Synopsis: To be king means you are gifted with the power to take all you want. King Aemond the Absolute now had the power to take you.
Warnings: Abuse of Power, Mature, 18+, Targcest, Loss of Virginity, P in V Sex, Fingering, Oral Sex (F & M receiving), Praise Kink, ¿Manipulation?, Jacaerys being cuckolded
Word Count: 5,736
There are many benefits to being king. Power is the first that comes to mind. To have undisputed control not only over land but also over its citizens is a sensation like no other. For you to be worshiped and revered like a god is an honor bestowed upon only a few, and King Aemond Targaryen was fortunate enough to be one of them.
As a secondborn son, he had only hoped to one day wear the conqueror’s upon his brow– but it was a fantasy. With his half-sister being named heir by the decaying king and his older brother having his own heir, Aemond knew that for him to be king meant the death of his kin. He had no plan to kill for the crown. But with each life taken, he inched closer to the iron throne that he could already feel the cool metal against his leather-clad body.
As his brother abdicated his claim, his half-sister fell. Her faction quickly surrendered and pledged their fealty to him, Aemond One-eye, the reason why the dance of the dragons began. He relished seeing the once fierce, albeit idiotic, supporters of his half-sister kneel before him, declaring him their king. He had taken the most powerful seat in the realm with barely any bloodshed, a feat he thought rather impossible.
Aemond the Absolute, he wishes to be called. A king who all yields to– that all agreed was suitable for the throne. He felt rather benevolent as he oversaw his once traitorous kin’s surrender. The blood of the dragon was scarce now; he’d rather not be the only dragon left in this world, and so, he was kind. He had let Rhaenyra’s remaining kin keep Dragonstone, leaving his nephews and niece their ancestral home. A reminder of what they had lost— and of what he had allowed them to keep.
He, on the other hand, had the Red Keep. The vast castle all to himself as his brother fled, and his sister was taken by her madness. Many times did the thought of offering his eldest nephew a seat in his council cross his mind– a risky, irrational thought, he believed, but a thought brought out by loneliness. To invite Jacaerys into his council means to invite a possible rebellion once more– he’d rather keep him in the desolate caves of Dragonstone.
Aemond needed a wife. A companion. A person who could provide him with heirs and aid him in rebuilding his family. It was an easy enough task if it weren’t for his particularities. He was the blood of the dragon; anything less was insulting. But the blood of Old Valyria was scarce now; the only one truly left who had enough fire in their veins was you. The bastard daughter of the false queen. Your father may be strong, but your mother was Rhaenyra, you were dragon enough, Aemond supposed.
However, a hurdle stood in his way– the same hurdle he faced even in childhood: Jacaerys, your twin brother. King Aemond must admit, he was ever so fond of you in your younger years. You were kind– sweet even. You always shared your cake. You always apologized in your brother’s wake. You always made Aemond feel sympathy for a bastard.
He could recall your childhood so vividly that it brought a dull ache in his chest as he would constantly vie for your attention, but it was always placed on your twin. Your bond with Jacaerys was formed in the womb, and when you two came into the world, your mother was quick to form another bond by binding you to one another.
Aemond had long known this, of course. But never was his younger self deterred, as he was your constant companion when your twin temporarily placed his favor upon Aegon.
“I do not like when he and Luc are with Aegon– they become cruel,” You grumbled to Aemond as he sat with you in the gardens, a plate of cake between you, crumbs on both your lips. “Earlier this morning, he would not stop pulling at my hair!” You added, and Aemond hummed as he stared upon your crumpled face, your dark brows in a furrow, and your braided hair fraying, and bore the truth of your words.
“Perhaps you shall tell your mother,” Aemond suggested as he reached forward to wipe away the icing on your plump and rosy cheek. “If he is cruel now, what more when you two are married?” He added and saw as clear fear flashed in your mud colored eyes. “And you’ve seen how my brother is– Jacaerys seems to worship the ground Aegon walks on. It would not take long before he becomes like him,” Aemond further stated, sewing the seeds of doubt so delicately that even he almost believed it was concern.
“He would not dare!” You exclaimed in fear, looking upon Aemond, who held a stoic expression. “A prince should never pull upon a lady's hair– especially not a princess,” He said, reaching forward to pull at the ribbon that held your braids, letting your hair cascade down your back and running his finger through the silky strands. “A husband must be gentle, niece,” He hummed. Aemond remembered your innocent eyes then. You were nine, and he was only a couple of years your senior, but he was already clever enough to reach for what he wanted— you.
He was persistent– more persistent than he would care to admit. But he could not explain why, but he wanted you, even if you were a bastard. It did not matter much to him that you were a Strong, but when it came to your brothers, he was rather merciless. He tried to be subtle with his fondness for you, but subtlety becomes rather obvious when he truly abhorred your brothers.
“I do not understand,” Aemond remembered as you cried to him under the scarlet leaves of the Godswood tree, the silver light of the moon setting you aglow, making your tears iridescent like pearls streaming down your face. You were six and ten– your family had finally returned after your informal banishment to Dragonstone, a trial as to who shall be heir to Driftmark, the reason why you had found your way back to him.
“He had been bound to me since we were born– he was supposed to offer his fealty– his loyalty– but the moment we returned here, he desecrated it to lie with… with a common whore!” You wailed, and Aemond bit back his smile. Do not mistake his intentions. He did not revel in your sadness; he reveled in the fact that it was Jacaerys who had brought it.
“I had tried to warn you ever since we were children, niece.” He hummed as he took his place next to you, resting his back upon the greyish trunk of the ancient tree. “You should have been rid of him years before.” Aemond added as he let your shoulders brush with each sob you made. “I cannot be rid of him– he… he is my other half– my twin.” Aemond hummed as you tried to explain the obvious. He badly wanted to say that just because you two had shared a womb did not mean you were destined to share a fate.
“Yet he chooses to lie with a whore. He had you by his side, yet he still willingly chose another. Do not be a fool for him, ñuha ōños.” Aemond murmured as he retrieved his handkerchief to wipe away your tears. He could never explain why he was so kind and gentle towards you. Perhaps because you were the same to him. He remembered how his heart skipped a beat as he first saw you again. You found him in the tiltyard, a wide smile on your lips as he met your eyes. A confession that you had long missed his company on your lips.
“But I love him,” You confessed, uncaring that you were bold in your admittance. Ameond had always been your shoulder to cry on whenever you found trouble and strife with your twin. You did not know why you confided in your uncle, who had much animosity for your brothers, but there you were, crying in his arms. “But does he love you enough?” Aemond hummed as he relished the warmth he felt as he had you in his hold.
“He is half of me– if he does not love me most, then who else will?” You remembered whispering in dread. “How are you so certain that it is love?” Aemond questioned lowly, tucking a stray strand of your hair. “Perhaps you are under the wrong impression… just because he is your twin and he had been betrothed to you does not mean you ought to love him– it does not mean he loves you.” Aemond was a cruel man. He knew then that there was no line he would not cross to take what he wished.
Aemond wanted to sigh as you looked upon him with your gleaming brown eyes, your lips pink and swollen. “Such ungrateful men are not worthy of a princess… You wait for him– ready to offer your all, yet he…” Aemond pursed his lips in feigned thought, relishing how you clung to his arm and words. “...I cannot even bear to utter it, ñuha ōños. It could amount to treason,” He murmured lowly, his face drawing closer to yours as your eyelids flutter, and he could practically see how your mind started to give in to his words.
He claimed your lips that night. Your lips were so soft and sweet that Aemond felt drunk. He cupped your face, your cheeks wet with tears yet warm against his cold, calloused touch. You whimpered against his mouth, his thin lips punishing as he deepened your kiss– his tongue shameless as it brushed against yours.
Aemond grunted almost in pain as you suddenly backed away. His hazy eyes boring into your widened ones, regret etched plainly on your comely face. “I… this was a mistake,” Aemond raged every time he recalled your words and how you hastily ran from him after he had taken your first kiss and how he had given you his. He had never seen you since, and it took two years to pass before he could place his lilac eye upon you once more. And it was all because he was expected to attend your wedding ceremonies.
He was king. He could have taken all that he wished without apology– he could have taken you as his bride instead. However, his council had advised him that to do such a thing would invite another rebellion. You had been bound to Jacaerys since you were in the womb– even the kingdom believed that you two were meant for one another.
For him to break your betrothal and covet his nephew’s betrothed– his niece– could jeopardize his station. He had sacrificed much to be king, and as fond as he was of you and how he wished nothing more for you to be his queen, it was not enough for Aemond to relinquish the throne that he had killed for. For a moment, he tried to come to terms with the thought that it was only your lips he could claim, but he was quick to be rid of such thoughts as he remembered that he was king.
