Aemond watched from the window as you hammered the sign back into place, your brow furrowed in concentration. He knew you were doing this for him, to protect him, and it made his heart swell with love and gratitude, yet shrink with sadness all the same.
He sighed, his breath fogging up the glass of the window. He hated the thought of you out there alone, hated the idea of any more threats or dangers coming to your home. But he also knew that you couldn't keep him locked away forever, no matter how much you might want to.
Aemond turned away from the window, his gaze sweeping over the familiar furnishings of your study. He had spent countless hours here, learning and growing under your patient guidance. He owed you everything, even his life itself.
But for now, he would give you this week of peace, this time to ensure your privacy and security. He would be patient, would wait for you to feel ready to face the world outside your sanctuary together.
Aemond settled into a plush armchair by the fire, his long legs stretched out before him. He closed his eyes, letting the warmth of the flames and the soft crackling of the wood lull him into a drowsy state. He thought of you, of the way your eyes sparkled when you laughed, the way your smile could light up even the darkest of rooms. He nearly fell asleep when he heard the front door open and close again, the sound of shuffling, and then the sound of you walking up the stairs.
He heard you go into his bedroom, before you realised he wasn’t there. “Aemond?” you called out, brows furrowed.
You then entered the study, seeing him in front of the fire.
“Ah, here you are.”
Aemond opened his eyes, a warm smile spreading across his face as he saw you standing in the doorway of the study.
“I'm here, my love. I'm sorry I wasn't in my bedroom,” he said softly, rising from the armchair and moving towards you. “Thank you for fixing the sign,” he murmured, his voice soft.
“Oh, Aemond,” you whispered, holding him tightly in return. He held you close, feeling the warmth of your body melding against his own. He could feel the softness of your curves, the gentle give of your skin beneath his hands. It never ceased to amaze him, the way your bodies fit together so perfectly, like two halves of a whole.
He tilted your head back to look up at him. In the flickering firelight, your eyes shone with unshed tears, your lips parted slightly as if you wanted to speak but couldn't find the words.
“Don't cry. I'm here, I'm safe, and I'm not going anywhere,” Aemond murmured, his thumb brushing away the single tear that slid down your cheek. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with your own.
-------------------
Aemond, with a few more months, got more freedom. He could go outside, and you taught him the care of plants, which he loved doing.
He also liked reading, which meant he got unlimited access to your library. It was… good. He needed you less and less, and he grew in independence. Which had been so hard at first, but little by little, you let go.
Aemond would spend hours sitting in his favorite plush armchair, a book in hand, his mind expanding with each passing day. He needed you less and less for the basics of daily life, and he took pride in his newfound skills and knowledge. But even as he grew more independent, he remained fiercely devoted to you, cherishing every moment spent together.
And you would allow him his space.
Now that winter was coming up, he spent a lot of time in the library. You were downstairs by the fire, which meant he could snoop around the library more. And there he found a curious book. About a subject he had never been taught about. A subject you had never mentioned.
Intercourse. Pleasures.
It was new. New words. And he wondered why you had hidden it from him. He grabbed the book and settled into a plush armchair by the crackling fireplace, the heavy leather-bound book resting on his lap. He had found it tucked away on a high shelf in the library, hidden behind a stack of other books. The title was written in an elegant, gilded script: "The Secrets of Venus"
Aemond's brow furrowed as he flipped through the pages, his eyes widening at the explicit illustrations and detailed descriptions of acts he had never been taught about, had never even considered. He felt a strange heat rising in his core as he read about the intimate joining of bodies, the ways in which a man and woman could find pleasure in each other.
But as he read on, a sense of confusion and hurt began to mingle with the unfamiliar arousal. Why had you hidden this from him? Why had you never mentioned such things, never spoken of the intimate acts that seemed so natural and necessary for other couples? You loved him, didn’t you?
Aemond's heart raced as he turned the pages, his mind reeling with questions. Did you not want him in that way? Did you find him repulsive, unnatural, because of the way he had been created? The thought made his stomach churn with dread.The realization that there was a whole aspect of love and intimacy that you had kept from him stung deeply.
Aemond closed the book, his hands trembling slightly as he set it aside. He stared into the flickering flames of the fireplace, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. He loved you more than anything, but he couldn't shake the feeling of hurt and confusion.
You had been downstairs, leaving him be. A couple of hours had passed already, so you stood up from the chaise, walking into the kitchen. You wanted some tea, so you walked, and-
“Aemond-“ you gasped when you suddenly saw him standing there. “you scared me. I thought you were upstairs. Are you hungry?”