He was king, and he had a right to all in his realm– he had the right of the first night. Primae Noctis, he remembered the maester uttering to his nephew, the copper prince, unmoving as he was told that his king wished to lie with his wife. That Aemond wished to take her maidenhead, her virtue that she had guarded for her husband. “He cannot– she is my wife,” Jacaerys gritted as he pushed away a maester to meet his uncle’s eye.
“And I am king. I have the right, nephew.” Aemond smirked as his eye flickered towards you, surrounded by your guests who congratulated you on your marriage, completely clueless that you would be meeting him in your marital chambers instead of your husband.
Aemond sighed as he sensed his nephew readying to draw out his sword, and he quickly waved for his guards to restrain the groom before he could cause a scene. “It is only for one night, nephew. You have the rest of your life to mount your wife– do not be so easily threatened.” Aemond sighed, amusement evident in his eye that would often flicker to your frame across the room. “Besides, it is only fair, do you not think?” Aemond hummed as he poured himself more wine, his blood intoxicated with adrenaline at the thought of taking you that night– an action that he had fantasized many years before.
He glanced at the redened, confused expression of his nephew. “Your first time was wasted on some whore– surely you cannot think that you shall be the first to lie with her when she cannot say the same about you,” Aemond hummed. “She is my wife, mine!” Jacerys roared once more, and Aemond rolled his eye. “I am bedding her, not wedding.” He sighed as he was growing ever more impatient.
“But if you do not like the thought of your wife lying with her king, just say the word, and we can quickly annul your matrimony. You have every right to do so… you had not even lain with each other,” He continued to tease, hoping that his nephew would agree with his proposition. A rather idiotic idea when one thinks of it– but Aemond hoped that his nephew was indeed idiotic enough to agree.
He looked upon Jacaerys’s seething face, his jaw in a solid grit as his plain eyes glanced towards you, who were completely clueless about what was to come. “One night– as king, you only have one night with my wife.” Jacaerys gritted as he accepted defeat. He and his twin were lucky enough to escape war unscathed– and the reason for that was only because Aemond had ordered his faction to never lay a hand upon you lest they wish to be his dragon’s meal.
The then prince’s protection was only extended towards you, but your love for your twin had included him, claiming that if Jacaerys was harmed, gods forbid slain, you would soon follow him. He had been with you in life, so be it with death as well.
Aemond hummed triumphantly, a devious smirk on his thin lips. “It would seem I stand here corrected, you do have your wits about you, nephew– perhaps I shall think twice next time I doubt your sensibilities,” Aemond smiled, the scene unnerving for the prince as a true smile of happines over came their king’s face, and it was all because he would have you for the night.
“Now, if you would excuse me– I believe there is a bedding ceremony I must attend to,” Aemond said wickedly as he sauntered out of the great hall and made his way to your marital chambers.
It was near the hour of the ghost when you had noticed that you had not seen your husband in the past half-hour. You travelled your eyes upon the room, his absence noted, and you blushed at the thought that he perhaps had retired in your chambers, waiting for you. Waiting to seal your marriage with the sacred act between husband and wife.
You drew in a deep breath as you slipped out of the great hall yourself, your hands cold with anticipation. When you reached the doors of your marital chambers, you steadied yourself for what was to come. For years, Jacaerys had failed to keep secret his illicit affairs– he failed to resist the temptation of bedding whores.
For years, you blamed yourself– you believed he only did such actions because you refused him your bed without the certainty of marriage. But now, you were bound to him in the eyes of gods and men– perhaps his past behavior shall finally cease, you hoped. You were his wife– you had given him your heart and soul years before, and now, he shall as well claim your body. Surely a whore would no longer suffice for him after you had given him your all.
When you pushed open the door of your chambers, it was aglow with the fire of the hearth, and you felt your heartbeat in the tip of your ears as you cautiously walked in. Your eyes were on the bed as you entered, and the pristine white sheets lay untouched. You cast your eyes then upon the seating area, expecting your husband to be waiting for you, but all you saw was your king seated near the fire with a chalice in his hands.
“Aem– Your majesty… I–” You stuttered, confused. You hastily curtsied before him with your head bowed low, and when you straightened your stance, he was quick to rise and make his way before you. “What are you doing here, my king?” You asked, breathless, your gaze glancing towards the ajar door behind you, but Aemond was quick to reach forward and rest his palm against the solid wood, closing the door and trapping you between it and him.
“It is just us, nuha oños, no need for formalities,” he murmured lowly, his face incredibly close to you that you could smell the wine on his lips. “Where… where is my husband?” You asked, a slight tremble in your voice as his lilac eye bore into yours. Aemond only hummed, tucking a stray piece of your hair behind your ears instead of answering your question.
He felt you back yourself further against the door, a sigh leaving his lips. “Who am I?” He instead questioned, watching as confusion overcame your eyes before weariness took over them once more. “A simple question, niece, who am I?” He asked once more.
“You’re… you’re Aemond.” You said innocently, and he drew in a deep breath as he loved hearing his name uttered by your lips. “Mm… to you, I am your Aemond… but to the others? Who am I to them?”
“King, you are their king,” You answered and held your breath as he leaned closer. “Indeed, I am.” Aemond smiled and backed away only an inch as he noticed how you held your breath. He’d rather not have you faint before he could claim you.
“And I must admit, as king, there are… privileges and pleasures that are bestowed upon me,” He clarified, but that did nothing to aid the questioning look etched into your face. “Have you perhaps heard the term primae noctis?” Aemond watched as you froze as he uttered the words, your enchanting eyes wide in realization. “The right of first night…” You whispered in shock, Aemond smirking as his fingers reached to twirl your hair that cascaded over your shoulder. “So knowledgeable… the maesters had to explain it to your husband thrice… you would have made the most capable queen,” Aemond could not help but murmur.
“Now, do I still need to explain my presence, princess?” He hummed as he boldly placed a soft kiss against your temple, hearing as you took in a sharp breath as his lips met your skin. “But… but I am married,” He heard you whimper, and he retreated back just to see the turmoil in your eyes. You were in doubt. Good, he thought. If you were in doubt, then it meant a part of you wished for it as much as he.
“I am quite aware,” He said bitterly. “But that is no hindrance,” He added, and bereft you of another moment to think before capturing your lips. His arm circled your waist while his hand rested between the curve of your neck and shoulder, steadying you and leaving no room for you to pull away. He felt your plush lips stagger, just as they did during your first kiss, but it was quick to dissolve as he felt you circled your arms around his neck.
Aemond smirked against your lips as he felt you pull him closer. My, if this was how you acted after your marriage, he would have happily walked you down the aisle if it meant you clinging to him. You gasped for breath when Ameond finally parted your lips. You whimpered once more as you felt his punishing lips against your neck, his hand trailing down and grasping your tit with such a gentle force that you could not help but moan.
“How… how are you so cavalier in taking my virtue that I had saved for my… my husband?” You asked breathlessly, your hand grasping the nape of Aemond’s neck as he peppered kisses on your skin. “Because you were meant to be mine,” Aemond said simply as he reached down to trail his hand against your leg, inching higher until he heard another gasp leave your lips as he cupped your womanhood.
“Besides, I do not like leaving things unfinished… I have your first kiss, it is only right I take your first time as well.” Aemond breathed against your lips before capturing them once more. A wanton sound coming from you echoed through the room as you felt his tongue invade you and as his fingers drew circles on your cunt against your small clothes.
You shivered as his lips trailed down to your bosom, his eye looking up as he forcefully yanked down the neckline of your wedding gown, the sound of it ripping music to his ears; he had half the mind to throw it into the fire later on. He did not wish to be reminded of the dress you wore as you bound yourself to another.
“You are all mine tonight, my light…” Aemond moaned as he captured the taut bud of your mound, the taste of salt and sweetness dancing on his tongue. “...perhaps even after,” He hummed and nipped the bud of your breast as a strangled noise left your lips, and you clung to him even further. You reached to cup his face, guiding him to meet your lips again. You’ve never kissed Jacaerys, not even during your ceremonies– each intimate touch and action you had done was with Aemond.
Your mind was in turmoil with each move of your lips, with each touch you exchanged. Jacaerys was supposed to be your other half– he was the one meant for you. Yet, here you were, melting into the hands of the king, your Aemond. You shuddered at the thought, and as you felt his finger enter your cunt. “Tell me you’re mine,” Aemond breathed out, voice holding a tone of desperation. You looked upon him with wide eyes. “Please, ñuha ōños… just for tonight, tell me you’re mine,” Aemond begged, uncaring that a king pleaded to a married woman as such.
You drew in a deep breath, wanting to deny him, but as you saw the sincerity in his eye, his eye that had always looked at you as if you were the only person in the world, you obliged. “I’m yours, Aemond… all yours,” You said softly, and you would think his pleading gaze would soften, but you felt a trickle of fear as his lilac eye darkened with sheer possessiveness that it made a chill run down your spine.
You felt dazed as he moved you from the door and tossed you into the bed, wasting no time to mount you and keep your body trapped against his. “He does not deserve you… you have always been meant for me,” Aemond growled as he ripped apart your dress, leaving you in your shift. You whimpered and reached for the buttons of his tunic, unable to bear the wetness that gathered between your legs.
Aemond shivered as you successfully removed his tunic, your soft hands roaming his chest, letting your skin finally touch his. He could have come undone at how your hands tightened on his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as he ripped your shift away. Aemond marveled at your naked frame, biting back his smirk as you squirmed beneath him, your arms instinctively moving to cover yourself, but in one swift motion, he had both of your wrists in his grasp, hindering you.
“You are a goddess among men,” He said lowly, sincerity dripping in his voice and clear in his eyes. Aemond dipped down to capture your lips once more, letting your hands free to circle his frame. You closed your eyes tightly and dug your nails into his back as his fingers roamed your body, one of them grasping your tit and pinching the bud while the other rested steadily on the curve of your waist.
“Aemond,” You whimpered as you parted your lips, “I…” you trailed, unable to utter what you desperately needed. He looked deeply into your eyes, his lilac orb imploring you to use your words– to tell him what you wished for. “Come now, my light… we only have tonight, no need to be so coy,” He murmured and placed a chaste kiss between the valley of your breasts before meeting your eye once more.
“I… I want…” You say breathlessly, squirming in unbearable need beneath him. “Yes? What do you want? You shall have everything you want just as long as you say the word,” Aemond said lowly, determined for you to word out what you wished. “You! I… I want you!” You finally relented, and you held your breath as he looked at you with a blank expression– your cheeks heating in embarrassment, but it was quick to fade when a genuine smile overcame his lips. The same carefree smile he had when you two were children, long before his eye was taken from him.
You licked your lips as you felt your heart skip a beat with each moment he smiled upon you and how his lips inched closer. “Finally, you admitted it,” he said in satisfaction before kissing you until you saw stars.
You were dazed as you felt his lips against yours once more, your confession somehow making the kiss you two shared taste sweeter. You sighed as his kisses went downwards, from your neck, leaving his mark. To your mounds, placing a wet kiss on each. But as he reached further down your navel, you gasped and tried to push him away, but his strong arms pinned you down. “I thought you had wanted me, my light?” he then hummed as he looked up, his breath fanning your womanhood, and you squirmed further. “I… I do, but–”
“Then you shall have me… starting with my lips,” he smirked, and your eyes rolled back as you feel his lips meet your cunny. “A–Aemond,” You moaned as you fisted his hair, your breath shallow as his punishing lips were relentless with their kisses upon your womanhood. Aemond smirked against your cunt, intoxicated with the taste of you.
He felt your thighs circle his head, the plush flesh soft against his cheeks. “Oh gods,” You cried as you felt his tongue upon your entrance, “Aemond, please… I–” You said incoherently, a sheen of sweat overcoming your body as you writhed against his angular face. He held your thighs tightly, his grip intent to leave his mark. “What do you want, my light?” He hummed, voice muffled as he quickly returned his lips against your cunt, his tongue teasing the sensitive bundle of nerves.
“I don’t know– just– please,” You cried, and Aemond focused all of his attention on the pearl of your cunt, his lips sucking upon it, his tongue darting out to lick it, and letting out a low reverberating moan that made you cry out in utter pleasure as you came undone.
You panted as your back arched, Aemond moving once more to meet your eye and witness the state you were in. Your cheeks were flushed, your hair clung to your glistening skin, and your eyes were still shut as you came down from your high.
Aemond took the moment to be rid of his breeches, and the moment he was, your eyes finally peeled open. You swallowed thickly as you saw his hardened length, the tip of it pink– almost red in anticipation. You drew in a breath as your gaze flickered to his eye, a teasing glint upon the lilac orbs. “Could… could I try something?” You suddenly asked, watching as Aemond’s brow raised in question as you sat up. He was kneeling upon the bed, and you copied his position.
“And what would that be?” he hummed as you inched closer to him. You could not word it out, a bit ashamed, and so you instead lowered yourself until you were faced with his manhood. Aemond watched in great anticipation as you looked up at him with hesitancy, your lips already parted.
“Hinder me if… if I do it incorrectly,” you whispered as you took him in your hands before closing your lips around the tip of his length. Aemond let out a deep groan, in disbelief of your actions. You were hesitant with each movement, and Aemond relished it, knowing that he would be the first to have you in such a way.
“Fuck,” He moaned as you took him deeper in your mouth, your teeth gently grazing his skin, and he felt as if he were in heaven. He did enjoy it when his pleasure had a touch of pain. As you heard him utter the words, you quickly retreated, fearing you had done something wrong. But he was quick to shake his head and reassure you that you were doing splendidly. You nodded and continued, blushing each time a grunt or moan left his lips.
When you had taken every inch of him, and you felt his tip hit the back of your throat, you held your breath as he pulled at the roots of your hair, curses leaving his lips before he abruptly pulled out his length. You stared at him through glassy eyes, a trickle of fear within you once again, but he quickly shook his head again and placed kisses upon your cheeks as he muttered on how perfect you were, on how you were a divine gift from the gods. You blushed at each of his compliments, unaccustomed to it, as your husband was never one to give such praises.
“Will it hurt?” You asked through wide eyes as you felt Aemond run the tip of his length along your glistening folds. “Yes, but only for a moment,” He hummed and placed a kiss upon your brow, the action so intimate that you could not help but believe for a moment, he was your husband and not simply your king who decided to invoke his right of the first night.
“Tell me the moment… the moment the pain becomes unbearable,” Aemond muttered through gritted teeth as he positioned himself to take you. He watched as you bit your lip, your hands grasping at his arms tightly. Aemond bit his own lip as he felt your plush walls around his length, your eyes pooling with tears as your whimpers reached his ears. “You’re doing so well, my light… so perfect you are,” Aemond moaned as his hips moved lightly against yours.
He relished how you clenched even further whenever a deserved compliment towards you left his lips, your body writhing slowly against his, your peaked mounds brushing against his chest. “Such a beauty you are, my princess,” Aemond continued to praise and bit back his smirk as you let out a moan, the pain of your maidenhead being taken finally subsiding. “More, Aemond…please,” You sighed as you reached forward to cup his cheek, your thumb delicately tracing his scar.
Your king hummed, obliging your request as he finally sheathed himself fully in your cunny, your back arching as he did. He felt your fingers inching closer to the leather strap of his eye patch. “Can I–” you cut yourself off, fearing you shall offend him, but Aemond gave you a curt nod as the tip of his length brushed against a spot in you that made you let out a cry of pleasure.
You removed the cover of his eye hesitantly, your breath catching in your throat as you saw a glistening sapphire in place of his stolen eye. “I did it for you,” Aemond breathed out, his thrust slow yet deep. You moaned as he reached between the two of you and drew circles upon your cunny, his words starting to grow incoherent.
“You’ve always loved wearing blue– a strong blue… a sapphire is the closest color that could compare.” Aemond sighed as you pulled him closer to you, your bodies flushed, and felt each movement and breath the two of you made.
“Faster, Aemond… please, I– I need more,” You cried, unable to fully understand his gesture. Aemond let out a breath of a laugh, placing a kiss on your neck before obliging once more, his head spinning as you wrapped your legs around him. You held your breath as you felt the blinding pleasure of your peak again, your eyes shut close as Aemond buried himself deep in your cunt, your walls clenching around him tightly as your nails dragged along his back.
“Did you see stars, my light?” Aemond gritted as he lay still atop you, blowing softly upon your face as your eyes were still closed, and Aemond feared that you were not breathing properly, or if at all. He bit his lip as he saw your eyes slowly peel open, the heaviness as you reached forward to kiss his lips. Aemond hummed in satisfaction– the same satisfaction he felt as the conqueror’s crown was placed upon his brow–perhaps even better.
You parted your lips to meet Aemond’s eye, startled to see the same lust still evident, and only did you notice that his length was still inside you, hard and pulsating. “What… did I not–” Aemond shushed you and placed a kiss on your lips. “You were perfect, ñuha ōños,” he reassured. “But why…” You trailed, feeling another surge of need overcome you as you felt the slight movement of his hips.
Aemond smiled wickedly. “I have you for only the night, princess… we are not leaving this bed until morning comes. Perhaps not even then.”