“No, I'm not hungry. I found something else while I was exploring the library,” he said, his voice tight and strained. He picked up the book, holding it out to you. “Why didn't you tell me about this? Why did you hide it from me?” Aemond asked, a note of hurt and confusion coloring his tone. “I thought we told each other everything, that we had no secrets from one another. But this... this is something you kept from me. Why?” He took a step towards you. He could see the way your eyes widened as you took in the book, the realization of what he had discovered dawning on your face.
“Please, my darling, tell me why. I need to understand. I need to know why you felt you had to hide this from me,” Aemond pleaded, his heart aching with a desperate need for answers.
You gasped when you saw the book. It was one you had hidden, a personal indulgence you felt was too… dirty, too… naughty. A sin.
“Aemond, this…” you whispered, clearing your throat. “This is… this is private. This…”
Aemond felt a pang of hurt at your hesitation. He could see the blush rising to your cheeks, could hear the way your voice wavered as you searched for the right words.
I am not a child anymore, you. I am a grown man,-”
“Technically, you have never been a child,” you murmured, but you quickly stopped talking.
“-and I have a right to know about these things, to understand the intimate aspects of life and love. Especially from you,” he murmured, reaching out to gently take your hand in his own. He could feel the way you trembled slightly, could sense the tension that radiated from your body.
“Aemond…” you said softly again, placing the book down on the counter. “I never told you about… intercourse, or… or sex, because it’s… well, it’s seen as a… a taboo, and…” you cleared your throat. You remembered creating Aemond as if it was yesterday, not ten months ago. You had chosen the best parts of fallen soldiers. A handsome face, good teeth, strong, long limbs, and his cock…
It had been selfish, but you had chosen one from a hung man who himself had also been… hung.
But you never thought this would happen. This… conversation.
“Sex is… intimate. Very much so, and… well, you are still learning so much..”
Aemond listened intently as you struggled to find the right words, your cheeks flushed a deep scarlet.
“I am not naive,” he spoke, “I know that there are aspects of life and love that go beyond simple companionship and friendship,” Aemond said, his voice low and earnest. He could feel the tension radiating from your body, could sense the way you fidgeted under his intense gaze.
I may not have grown up in the traditional sense, but I am still a man, with a man's desires and needs. I have feelings, my lady, deep and powerful ones. And I thought... I thought you felt them too,” he murmured, his hand tightening slightly around yours. He could feel the warmth of your skin, the softness of your flesh, and it made his heart ache with a sudden, intense longing.
“Is it because of how I was made? Is that why you hesitate to discuss such things with me, to acknowledge the intimate desires that may lie between us?” Aemond asked, a note of hurt and confusion creeping into his voice. He knew that he was not like other men. But he had always hoped that you loved him for who he was, not what he was.
“No, Aemond,” you said softly. “I just… it felt… wrong, in a way.” You raised a hand, cupping his cheek. “I made you… perfectly. In every way. Everywhere.”
You meant his body, his face, his… endowment. But you knew you had to be careful.
Aemond leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as your soft hand cupped his cheek.
“I know you created me with great care and skill… and I am grateful for every aspect of my being, for the way you poured your love and devotion into my creation,” Aemond murmured, his voice low and thick with emotion. He opened his eyes, gazing deep into your own as he spoke.
He could see the conflict and uncertainty swirling in your eyes, and it made his heart ache with a desperate need for your reassurance, your acceptance of him, flaws and all.
“But I am still a man. I have a man's heart, a man's mind, and a man's body. And I have a man's deep, abiding love for you,” he whispered, his voice rough with feeling. He leaned into your touch, eye closing.
“I need you to see me, all of me, and to love me for who I am,” Aemond pleaded, his heart laid bare before you, his soul stripped raw by the intensity of his emotions. “I want to love.”
You gently led him upstairs, to your bedchambers. It was a bit messy, but… it was you. Aemond found you in every single corner, every note and sketch and piece of clothing messily sprawling on the floor.
You grabbed his hand, placing it on your chest where he could feel your heartbeat.
“I love you,” you whispered. “I… I do. And this… this is a big step.”
He felt the steady thrum of your heartbeat beneath his palm, the warm, soft swell of your breast rising and falling with each breath. He could feel the love radiating from you, could see it shining in your eyes.
“I love you too, more than anything in this world or the next,” Aemond murmured, his voice low and thick with emotion. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. He could feel the way you trembled beneath him, could sense the anticipation and nervousness that thrummed through your veins.