Helloooo! I'm Eraena, a college student who loves to write! Here's the masterlist of my works! (Aemond Targaryen, Feyd Rautha, Rafe Cameron, and Aegon Targaryen)
Related Blogs: @romanteacism - All things Aemond Targaryen
@rafeacs - All things Rafe Cameron
Cheat Sheet:
🏙️ - Modern AU
🐉 - Fire and Blood AU
🏛️ - Greek Mythology AU
🤍 - Personal Fave
👑 - Popular
U.N.I. Aemond Targaryen X Reader 🏙️
Synopsis: Where one of the sons of your mother’s estranged best friend attends the same university as you, and did I mention you were the reason why he lost his eye?
From The Underworld and Beneath Aemond Targaryen x Reader 🏛️ 🤍
Synopsis: You, the Goddess of Spring, were captured by the King of the Underworld, who was intent on keeping you there.
My Knight in Darkened Armor Knight Aemond Targaryen x Princess Reader 🐉 🤍 👑
Synopsis: Ser Aemond Targaryen has been tasked to be the sworn protector of a princess who is overly curious about life beyond the castle walls and has bribed him to escort her to the city in exchange for anything he desires. She just did not know that what he desired was her.
A Bastard's Bride, A Dragon's Desire Aemond Targaryen x Princess Reader 🐉 👑
Synopsis: They have betrothed you to Jacaerys as a way of securing a line to the throne if they fail in usurping your half-sister’s crown. Your older brother Aemond was livid at the decision.
Flipped Aemond Targaryen X Reader 🏙️ 🤍
Synopsis: You had been infatuated with Aemond since you two were children. You could not remember a day when you did not feel anything but adoration for him— not until recently. When something in you turned indifferent, it did not go unnoticed by Aemond, who had never been a fan of change.
Stereotypical Aemond, Son of Ares x Reader, Daughter of Aphrodite 🏛️
Synopsis: The daughter of Aphrodite falls for one of the sons of Ares— the second coming of their parents.
One More Night Aemond Targaryen X Reader 🏙️
Synopsis: You were quick to leave after a one night stand, leaving Aemond dissatisfied, for he wanted so much more. When he found you again, he was sure to never let you go.
The Prince and the Poet Aemond Targaryen X Lannister Reader 🐉
Synopsis: It is established that Prince Aemond hates poems and sonnets; it was just a pity that you adored them.
Jealousy, Jealousy Aemond, Son of Ares x Reader, Daughter of Aphrodite 🏛️
Synopsis: It’s frustratingly hard to keep admirers and doubts away when you and your partner are the most attractive and powerful Demi-Gods in camp.
Most Ardently Aemond Targaryen X Tyrell Reader 🐉
Synopsis: Prince Aemond Targaryen had accompanied his younger brother to Highgarden in hopes of securing Daeron a wife— he did not expect he would want to secure a wife for himself as well.
The Prince's Prize Aemond Targaryen X Riverlady Reader 🐉
Synopsis: After his victories in the Riverlands, Prince Aemond Targaryen sought for a trophy— his spoils of war. He sought for you, the daughter of the lord who hosted him whilst he wagged his war.
But Daddy, I Love Him Aemond Targaryen X Niece Reader 🐉 🤍 👑
Synopsis: When the favored daughter of Daemon Targaryen falls for the favored son of Alicent Hightower, the Rogue Prince does everything he can to ensure that a union between the two of you will never happen.
Gold Rush Aemond Targaryen X Lannister Reader 🐉 🤍 👑
Synopsis: Everybody wants you, and I don’t like a gold rush.
Desperate Requirement Slytherin Aemond Targaryen x Reader 🏙️
Synopsis: It’s hard being horny at Hogwarts. Luckily, you and Aemond always found a way to relieve your needs.
Mine Aemond Targaryen x Wife Reader 🐉 👑
Synopsis: You are the best thing that has ever been Aemond’s, which is why you cannot really blame him for being so possessive and cautious not to lose you.
Loathe to Love Aemond Targaryen x Strong Reader 🐉 🤍 👑
Synopsis: Seeking forgiveness is not a thing Aemond bothers himself with, but that quickly changes when he deeply offended you.
King of My Heart King Aemond Targaryen x Queen Reader 🐉 👑
Synopsis: Marriage, miscarriage, and the monarchy… how would you and your husband fare to them all?
Bound By Blood Aemond Targaryen x Princess Reader 🐉 🤍 👑
Synopsis: They can no longer hinder Aemond from taking whatever he wants, and you are the only one he desperately wants.
Tea Party Aemond Targaryen x Stark Reader 🌃
Synopsis: Aemond convinces you to let Helaena join your group’s exclusive tea party, using any means necessary just for you to agree.
Please Please Please Aemond Targaryen X Lannister Reader 🌃Synopsis: Heartbreak is one thing; my ego’s another. I beg you, don't embarrass me, motherfucker.
Unexpected Affections Aemond Targaryen X Tyrell Reader 🐉 👑
Synopsis: With just a smile, you had managed to bewitch and enthrall the stoic and cold prince.
Blessed Curse Aemond Targaryen x Strong Reader 🐉 👑
Synopsis: When a marriage between you and Aemond was arranged and forced by your grandsire, conflicting emotions arise, but which one will loom greater? Loathing or Love?
Parting Gift Aemond Targaryen X Reader x Aegon Targaryen 🐉 🤍 👑
Synopsis: Aegon asks for a parting gift from his younger brother and his beloved wife: One night with you in exchange for the throne.
Silent Passions Aemond Targaryen X Tyrell Reader 🐉 👑
Synopsis: You and Aemond had been promised to one another before you were even born. And when the time came for you to meet, all were curious to see what was to come when soon to be spouses only shared one thing in common: your want of silence.
Virginal Whore Aemond Targaryen X Celtigar Reader 🐉 👑
Synopsis: Prince Aemond sets out to find a whore to warm his bed; he finds a virgin instead.
Worth The Price Aemond Targaryen X Lannister Reader 🐉 🤍 👑
Synopsis: Aemond does everything to prove that he is worthy of you— even if it means that he would be a kinslayer twice.
Twin Flame Aemond Targaryen X Twin Reader 🐉
Synopsis: Anywhere that you are, that I’d be. Following Aemond to the Riverlands against your better judgment and sensibilities because you knew all too well you could never be apart from your twin.
Prince's Whore Aemond Targaryen X Celtigar Reader 🐉 👑
Synopsis: What proceeded as Prince Aemond had made you his whore.
Chosen Whore Aemond Targaryen X Celtigar Reader 🐉 👑
Synopsis: Whore or More?
Impatient and Desperate Aemond Targaryen X Clingy Lannister Reader 🐉 🤍
Synopsis: How you and your husband fare at court when both of you were constantly impatient and desperate for one another.
Need Aemond Targaryen x Niece Reader 🐉
Synopsis: For years, you and Aemond had a rather complicated relationship. But during your brother's trial and stay in the capitol, you both finally confess that you needed each other desperately.
Neglected Promises Aemond Targaryen X Clingy Lannister Reader 🐉
Synopsis: It would seem that after three years of marriage, Aemond had begun to neglect his wife and the promises he told her.
Yielded Devotion Aemond Targaryen X Clingy Lannister Reader 🐉
Synopsis: King Aemond Targaryen would rather forsake the crown, court, and his dragon rather than face the anger and contempt of his beloved queen. But when her craving for his love and attention turns unpredictable, he finds himself tested in more ways than one.
Satisfied Aemond Targaryen x Princess Reader 🐉
Synopsis: Your brother had left you unsatisfied. When you tried to find satisfaction in your new knight, Aemond was quick to finally see your satisfaction through.
Damned Desires Aemond Targaryen x Sister Reader 🐉
Synopsis: As the war had ended, Aemond made certain that his damned desires for his sister should never once again be denied.
Just Like Heaven Aemond Targaryen x Lady Reader 🐉
Synopsis: In his last moments, the only thing Aemond could think of was you— the only one he believed to feel just like heaven.
Birthday Present Feyd-Rautha x Lady Reader 🤍 👑
Synopsis: During a state visit, you, a daughter of one of the great houses, have captured the attention and fatal attraction of the Na-Baron and were quickly turned into his promised wife.
Bittersweet Feyd-Rautha x Lady Reader 👑
Synopsis: As the Na-Baron's proposed bride, you were simply too sweet for him and his bitter being. You were too innocent and pure to be tainted by the blood-stained hands of the Harkonnen heir.
Casual Rafe Cameron x Reader
Synopsis: You would settle for causality as long as you had Rafe by your side.
Still Casual? Rafe Cameron x Reader
Synopsis: You promised yourself that you’re never going to settle for casual ever again— promised yourself you would never be another casualty of Rafe Cameron.
I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can) Rafe Cameron x Reader 👑
Synopsis: Trust me, I can handle me a dangerous man.
Imgonnagetyouback Rafe Cameron x Reader 🤍👑
Synopsis: The plan is clear. Get Rafe back after your breakup.
So High School Rafe Cameron x Reader 🤍
Synopsis: He knows how to ball, you know Aristotle
Please, Please, Please (Rafe's Edition) Rafe Cameron x Reader 👑
Synopsis: Being with Rafe, a notorious hotheaded drug dealer, you knew others would question your relationship— especially your parents, who had never been fond of him. But when his habits had been too much to handle, you knew that you would prefer heartbreak to a broken ego.
Trouble Maker, Stress Reliever Aegon Targaryen X Reader 🏙️
Synopsis: You’re a prefect tasked with taming Aegon’s unruly behavior. Strained by your task, he offers you a way to relieve the stress he caused.
Parting Gift Aemond Targaryen X Reader x Aegon Targaryen 🐉 🤍 👑
Synopsis: Aegon asks for a parting gift from his younger brother and his beloved wife: One night with you in exchange for the throne.
Tags: canon divergence, dad Aemond, angst & fluff, bullying, fatherly love, domestic fluff, pregnant reader, naked cuddling, no smut
Wordcount: 3,125
Upon discovering that his youngest son is bullied by his cousin Jaehaerys, Aemond realizes he has been neglecting his family and endeavors to protect his boy, and atone for his perceived failings.
Aemond Masterlist
Since being named Hand of the King following the passing of his grandsire Ser Otto, Prince Aemond had scarcely had time to roam the castle idly and allow his thoughts to wander, yet today it seemed he would be allowed a minute of respite between Council meetings and correspondence.
The last fortnight had particularly been brutal, with requests and outright demands from all corners of the realm, but now that all decisions had been made, and the rest of his tasks had been dispatched to other members of the Council or serving lords, he decided he could spare an hour in his afternoon to see to his family.
Aemond’s greatest pride, aside from his position serving his brother King Aegon, was his wife and children, and the harmonious household he was at the head of. His marriage to you had been arranged according to political interests and yet, love had been at the center of it since the very start. You matched him in every way that mattered, and with you at his side, he had risen to the highest step possible in the realm, and had forged a solid reputation for himself.
At this hour, you would no doubt be in your solar, tending to your and Aemond’s daughter while your sons were training in the courtyard. Unwilling to visit you without a reason, or at least a pretext you would no doubt see through, Aemond decided to make a detour to the library and select a book to bring to you.
With any luck, you would read your favorite passages to him in bed that night, and such moments of closeness were what kept the steel in his back, and made him the man he was. However, as he entered the large, dusty room, Aemond was surprised to find one of his sons bent over a large tome, his small finger going over the runes diligently.
The boy was his second son, the third child, suffering from the same shy and intellectual personality Aemond had as a child. His eldest, Rhaegar, was forward and confident, with a streak of arrogance Aemond had to admit he nurtured sometimes—his heir had everything to be proud of, after all—and his second, a daughter, was much the same.
His younger son, Aenys, was more tender-hearted but no less intelligent. He had a softness to him and his looks favored you, his mother, in his eyes and in the curl of his mouth when he smiled—those details never ceased to make Aemond’s heart swell. Rhaegar is my pride, but Aenys is my joy, he had said to you often enough, in the secret cove of your chambers.
“Why are you not in the courtyard?” Aemond asked, running a hand on his child’s shoulder. The white-haired boy lifted his head to peer up at his father.
“I thought I would read some histories, today,” he said, then went back to deciphering the runes.
“Are your lessons with the Maester insufficient?” Aemond frowned. Peering over his shoulder, he saw the chapter he was currently reading was more advanced than what the Maester was currently teaching him. “Perhaps I shall have a word with him.”
“Oh no, they are perfectly adequate. The Maester is a wise and patient teacher,” came the quick answer, sounding too rehearsed to be the truth.
Aemond put his palm flat on the open page, hindering Aenys’s reading. “Tell me, son,” Aemond insisted.
“There is nothing to tell, father,” he hurriedly replied, dipping his chin.
“Did he reprimand you, give you an additional assignment?” Aemond insisted, and the child shook his head vehemently, but refused to meet his eye.
“No he did not. I did not misbehave,” Aenys protested rather unnecessarily, almost as if he’d stricken a nerve without meaning to.
Aemond sighed and closed the book, pushing it back on the table. “Then you shall attend to your lessons as prescribed. Afternoons are for sword training. Join your cousins in the yard at once, I am sure the swordsmaster is waiting on you,” he instructed, stepping aside so Aenys could push his chair back.
The child did as he was told, shoulders held stiff and eyes lowered. “Yes, father.”
Aemond could not get his growing suspicions to settle, and after a short visit to his daughter’s lessons, he made his way down to the courtyard where he knew the young princes were training. He had walked this way many times as a boy himself, and later as a growing man, finding true purpose in training his body as well as he honed his mind.
However when he stepped outside, it was not such noble feelings that awaited him. Instead his stomach went cold and heavy at the scene he came upon.
Lying down in the gravel, Aenys was looking up at his cousin, his practice sword discarded, and an air of despair on his face. “Leave him alone, Jaehaerys!” Rhaegar admonished.
“Need your brother to come to your rescue?” Jaehaerys taunted. “Then perhaps your place is upstairs with your sister and mi—”
Jaehaerys stopped his rant, his voice breaking in the middle of a word, and he swallowed nervously, stepping back. Aenys rose hurriedly, pushing Rhaegar’s helping hand away, eager to see what had quieted his cousin’s vitriol. When he turned, he saw his father was standing on the edge of the training yard, arms crossed behind his back severely.
“Is this the values you are taught in this yard, boy?” Aemond called to Jaehaerys, his voice piercing the air like the crack of a whip, and yet, he had barely raised his voice. He scarcely needed to, his tone was sharp enough.
“No, uncle,” came the quiet reply—the boy knew better than to disagree.
Aemond approached slowly, menacing, his height towering over his nephew. “Is this the way a future king behaves?” he asked, calm and cold, and Jaehaerys flushed in shame, shaking his head. “Answer me, boy.”
“No, my Lord Hand,” Jaehaerys replied, his lower lip wobbling slightly, and the deference of the title made satisfaction curl in Aemond’s stomach—it did not matter to him that he was humiliating a child, and the heir to the throne, as long as he would insure that his own son was safe from harm.
“You shall do well to think on it,” he continued, all the while refraining from touching his son, letting him stand on his own. Instead, he turned to Rhaegar. “Take your brother to his studies. Your training here is done today.”
“Gladly, father,” Rhaegar said, curling a protective hand around Aenys’s arm and leading him back into the castle.
“I shall be with you shortly,” Aemond called after them, then turned to his nephew once more. “You are dismissed as well. I believe a time of reflection in your chambers is advised, while I have a word with the king.”
Heart thundering in his chest, his blood rushing in his ears, Aemond climbed up the stairs leading the king’s chambers with one precise goal in mind—ensuring that his son would never be subjected to such treatment by his own blood. The heat he felt behind his breastbone was reminiscent of the one he had felt as a child, berated by his own brother and mocked by his nephews, and he could not control his rage.
Aemond burst into the royal chambers, uncaring that he had not knocked, or in what situation he would find the king.
Thankfully, Aegon was simply seated in front of the hearth, a slice of fruit in his hand and a book across his lap. He gave him a bewildered look and a pinched smile, but Aemond spoke before he could. “Would it be too much to ask you to rein your child in?” he spat out.
The king raised a brow at him, surprised at the sudden outburst. “Whatever it is you mean.”
Aemond walked up to him until he was looming over Aegon. “I mean your son and heir ruling terror over the training yard, pushing mine own boy into the dirt,” Aemond explained.
“It’s nothing, Aemond,” his brother snorted, setting the fruit aside and wiping his hand on his thigh. “The lot of boys!”
“Discipline your child, or I will do it myself,” he warned. “I am warning you Aegon, I do not care that he is heir to the throne, if I find him putting his hands on my son again, in a manner unbefitting a prince, there will be consequences.”
“Is that a threat?” Aegon asked, caught between amusement and incredulity. He rose to find himself face to face with his younger brother, but Aemond did not back down, even when facing his king.
“It very much is, Aegon,” he vowed. “You might not care to raise a hand to your son, but I do not share your reserve on that matter.”
Aegon did seem taken aback at such a direct confrontation, but in his usual fashion, waved Aemond off like it was a trivial issue. “Fine, fine,” he conceded, but Aemond feared it would not be the end of it.
Aemond took his leave with one last scalding glare, and allowed himself a moment to quiet his rage before he sought his sons again, finding them in their shared quarters. Aenys was reading with Rhaegar watching over him. The sight the two boys made, sitting close to one another on a sofa, speaking in conniving whispers, made his heart clench.
As soon as he saw him, Rhaegar rose and came to him with a contrite look. “I am sorry, father, I have failed my role as older brother,” he announced.
“In no way whatsoever have you failed,” Aemond answered firmly, but his boy shook his head.