“I need you to guide me, to teach me how to love you in the way that you need” Aemond said, his voice a low, intimate rumble. He knew that he had to be careful, had to approach this new intimacy with a gentle touch and a patient hand. He didn't want to overwhelm you, didn't want to scare you with the force of his love and desire.
“Please, my darling, tell me what you need. Show me how to worship you. I want to make this moment perfect for you-” he breathed, his heart pounding in his chest, his body aching with a sudden, intense need.
“I am… different from you,” you said softly. “Anatomically seen.” You took off your gown, leaving you almost completely bare. You had breasts, and a different type of core. You were softer, no scars littering your body.
Feminine.
“I love you,” you whispered. “And I do trust you.”
Aemond's breath caught in his throat as he took in the sight of your naked form, your skin glowing in the soft candlelight of the bedchamber. He had never seen you like this before, never witnessed the full, breathtaking beauty of your feminine curves and soft, unblemished skin.
“You… you are... exquisite. Absolutely stunning,” he murmured, his gaze roaming over every inch of your body, from the delicate arch of your neck, down to the swell of your breasts, to the flare of your hips. He could see the way your body was different from his own, softer and more… more you.
“I know we are different, in every way imaginable. But I also know that I love every part of you, from the top of your head to the soles of your feet,” Aemond said, his voice low and thick with emotion. He reached out, his calloused hand cupping the soft, supple flesh of your cheek, his thumb brushing over the delicate skin, marveling at its smoothness. You giggled softly at his words, leaning closer into his touch.
He leaned in, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the hollow of your throat, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin, to feel the way your pulse raced beneath the surface.
You gasped, your hands clinging onto him. How did he…? It seemed he had read your secret books very closely.
“Aemond-“ you gasped, moaning his name.
He felt a surge of male pride at the way you gasped and moaned his name, your fingers digging into his shoulders, nails leaving faint red crescents in his skin. He could feel the way your body arched into his, could sense the desperate need and desire that radiated from every pore. He could feel your breasts pressed against his chest, the hard peaks of your nipples grazing his skin, igniting a fire in his blood.
Aemond's mouth trailed down from your throat, his lips and tongue blazing a path of heat over your collarbone, down to the soft, pliant flesh of your breasts. He paused, looking up at you with wide, almost innocent eyes.
“Please,” you whimpered, and he whined before taking your nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the hardened bud, suckling gently, then with increasing pressure and intensity. His hand slid down your stomach,to the soft, warm flesh between your thighs.
He could feel the heat radiating from your core, could feel the slick wetness that coated your folds. He groaned around your nipple as he slipped a long finger inside your tight, wet heat.
“You’re so perfect, so fucking gorgeous,” Aemond growled, his finger pumping slowly, gently, as he worked to stretch and prepare you. He could feel your body clenching around him, could hear the way your breathy moans and gasps grew louder, more urgent.
“That's it, my love, let me make you feel good,” he murmured, his finger curling inside you, stroking that secret spot deep within your core that made you see stars, that brought you closer and closer to the edge of oblivion.
You moaned and mewled, eyes closed in pleasure. “You—“ you gasped out, “you read that book very c-closely-“
Aemond chuckled, a deep, rich sound that vibrated through your body, sending shivers down your spine. He released your nipple with a soft, wet pop, blowing cool air over the sensitive peak, watching it pucker and tighten even further.
“Guilty as charged, my love,” he murmured, his grin widening. His finger continued its slow, steady strokes inside you, curling and pumping, working you closer and closer to the brink of ecstasy.
“I must admit, I found that book quite... enlightening. It gave me many ideas, many ways to bring you pleasure,” Aemond said, his voice a low, seductive purr. He leaned in, nipping at your earlobe, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh before he soothed the sting with his tongue.
“I want to try everything in that book, my lady. I want to worship your body in every way imaginable, to learn exactly what you love,” he breathed, his hand sliding from your breast to your hip, squeezing the soft flesh, pulling you harder against him. He could feel his own body responding to your pleasure, his cock hardening and throbbing with a need that bordered on pain.
“Tell me, my love, what do you want?” Aemond murmured, waiting for your guidance.
“Oh, just—“ you moaned softly. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop—“
He groaned, his finger picking up speed, pumping faster, harder, as he worked you towards your peak. You guided his thumb, making him circle your clit, showing him how to rub the sensitive nub in tight, firm strokes, sending jolts of electricity through your veins.
“Come undone for me, my darling. Let me feel you,” he urged, his finger pumping quicker, deeper, his thumb rubbing your clit with increasing pressure and speed. He could feel your body tensing, could sense the way your thighs clenched around his hand, holding him in place, desperate for more.