“It is my role as eldest to protect and defend him, and I was unsuccessful,” he sighed, visibly frustrated with himself. “I should have come to you.”
Aemond put his hands on his son’s shoulders, looking back and forth between his two boys. “Yes, you should have, because it is my role as father to protect you.”
Aenys closed the book with a sharp snap, and Aemond loathed to see tears rising in his eyes. “I am sorry, father,” he moaned. “I fear I have disappointed you.”
Aemond sighed and reached for his son. “In no way have you disappointed me. I have disappointed myself, as I have failed you,” he said again, glad when the boy came to him, dipping his head and leaning into his arm when Aemond curled it around him.
“What would have me do?” the boy whispered behind his curtain of white hair.
“Jaehaerys is a little fool, much like his father was at this age. You are better than this,” he said, resting his other hand on Rhaegar’s shoulder. “Both of you.”
“Isn’t this blasphemous of you to say, father?” Rhaegar asked.
“I am the king’s brother, it comes with privileges,” he hummed. “I shall train you as well, from now on. In addition to the swordmaster.”
“You have duties, father, surely you can’t—” Aenys protested, looking up at him.
“My greatest duty is to you,” he replied, bringing his child close by the back of his head, and kissing his forehead. The boy leaned into it, and for a second, the fury in Aemond’s chest was abated.
The day was heavy on Aemond’s mind as he crossed the threshold to his chambers that night. He shared those rooms with you, even though you had your own, but you used those as a place to receive your ladies and oversee your daughter’s lessons, and every night you came to sleep in his bed. There was a comfort to knowing that no matter how terrible the day had been, he had a safe haven with you.
However, as soon as he had closed the doors and started to unbuckle his doublet, he noticed your agitated mood. “Have you lost your mind, husband?” you asked, not unkindly, but the remark was enough to reignite his anger.
“Quite the contrary, I have come to notice things I was blind to,” he said, shrugging his doublet off, and despite your unwelcoming words, you came to assist him. You pulled the heavy garment from his arms and draped it neatly over a chair, smoothing over the shoulders with the palms of your hands.
“I was told you threatened the king, and spoke to your nephew in a harsher way than I have ever heard from you, even towards your own children,” you recounted, rather unnerved by your husband’s sudden erratic behavior.
“I do not need you to give me lessons on how to handle this situation,” Aemond admonished, pushing his discarded boots under his chair and untucking his shirt from his trousers. “Where were you, when our son was being abused by his cousin?”
You scoffed, his evening robe in hand—your other hand had settled over your swollen stomach. “Where was I? I was right here, at your side, being a mother to your children and raising them. I could ask you the same thing. Where were you?”
At that Aemond looked furious, but he said nothing. Instead he turned his back on you, his fists tight at his sides. Setting the robe aside, you came to him, wrapping your arms around his waist, burrowing as close as your growing belly allowed. “This is unlike you, Aemond,” you commented.
One of his hands came to your wrist, holding you in place, your arms tight around his belly, anchoring him and soothing his anger. “My sons kept it a secret from me,” he finally confessed.
With a sigh, you buried your face between his shoulder blades. “They respect and admire you. Aenys wanted you to think he’s strong, that he can hold his own.”
“I have neglected him, his happiness,” Aemond admitted, what he had previously thought was anger revealing itself as shame. “He has been wretched and I have been blind to it.”
Bringing your hands flat on his stomach, you felt his ribcage expand and retract, and you said not a word, allowing him to ground his breathing under your touch. “I can only hope I have not neglected yours,” he said after a minute, turning around in your hold.
“I am perfectly content,” you were quick to reassure him while his hands trailed across your belly, the back of his knuckles tracing the growing curve of it, up to your waist.
“How is my son?” he asked, and you knew the topic of today’s affair was closed—it would be a while, perhaps, before he could speak of it again, and you did not begrudge him his privacy.
Aemond was a man of careful planning and rehearsed conversations, and you knew that there would be nothing to gain from questioning him when he needed to collect his thoughts on a matter. “Your son?” you replied, amused. “How might you know it is a son? I do not know, myself.”
A small smile pulled at the corner of his lips. “I see the signs in your mood, in your body,” he murmured, and the reverence in his tone flustered you.
After all these years at his side, all he needed to undo you was a few carefully-chosen words, showing how observant he truly was. In a few months, when the babe would be born, you would not be surprised to see him be proven right.
“Do you, now?” you asked, breathless, and his answer came in the form of a kiss, firm and chaste.
Aemond always took his time when kissing you—he never delved in with passion right away, instead coaxing you into it with slow, purposeful presses of his lips. He lingered after a breath, grazing your mouth with the sharp curve of his upper lip, kissing you softly as though to say farewell, only to come back to you before you could open your eyes.
Only when he had teased you with the softness of his mouth would he grant you the passion of his tongue, and you knew he savored it as much as you did, and such a careful dance was done for his sake as much as yours. His passion was always measured, ever so cautious, and to feel his fire simmer under his skin brought you a pleasure greater than any other.
Tonight was no exception, even though there was an edge to his passion that you did not feel often. It spoke of a need for softness and stillness, and you were glad to give it to him.
“Despite what you say, I have neglected you,” he hummed, dipping his head into your neck, nearly groaning aloud when you carded your fingers through his loose hair. “I have been absent.”
“Our full nursery would suggest you have not,” you smiled, and it was with a gentle hand to your belly that he guided you to bed. On the way his eye patch was left on the bedside table and the rest of your linens were discarded—his shirt and trousers, along with your nightgown.
Some nights bare skin was the only thing that would soothe the both of you, your bodies growing warm and sated at the mere touch of the other.
Aemond’s body molded into yours with the practice of a thousand nights, your back arching into his chest, your legs tangling under the sheets. He hooked his chin over your shoulder, his hand tracing the slope between your hip and your knee, occasionally coming to your belly.
“Aemond,” you breathed, your fingers curling with his on the pillow where his other arm had slithered under your neck.
It was not long before you could feel the length of him pressing at your lower back, a line of heat and hardness, but there was no burning desire to seek this sort of pleasure. It would have been easy to lose himself in you, taking you this way, tucked against his tall frame, his hands roaming your skin to his heart’s content. However this was not what he truly wanted, despite his body’s reaction to yours.
The softness of your skin and the pleasure of your touch could be enjoyed without bringing baser urges into it. Holding you in his arms was more than enough to settle and satisfy him on this night, and there would come other occasions to let passion consume him.
Aemond kissed the crook of your shoulder, lingering, savoring your shiver under his lips, and this was true the true wealth of a man, he thought. Children he found pride in, and a wife upholding him, soothing his sharp edges and blessing him with nights of true respite.
This was his kingdom, more than the realm he served as Hand, and what defined him as a man.
Dividers by @zaldritzosrose. Not beta read. Requests for Aemond are currently open.
Pairing: Tom Bennett x f!reader
Warnings: Explicit sexual content.
Word count: ~1.6k
Summary: Tom's girl gets a reckless idea when he returns on shore leave, and he's all too happy to oblige. For the Kinktober prompt "breeding".
Author's note: No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.
All of the air had left her lungs the moment she had opened the front door of the tiny terraced house she shared with her parents in Longsight – Tom was standing on the pavement outside, his kit bag slung over one shoulder. He looked the picture of regality in the crisp dark blue of his Navy issue uniform, his cap perched handsomely on his head. His trademark cocky smirk had tugged at his lips as his gaze raked appreciatively down the length of her body.
“Miss me then?” he’d asked, clearly amused by her shocked expression.
His words had broken the spell of frozen shock that his unexpected appearance had cast upon her, and her arms immediately shot out, reaching for him. He had followed willingly, stepping over the threshold and crowding into her space as he had kicked the door closed behind him, dropping his kitbag to the floor. He swept her into his arms and his cap had fallen from his head as she had clung to him, her fingers curling into the cotton fabric that encased his broad shoulders.
They were not gentle with each other – months apart had ignited a raw desperation within each of them, and they had pawed at each other’s clothes like wild animals, tripping and stumbling up the stairs as they went, their kisses too clumsy for their lips to meet properly. She hadn’t cared, each painful nip was a reminder that Tom was real, he was here, he was alive.
Now she laid naked beneath him in her single bed – the one he’d taken her in multiple times over when her mum and dad weren’t home, the one where they had to hold the headboard still, or else Beryl next door would be round the next day, asking what all the thumping against the wall was. She had complained before that her little bed was too cramped for them to properly enjoy themselves, but now it felt utterly perfect – she’d cram them both into far smaller spaces if it meant having him like this. The warmth of his body seeped into her own as he settled between her spread thighs, his forearms resting either side of her head, caging her in. He was scrawnier than when she’d last seen him; his arms were more sinewy, his ribcage visible, and he had scars that hadn’t been there before. It didn’t matter – the hunger that blazed in the depths of his blue eyes as he gazed down at her was exactly the same as always, smouldering and intense. One thrust would be all it took for them to be fully reunited, but disappointment sank like a stone in her chest when she realised they had used the last of the rubbers the night before he’d first shipped out all those months ago. They had written letters back and forth, but his replies were slow, and she hadn’t known he would be returning on shore leave, so hadn’t had time to prepare. She curled her fingers around his biceps, anchoring him to her, afraid he might pull away at what she was about to confess.
“I haven’t got a sheath,” she admitted quietly, sad and almost guilty to be denying them both after so long.
Tom was quiet for a moment, studying her face intently, his expression unreadable, before he grinned down at her, eyes sparkling with mischief. “You think I’d let that stop me?” he teased, leaning down to press a sticky kiss to the crook of her neck. “I’ll pull and pray. I’ve crossed an ocean for this, sod the sheath.”
A shiver of nervous excitement ran through her at his words. They had never been intimate without using a rubber before, and the implied risk was both terrifying and exhilarating. It was one she was prepared to take, however, if it meant not being parted from Tom for even a moment longer. Exhaling shakily, she gave a small nod of consent.
She gasped, her hips bucking as he pressed forward, his movements measured and careful as he stretched her open inch by inch. All of the hurried eagerness from moments ago was gone, melted away by this new experience for them both.
“Fucking hell,” Tom gritted out, jaw tense and brow furrowed with the effort to hold back.
The sentiment was shared by her, but she couldn’t give voice to it, too overwhelmed by the warmth of each new sensation. Once he was fully inside of her, she could feel every twitch and throb of him, it felt dirty and forbidden, yet at the same time there was a tenderness to being so intimately connected – as close as they could ever be without any barriers. Perhaps he didn’t need to pull out after all; she loved Tom, and she knew she’d love his children even more. If the war was to steal him away from her again, then would it be so selfish for her to want to keep a piece of him for herself? A perfect little bundle that was the best of both of them.
Tom pulled back, cupping her jaw in his calloused palm as he tilted his head in question. “You’ve gone quiet on me.”
She hesitated a moment, chewing her lip nervously, contemplating on whether it would be wise to give voice to her thoughts. But she knew Tom, and knew he was too stubborn to be simply brushed off, she had to be honest. “I was just thinking…what if…what if you didn’t pull out? Would it be so bad to let nature take its course? I think we’d make beautiful babies, you and I.”
His eyes widened in shock, his lips parting momentarily before he swallowed thickly. She immediately regretted saying anything, she had scared him, pushed him for more than he was ready for, and spoiled everything. But then something shifted in his gaze, it darkened with intent, and she squealed as suddenly he grasped one of her legs and lifted it over his shoulder.
“If I’m gonna fuck a baby into you, I’m doing it properly,” he uttered.
Her breath hitched as without giving her a moment to adjust he withdrew from her and then quickly snapped his hips forward again. The pace he set was brutal, every harsh thrust made the bedsprings squeak and the headboard slam loudly against the wall. Neither of them bothered to try to hold it this time, that would be a problem for later. Right now, she was utterly lost to the primal force with which he took her, the animalistic flare of his nostrils, and how his eyes blazed wildly as he stared into hers. He’d never been this deep before – with her leg over his shoulder, she felt as though she was close to being folded in half. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to squirm away or pull him closer.
“Feel that?” he whispered breathlessly, splaying his hand against her lower belly and gently pressing down, “feel how deep I am?”
Her only answer was a whine, she couldn’t form words. It had never been like this with Tom before – he was always eager, but their intimacy had always been soft giggles and clumsy caresses, he had never taken her with such forceful intent. This was a possession, a claiming, and she never wanted it to end.
“You’ll look so pretty,” his lips ghosted the shell of her ear as he leaned down to speak directly into it, “all round and full of my kid.”
She clenched around him, her body tensing as his filthy words pushed her towards the edge. Where had this side of Tom been kept hidden before now? It was surreal to her that the mention of him knocking her up had unleashed this. As she trembled, feeling her sensitive walls flutter around him, she knew she wouldn’t last much longer – it was always hit and miss as to whether Tom would bring her to climax. They were both inexperienced, and the few times he had managed it had been pure luck, and they had been gentle tickles of pleasure that made her feel warm all over. What he was pushing her towards now with each hard thrust seemed as though it would shatter her apart completely.
He grasped her neck, squeezing just enough to make her panted breaths feel like an effort, his eyes dark as he stared down at her. “Promise you’ll wait for me,” he pleaded desperately, sandy hair sticking to his forehead with perspiration.
“I will,” she mewled, and the unashamed need he expressed for her was her undoing. Her back bowed off of the mattress as she came, a hoarse cry tearing from her throat as she squeezed rhythmically around him, her entire body convulsing with the force of ecstasy sending her into hot spasms.
He followed closely behind, collapsing atop her as he spilled inside of her with a groan, his hips jerking and muscles twitching as he pressed his face into the crook of her neck. She sighed deeply at the feeling of him finishing inside of her, boneless and satiated with utter bliss. Wrapping her arms around him, she held him close as they both breathed raggedly, stroking her fingers through his sweat-dampened hair. As her mind became less hazy, she was fearful of the moment he would pull back, afraid that she would see regret in his eyes, or that he’d tell her they’d made a mistake.
“Promise you’ll come back to me,” she murmured after a few moments of silence.
Tom lifted his head, a soft, lazy smile spread across his face as he cradled her cheek. “Got something to fight to come back for now, haven’t I?”
This invoked such a perfect array of emotions that I am truly finding it difficult to express my undying love for this story in words. I fuckin' love Tom. I love the way you write him and I love the way you wrote about his relationship in this. The little details bring this short story so much gravity and intensity to a relationship we only get a snapshot of.
This was perfect.
This was everything.
This will make me late for work every morning I read it but who cares 😅
My morning and life is better knowing this masterpiece exists in the world.
You are an inspiration, Ange ❤️ I hope you you realize that 🥰
Now I'm going to go try to function for the rest of the day after this.
Speculations lingered in hushed corners of court that Prince Jacaerys and his twin shared more than just blood. Such rumors left Aemond burdened with silent longing. Yet he knew not then, whispers are just whispers.
↳ Warnings:
MDNI! 18+, Targcest (Uncle/Niece Dynamic), Speculations of Twincest (Jace/Twin Sister Reader), Power Dynamics, Mention of Jealousy, Mention of Alcohol
The streets of King’s Landing were veiled in shadow, torches casting flickers of gold on stone and soot as Aemond made his way back from a meeting that dragged too long, with lords who spoke too little sense. Vhagar was left resting at the Dragonpit hours ago, her wings folded like the roofs of temples, unmoved by war or politics. Aemond preferred the stillness now. The cool descent of night, the thinning of crowds, the weightless press of dusk.
But just before the gate, he paused.
There. Through the narrow arch where the cliffs curved toward the Blackwater, he saw movement.
Two figures, cloaked not in armor but moonlight. Quiet. Free.
His feet moved before reason followed.
He knew that gait. That voice. That laughter like silver hitting water.
You.
You, barefoot on the pale sand, robe slipping off one shoulder, your hair half-braided as if you’d undone it in a hurry, dragging Jace by the hand with mischief in your eyes.
Jacaerys said something low, and you laughed again, louder this time, before he tugged at your waist and pulled you near. His mouth caught your temple, then your cheek, and you let him. Not in desire, but comfort. Habit.
Aemond’s breath halted as you reached for the ties of your gown and let it fall.
Not fully, not ceremonious, just enough for the silk to pool at your feet.
And gods help him.
His eye stayed rooted as you stepped into the water, Jace trailing close, his hand steady at your back. They were like children, he told himself. Foolish, fearless, loud. But then you turned slightly, chest rising, the moon cresting your collarbone as Jace whispered something into the hollow of your ear.
You tilted your head back to laugh and Aemond felt it. Like a lash. Like a blade.
He should’ve turned away.
Should’ve walked. Should’ve run.
Instead, he stayed. Watched.
Not out of curiosity.
But because his body refused to move.
He returned to the Keep without a word.
The sentries saw nothing in his gait to suggest unrest. No one caught the storm roiling beneath the surface, least of all the servants who bowed low as he passed, unaware that the prince’s composure tonight was a blade drawn thin.
He walked in silence. Through the long stone halls, through the shadowed turns of the tower, to the chamber where he always ended his day alone.
But tonight, he was not alone in his mind.
He entered his quarters slowly, locking the door with a click too soft to echo. He paused only to unbuckle his sword, letting it rest against the carved edge of the hearth. The rest he discarded by rote: his cloak, his boots, the tunic that still smelled faintly of wind and smoke.
Steam curled from behind the tall wooden screen where a bath had been drawn, the copper tub set deep and wide, the water still steaming.