He could feel your body tensing, could sense the way your walls started to clench harder, and with a final, hard thrust, he sent you flying over the edge.
You gasped, jaw going slack as you came on his fingers. Your knees buckled, but his free arm kept you close, safe.
“Aemond-“ you whimpered, your hands holding onto his tunic as if he was your lifeline
He held you close as you shuddered, feeling your nails digging into the fabric of his tunic.
“That's it, my love, let it all go. Let me feel you, let me hold you, let me be your everything,” he murmured, his voice a low, soothing rumble. He gentled his touch, his finger slowing its frantic pumping to long, slow strokes, helping you ride out the waves of pleasure.
Aemond's other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against his body, holding you close as you trembled and gasped.
“You're exquisite,” he breathed, pressing soft, tender kisses to your hair, temple, cheek. He could feel the way your body started to go limp, could sense the exhaustion that set in as the aftershocks of your climax began to fade.
“Let me take care of you, my darling,” Aemond murmured, lifting you easily into his arms, cradling you against his chest as he carried you towards the bed. He laid you down gently, the soft mattress molding to the curves of your body, the silken sheets cool against your heated skin.
He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close, tucking you into the curve of his body. He could feel the way you melted into him, could sense the trust and love and devotion that radiated from your very being.
And you could not believe the difference in your creation. From when you had made him, to when he finally lived. He had been barely able to talk, unable to take care of himself, and now…
He was a man. An independent man.
You were so proud.
“I love you,” you whispered again, carding a hand through his silver hair. “you are… mine.”
Aemond's heart swelled with love at your words. He could feel the pride and possession that laced your voice, could sense the deep, abiding love that shone in your eyes as you gazed up at him.
He turned his head to press a soft, lingering kiss to your palm.
You sat up after a moment, helping him undress. You saw his entire body again, the muscles, the scars of where you had stitched him together. And finally, you allowed yourself to look at his cock. From a hung man, you had taken it.
And it… worked. It was hard. Hard, and pulsing.
“Remarkable,” you whispered.
Aemond followed your gaze, noticing exactly what you were looking at. He could feel the way his cock throbbed and pulsed, hard and ready, a sign of his deep, abiding desire for you.
“Remarkable indeed,” he murmured, a small, shy smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He could feel the heat of your gaze upon his cock, could sense the way you studied it with a critical, almost scientific eye, as if trying to understand how it worked, how it had come to be.
“You’re perfect,” you whispered. “you take such good care of yourself…” You crawled closer, touching his chest. “Soft and clean…” Your hand slid down, touching his lower stomach. “Can I… touch you?”
His breath hitched as your hand slid lower, his muscles jumping and twitching at your touch.
“Yes-” he panted, his eye darkening with desire as he gazed down at you. He could see the way your own body reacted to his touch, could sense the need and hunger that radiated from you.
You were positive this was the first time he had gotten hard, his own hands trembling, scared to touch himself. You looked into his darkened eye, seeing him nod once, and you gently wrapped a hand around him.
Aemond's breath caught in his throat as your hand wrapped around him, the heat of your palm searing his sensitive flesh. It was a sensation unlike anything he had ever experienced before, and it sent a jolt of electricity shooting up his spine, making him gasp and shudder.
“You…” he breathed, his voice a low, strangled sound. He could feel the way his hips twitched forward, instinctively seeking more of your touch, more of the incredible pleasure that your hand promised.
“This... this feels... incredible,” Aemond panted, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. He could feel the way his heart raced, could sense the deep, pulsing need that consumed him.
“I never knew... I never imagined…” he said, his words trailing off as he lost himself in the sensation of your touch, in the way your fingers tightened around him, stroking slowly, gently, exploring the hard, velvety length of his cock.
“My love, if this is what your touch can do, I am truly... lost,” Aemond murmured, his eye fluttering closed as he savored the feeling of your hand on him, working him, bringing him to heights of pleasure he had never known before.
“Kiss me,” you said softly to your creation, your nose nudging his. You kept stroking his hard length, checking his body language to make sure he was alright.
Aemond's breath mingled with yours as their noses brushed, their lips a mere hairsbreadth apart. He could feel the soft, warm puffs of air that escaped your mouth, could sense the way your breath hitched and caught as you stroked him, your hand working slowly, steadily, up and down his hard, throbbing length.
“Kiss you?” He whispered. “Like this?” Aemond murmured, before closing the small distance between you and pressing his lips softly against yours. It was a gentle, almost tentative kiss at first, his mouth moving hesitantly against yours as he tried to mimic you. But as your hand continued to stroke and caress him, Aemond found himself losing himself in the sensation, in the soft, warm feel of your lips against his own. His arm came up to wrap around your waist, pulling you closer, holding you tight against his body as he deepened the kiss, his mouth slanting over yours with growing confidence and desire.
He was such a quick learner. He copied your movements, both kissing each other so sweetly, so gently, yet with so much passion.
He pulled you closer, and you allowed him, straddling him, your lips never leaving his.
And then you positioned his tip at your core.
His eyes widened when he felt it. He could feel the way your slick folds parted around him, the scorching heat of your desire wetting his tip. It was a sensation unlike anything he had ever experienced before, and it made his heart race and his breath come fast and hard.
“My love…” he panted against your lips, his hands gripping your hips. “Is this... are you going to…”
Aemond's voice trailed off, his words dissolving into a low, guttural moan as he felt you start to sink down onto him, your tight heat engulfing his throbbing cock inch by slow, tortuous inch.
“Sweet mercy…” he breathed, his head falling back against the pillow, his eyes squeezing shut as he lost himself in the exquisite, mind-numbing pleasure of your body accepting his own. Aemond gasped, his fingers digging into the soft, giving flesh of your hips, holding you tight, pulling you down, urging you to take all of him, to claim him, to make him yours in every way imaginable.
You whimpered and mewled, but kept focusing on him, taking in every sigh and moan and twitch of his body. You only wanted to make him feel good, that was all that mattered.
And he looked phenomenal, lost in pleasure.
“My love, my heart, my everything…” Aemond panted, his voice a low, rough growl that rumbled through his chest. “You feel... beyond words... beyond anything I could have ever imagined…” he breathed, his hips starting to roll and thrust instinctively, seeking more of you, seeking to bury himself even deeper in your incredible, intoxicating heat.
“I never knew... I never dreamed... that anything could feel this good, this right, this perfect…” Aemond rambled, his thrusts punctuated by soft, breathy moans and gasps as he lost himself in the sensation of your joining, in the exquisite, mind-numbing pleasure.
He came quickly, though you noticed there was no cum. Only pure bliss etched on your creature's face, and you watched with awe. You kissed his lips, his hips jerking and his head thrown back.
Aemond's body shuddered and jerked beneath you as the most intense, overwhelming pleasure he had ever experienced crashed over him like a tidal wave. His heart raced and his breath came in short, sharp gasps as he clung to you, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips, holding you tight against him.
Breathtaking. You had never seen anything as beautiful.
“I... I can't... it's too much…” he gasped, his head thrown back, his eyes squeezed shut, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated bliss. He could feel the way his body tensed and coiled, could sense the deep, pulsing heat that seemed to radiate from his very core.
“My love... my everything…” he panted, his voice a low, rough rasp. “That was... beyond words... beyond anything I could have ever imagined…” Aemond said, his words trailing off as he struggled to catch his breath, to come back down to earth from the incredible, mind-numbing heights of pleasure he had just experienced.
You dropped heavily on top of him, panting and smiling. You felt so proud you had made him feel like that, that you had shown him such bliss. You rested your head on his chest, feeling his heart pounding.
Incredible. You had made this. Made him.
“I love you,” was all you could say.
He could feel the way your body pressed against his own, soft and warm and perfect, and he knew that he never wanted to let you go, never wanted to be parted from you again.
“I love you too, you, more than words can express,” he murmured, his hand coming up to cup your flushed cheek.
You smiled, pulling the bedsheets over your intertwined bodies.
----------------------
And after that, it was as if a new part inside of him had activated.
A part that usually happened to teenage boys. He would get hard often, had thoughts about you all the time. He searched you up often, though was still too shy to ask for it.
So he would look at you. From a distance. He would stare, and press a hand softly on your waist. He would kiss your cheek, linger closely until you noticed the way he was looking… and then you would grab his hand, guiding him upstairs along with you.
He felt so good—better each time. He stretched you out, massaged every single inch of you.
“M-more-“ you gasped out. “Oh, please-“
You wrapped your legs around his waist, keeping him deep inside of you. Aemond groaned, a deep, guttural sound that rumbled up from the very depths of his chest. He could feel the way you clung to him, desperate to keep him deep inside you, to merge with him, to become one with him in the most intimate way possible.
“More?” he groaned out, his voice a low, rough rasp. “I will give you everything, my darling. Everything I have, everything I am, everything I will ever be, I will give it all to you,” Aemond vowed, his words punctuated by the soft, heated press of his lips against yours, a kiss that deepened and intensified with each passing second.
“I will stretch you, fill you, claim you, worship you-”
“Yes-“ you moaned, tugging softly at his hair.
Aemond shuddered at the feel of your fingers tangling in his hair, sending jolts of electricity through his body. He could feel the way his hips moved of their own accord, could sense the deep, steady rhythm of his thrusts as he drove into you again and again. His large hands grabbed your thighs, pressing you open impossibly further. He reached even deeper inside of you, and every single mewl and moan of his name made him more determined to bring you over the edge.
You. his beautiful creator. His everything.
“Come for me,” he breathed out, watching as your eyes were lidded, the way your lips were parted. He leaned down, kissing you deeply and messily, biting at your lips and sucking on your tongue. His fingers found your pearl, and with just three harsh circles, you came undone with a sob of his name.
And you looked glorious.
-----------------------------
You only grew closer. You slept in the same bed, made love, cuddled. During mealtimes you would sit beside him, or what he preferred; on his lap.
You’d always giggle, one of your arms draped around his shoulders as he fed you.
His heart swelled with a profound, almost aching love as he held you close, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist as you sat nestled on his lap. He could feel the way your body fit so perfectly against his own, could sense the way you seemed to melt into his embrace, as if you had been made to be held by him, to be loved by him.
You embraced him tightly, nuzzling your nose against his throat. “I just love you,” you whispered.
Aemond's breath caught in his throat at your soft, whispered words, his heart stuttering and leaping in his chest. He could feel the way your arms tightened around him, could sense the fierce, almost desperate way you clung to him, as if you never wanted to let him go, as if you never wanted to be separated from him for even a single moment.
“I love you too, my darling girl. More than words can express, more than any mortal man could ever hope to convey,” he murmured. He could feel the way his own arms tightened around you, pulling you even closer.
-------------------------
And as the days grew colder and the snow began to fall, blanketing the world in a thick, white shroud, Aemond found himself drawn to the outdoors, to the crisp, clean air and the sparkling, glistening beauty of the winter landscape. He loved the way the snow seemed to muffle all sound, the way it made the world feel hushed and still and quiet, as if all of creation were holding its breath, waiting for the return of spring.
Of course, you had made certain that he was well-equipped to face the elements, insisting on outfitting him with the finest, warmest garments you could find. You had wrapped him in thick, woolen blankets and lined his boots with fur, determined to keep him from feeling even the slightest chill. Aemond had protested at first, not wanting to put you to any trouble or any expense, but you had simply refused. He was yours, your creature, and you wanted him to be warm, and safe, and comfortable.
And so, Aemond allowed you to dress him, to wrap him up to make sure that he was ready to face the cold.
This time as well. You were on your chaise by the fireplace, almost asleep, when Aemond decided to take a walk outside. He had put on his boots and coat, hesitating before deciding against gloves and a scarf.
And suddenly, you appeared.
“And these,” you said, holding exactly the gloves, scarf and hat he had decided to skip for today.
Aemond turned to see you standing behind him, seeing the soft and sleepy smile on your face.
“My darling girl, always watching out for me, always thinking of my comfort and my well-being,” he murmured. He took the offered garments from your hands, his fingers brushing against yours, lingering for just a moment, savoring the feel of your soft, warm skin against his own.
“You are a treasure, my love,” he whispered, his eyes searching yours, trying to convey the very depths of his love.
“Be careful,” you said, “and return at once when you see something odd. I love you.” You puckered your lips, waiting for his goodbye-for-now kiss.
He could feel the way his lips curved into a soft, tender smile, could sense the deep, abiding affection that seemed to radiate from every pore of his being.
“I will be careful, my darling. I promise you that,” he murmured. He leaned down, closing the scant distance between you, and pressed his lips against yours in a soft, lingering kiss. “And I shall return soon.”
With a final, lingering caress of your cheek, Aemond turned and stepped out into the crisp, cold air of the winter's day, his heart already aching with a desperate need to return to you, to hold you, to love you.
You watched him walk away into the snow covered gardens, before closing the door silently after him. You then moved to the window to look at him from there, before sighing and taking a step back. He was strong, and safe here.
So you walked back to your chaise, returning to your nap.
Aemond stepped out into the crisp, cold air of the winter's day, the snow crunching beneath his boots as he made his way down the path that led to the gardens. He could feel the chill on his skin, the way the icy wind seemed to bite at his cheeks, but he hardly noticed, so lost was he in thoughts of you.
Aemond walked for some time, his breath misting in the cold air, his heart warm and content despite the chill. He had not gone far when he heard a strange sound, a sound that seemed out of place in the hushed, still silence of the winter's day. It was a soft, muffled caw, a sound that seemed to be coming from somewhere off the path, somewhere in the deeper part of the gardens.
Curious, Aemond followed the sound, his brow furrowed in concern. He had promised you that he would be careful, and he intended to keep that promise, but he could not ignore the desperate, anguished tone of the cry, the way it seemed to tug at his heart, demanding his attention.
As he ventured off the path, the snow growing deeper and the trees growing thicker around him, Aemond finally saw the source of the sound. There, caught in the branches of a gnarled, ancient oak tree, was a small, feathered creature, its wings fluttering and its body struggling against the twigs and branches that held it fast.
It was a bird; a delicate songbird with feathers of the most breathtaking blue and gold. But as Aemond drew closer, he could see that the poor creature was injured, its leg caught in the twisted, jagged bark of the tree, its body weak and exhausted from its struggles.
Aemond felt nervous, his big stitched-together hands not suited for such a task. But he could not leave the bird here. So, carefully, he tried to help it to get free.
And then, perhaps his creator could help. You were skilled and smart enough.
He hesitated for a moment, his large, clumsy hands hovering near the delicate, struggling bird.
‘Leave the bird here,’ a small voice in the back of his mind whispered. ‘You could hurt it further with your awkward, uncoordinated hands. It would be wiser to get help.’
And yet, even as these thoughts raced through his mind, Aemond found himself reaching out, his fingers carefully, tentatively, grasping at the gnarled wood that held the bird's leg trapped. He could see the fear and the pain in the bird's eyes as it fluttered and struggled, and he knew that he could not abandon it, could not leave it to suffer any longer.
“Easy now, little one,” he murmured, his voice a low, soothing rumble. “I mean you no harm. I only want to help you.”
Aemond worked slowly, his hands moving with a cautious gentleness. He could feel the rough treebark digging into his skin as he carefully, methodically, began to pry the bird's leg free, inch by careful inch, until finally, with a soft, cracking sound, the branch gave way and the bird tumbled into his waiting hands.
The bird was small, its heart beating rapidly against his palms as he cradled it close, shielding it from the biting cold. Aemond could feel the delicate flutter of its wings, the way its tiny body trembled with exhaustion and fear, and he knew that he had to act quickly, had to get the creature back to the warmth and safety of the house.
He glanced up at the sky, noting the position of the sun, and estimated that he had been out in the gardens for nearly an hour. You would be expecting him back soon, and he knew that you would want to see to the bird's care yourself. With a new sense of purpose, Aemond turned and began to make his way back down the path, his footsteps crunching loudly in the snow as he hurried towards the house, eager to place the injured bird in your gentle hands.
You were still asleep when he had returned. He walked in, his snowy boots making a mess on the floor. Something that your single servant would not enjoy.
He woke you up, feeling nervous when he saw the bird growing weaker in his hands. And when he was nervous and talking fast—his words started jumbling.
“Dar-darling, wake up, please,” he said, words tumbling over each other in his haste. “I found something in the garden--stuck in the branches--the pointy ones near… near… something needs your help right away-!”
As he spoke, Aemond held out his hands, showing the weak, shivering bird. He could see the confusion in your eyes as you blinked up at him, still groggy from sleep, trying to make sense of his frantic words and actions.
“What... what is it, Aemond? What did you find?” he heard you ask, your voice soft with concern and a hint of worry. You sat up slowly, pushing yourself to your feet as you took in the sight of the bird, its delicate form barely stirring in Aemond's large, clumsy hands.
“It's a bird, darling,” he said, his words still coming fast and urgent. “It was trapped in the branches. I tried to help it, to get it free, but... but I don't know what to do now. I think it's hurt, and I was hoping... I was hoping you could help it, that you could fix it, like you fixed me,” Aemond said, his voice rough with emotion. He could feel the way the bird's tiny heart fluttered against his palms, could sense the way its little body trembled with pain and exhaustion.
“Oh, darling…” you whispered, seeing how Aemond was in genuine distress. “Come, let’s help our little friend.”
You walked to your study, making a small bed for the bird, soft and warm. When Aemond put it down, he never let it out of his sight.
You grabbed an enhancing glass, inspecting the bird up close. “She is just tired,” you said, “and her leg is scraped up. I shall clean it.”
And you did, with a soft piece of cotton with disinfectant.
Afterwards, you prepared some water for the bird to drink, and some worms and seeds to eat. You handed Aemond the food. “Do you wish to feed her?” you asked softly, encouragingly.
He nodded eagerly, a soft, tentative smile curving his lips as he reached out to take the small dish of worms from your hand.
“I... I would like that very much,” he said, his voice a low, rough murmur.” I want to help her, to make sure she is alright. I want to... to take care of her, like you take care of me.”
Aemond carefully set the dish down next to the bird's makeshift nest, watching as it regarded him with bright, curious eyes. He could see the way its little beak opened and closed, as if it were already eager for the meal he held out to it.
“Go on, love,” you encouraged softly, your hand coming to rest on Aemond's shoulder in a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “Feed our little friend. Let her see that you mean her no harm, that you only want to help her.”
Aemond nodded, carefully feeding the songbird.
“That's it,” Aemond murmured, a note of pride and affection creeping into his voice. “Eat up, little one. Get your strength back. You're safe now, with us.”
He continued to feed the bird, letting it peck at the worms from his fingers, marveling at the way its strength seemed to return with each passing moment.
As he worked, you softly carded a hand through his hair, so incredibly proud of him. He saved this bird, a songbird, who was now ready to nap and rebuild her strength.
“Perfect,” you said softly, “you did so well. You are most kind to have saved it, Aemond.”
Aemond leaned into your gentle touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment as your fingers carded through his hair.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice a low, rough whisper. Thank you for... for everything. For saving me, for loving me, for showing me what it means to be kind and compassionate and good,” Aemond murmured, his words thick with emotion. He turned his head to press a soft, lingering kiss to your palm, his lips brushing against your skin in a gesture of deep, abiding affection.
“Lets leave it some more food for when it awakes,” you said, giving him the power to choose which seeds and worms. You yourself grabbed a cage to place it in.
“When she’s strong again, we can let her out again. Okay?”
Aemond nodded, a soft, gentle smile curving his lips. “Yes, that sounds perfect,” he murmured.
Aemond carefully selected a few choice seeds and worms from the dish you had given him, placing them gently in the nest beside the slumbering bird. He could see the way its little body rose and fell with each breath, could see the way its chest fluttered softly as it dreamed, perhaps, of soaring through the clouds once more.
“You'll be flying again soon, little one,” he whispered, a note of tender affection in his voice. “And when you do... when you spread your wings and take to the skies... know that you will always have a friend in me.”
Aemond turned to you, leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips.
You smiled dreamily, before walking back to the lounge room with him. “Did you want to go back and walk a bit longer? Or join me and sleep a bit more?”
Aemond glanced out the window, noting the way the light was beginning to fade, the sun dipping low on the horizon as the day gave way to the approaching evening. A part of him longed to venture back out into the gardens, to explore the winding paths and hidden nooks with you by his side, to discover the secrets and wonders that the winter landscape might hold. But another part of him, a part that was growing stronger with each passing moment, yearned for the simple pleasure of curling up beside you, of wrapping you and napping together.
“I... I think I would like to join you,” he said softly, “I am... I am quite tired from my adventures today.”
Aemond's hand tightened around yours, his heart pounding in his chest as he gazed down at you with a love that seemed to consume him utterly, a love that made him feel as if he might burst with the sheer force of it. “Let’s…” he started, cheeks turning pink, voice turning soft and shy. “Let’s… make love…”
“I’d like nothing more,” you said sweetly, pressing a kiss to his lips.
Taking your hand, Aemond led you up the grand staircase, his hand never letting go of yours.
“My love,” he murmured, his voice a low, rough growl as he nuzzled into the soft skin of your neck, breathing in the sweet scent of you, “you are... you are mine.”
Aemond's hands slid lower, cupping the rounded globes of your bum, squeezing and kneading the supple flesh as he held you close. He could feel the way your body responded to his touch, the way you arched into him, seeking more, craving more.
“I want to worship you,” he whispered, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine.
Aemond's hands slid up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing over the soft, delicate skin of your cheeks, tilting your chin up to meet his heated gaze. He could see the desire burning in your eyes, the love and the trust and the unspoken promise of a lifetime of devotion, and it made his heart ache with a fierce, all-consuming need.
“I love you,” he said, his voice rough with emotion, his eyes shining with unshed tears of joy and wonder. “I love you more than life itself, more than anything in this world or any other. And I... I want to show you that love, for all the days of our lives.”