He stepped toward it wordlessly.
The firelight flickered golden across the water’s surface, refracting in broken halos on the stone walls. Aemond’s breath was steady, but his hands, his hands betrayed him.
They lingered at his belt. Tense.
He undressed in silence.
The heat licked up his skin as he stepped in, muscles twitching as they adjusted to the warmth. He sank lower until water covered his chest, the dim light catching the sharp angle of his jaw, the single sapphire glinting faintly in its place.
But even in the water, he could not forget.
You. Rising from the waves like something sacred. Your smile unguarded, your hair clinging to your skin. And Jacaerys? His hands on you as if he owned what Aemond never dared reach for.
His jaw tightened. One hand gripped the rim of the tub.
The other slid lower.
This was not indulgence. This was discipline, twisted and contorted by the rot of longing. By the knowledge that you, twin to his enemy, daughter of his father’s shame, moved through the world untouched by the consequence you deserved.
His breath hissed between his teeth as his fingers dipped below the water.
He imagined your voice first. Low. Teasing. That silken tone you used when you knew you’d won an argument in court. That glint in your eye when you turned away from him, smug, victorious, unaware that each step you took was a hook dragging deeper into him.
He imagined your hands. Soft but sure, bracing yourself on his chest. Or curling around the edge of the bath, steam rising around you as you leaned in too close.
The flicker of your mouth.
The curve of your breast, half-covered by silk, then not at all.
The sound of your breath catching, high and helpless as he touched you where Jacaerys never should have.
Aemond’s head tipped back, hair damp against the edge of the tub. His hand moved with purpose now, slow but deliberate, caught between rage and reverence. He squeezed his eyes shut and saw you there. Wet and flushed, pinned beneath his palm like something wild made docile only for him.
"Say it," he imagined himself snarling. "Say who it is you want."
And you, lips parted, shuddering. You would say his name.
Not the bastard’s.
His.
A quiet grunt escaped him as his body tensed, pleasure cresting through him like flame in dry kindling. He did not speak. He did not moan.
He burned.
And when it was done, when his breath slowed and his hand fell still beneath the water, he sat there motionless.
۶ৎ ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─── ۶ৎ ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─── ۶ৎ
In the days that followed, the Red Keep resumed its rhythm. Tension pulsed beneath every gilded hallway, but the motions remained the same. Morning audiences. Training in the yards. Quiet suppers with veiled glances cast across long, lacquered tables. The air hung heavy, thick with the unsaid, the unsolved.
You moved through it all like a shadow dressed in silk.
Composed. Civil. Pleasant, when necessary.
You greeted Queen Alicent with a respectful nod. You stood beside Rhaenyra with measured ease. When your brother sparred in the yard, eyes sharp with something more than competition, you would clap. When your aunt Helaena mumbled verses to herself, you paused to listen, offering a gentle smile.
You were a princess. And you played your part.
Even if the halls were colder now.
Even if your dreams were haunted by silver hair and a sapphire stare you could never name aloud.
There was no time to dwell. The duties of royalty made perfect distractions. You studied maps beside your grandsire. You rode your dragon when restlessness gnawed at your ribs. You exchanged polite conversation with the maesters, learned the names of lords you’d likely never meet. The Keep bustled around you and in that, you found strange relief.
And yet.
There were moments.
Brief, stolen, unnerving.
Moments when your gaze would drift across the training yard… and catch his.
There hadn’t been many words between you. But there were moments. Fleeting, almost forgettable, if not for how they made your skin prickle with awareness.
You would see him sometimes in the Dragonpit, just as you were preparing for a ride or leading your dragon back to its lair. You never went there expecting to run into him, and yet somehow you did. He would emerge from the shadows, boots heavy against stone, Vhagar’s looming presence behind him. You would nod. He would bow.
"Uncle," you’d say, chin lifting just slightly.
"Princess," he’d return, curt and cool.
It was never more than that. Just the brushing of titles in an echo chamber of smoke and dragonfire. But something always lingered in his eye, something unreadable. You never stopped to name it.
And then there were the times in the yard.
On some afternoons, when the court felt suffocating and your thoughts restless, you would join your brother at archery. You never said it aloud, but you were a fair shot. Jace would try to correct your form with that big-brother know-it-all charm.
Aemond, of course, was always near.
Sometimes he sparred. Other times he only watched, arms crossed and stance coiled like a spring. But once, just once, you caught him saying it.
"Your grip is too tight. You’ll lose aim that way."
You turned then, startled, and met his eye.
"I wasn’t asking," you replied evenly.
He only lifted a brow. "Then don’t miss."
You didn’t. Not that time.
But you also didn’t thank him.
And you didn’t forget it either.
Then, there was that one night.
You had been creeping back through the Keep, hood pulled low, boots silent on cold stone. The moon was high, the castle quiet. You had slipped past the guards with the same daring you always had. Restless blood called for restless nights. The cool air outside the castle walls had sobered you slightly, but not completely. Your cheeks were still warm, the thrill of the night still buzzing in your veins.
You didn’t expect anyone to be in the hallways. Certainly not him.
But there he was, coming around the corner, fresh from some late-night venture of his own. He didn’t stumble, but there was a looseness to him. A scent, too. Wine. Myrrh. Maybe more. Maybe less.
You stopped. He did too.
"Uncle," you greeted coolly, as if your pulse wasn’t suddenly hammering in your throat.
"Princess," he said, voice low.
His eye scanned you. Your windblown hair, your cloak pulled hastily across your chest, the flushed glow of your cheeks. He said nothing more. Neither did you. The moment passed, thick and quiet, like the heavy press of a thunderstorm before it breaks.
You both moved on.
But not for long.
It wasn’t the last time your paths would cross under moonlight.
A few days later, gods knew from what escapade, you found yourself returning to the Keep again after dark. Your head was light, feet uneven. The world felt like it spun just a little too fast, but you didn’t mind. A little fun wasn’t forbidden. Not yet, anyway.
Aegon had brought you out that night, one of his rare moments of generosity though you were never sure if it was born of affection or boredom. He’d paraded you through the Streets of Silk like a precious bauble, daring anyone to stare too long at the girl on his arm. "My favorite niece," he had called you. "Beautiful thing."
You remembered laughter. Too many goblets passed to your hands. A dancer with veils who taught you to move with your hips. A drink that burned your throat and made you laugh so hard you nearly fell backward.
And now gods, now you were stumbling into the shadowed halls of the Red Keep, cloak half-askew, boots scuffing too loudly across stone.
You didn’t even realize you weren’t alone until a hand seized your arm and yanked you backward hard.
You gave a small yelp, but it was quickly muffled. A strong hand clamped gently over your mouth, the other bracing your back as your body hit cold stone tucked into the narrow recess of a pillar just off the hallway.
You blinked.
And found yourself face-to-face with him.
Aemond.
He was cloaked in black, tall and looming, scent of leather and steel hanging from him like fog. His silver hair was tied back, his single eye sharp even in the dark.
His hand still covered your mouth.
You didn’t know whether to laugh or glare.
Then, faintly, boots echoed down the corridor. Guards. You could hear them now, their steps brisk and purposeful. They were close.
You froze. So did he.
His body pressed closer against yours, shielding you completely from sight. You could feel the hilt of his sword grazing your hip. His breath was calm against your cheek, and you, gods, you were anything but calm.
You said something behind his palm. Muffled, nonsense.
His eye narrowed.
"Quiet," he mouthed.
You huffed but stayed still, a giddy little thrill tickling your spine.
The guards passed.
Their steps faded.
Aemond finally let go.
And you immediately slumped forward with a grin, giggling.
"Shouldn’t you be asleep, Uncle?" you slurred, half-laughing.
You lost your balance as soon as the words left your mouth, your weight pitching forward from your heeled boots and clouded head.
He caught you before you could fall completely. Hands firm around your waist, drawing you upright again. Your hands found purchase at his chest, and for one dizzy, breathless second, the two of you stood there like dancers caught in stillness.
"You reek of silk and wine," he muttered, his tone clipped.
"Thank you," you smiled, eyes heavy. "I try my best."
His jaw ticked.
"Did Aegon drag you to the brothels again?"
"Drag?" You scoffed. "He invited. I accepted. I'm not some damsel, Uncle."
"And yet here you are," he said, steadying you once more as you swayed. "Tripping over yourself in a hallway like one."
"Was that concern?" you teased, lips quirking.
He didn’t answer.
But his hand lingered at your waist.
And his gaze, sharp and unreadable stayed fixed on you, even when the silence began to stretch.
You licked your lips, still breathless.
"You’re staring."
"You’re drunk."
"Very," you whispered. "But not blind."
His grip on you tightened, just slightly.
"Do you even realize what could’ve happened if a guard found you like this?" he asked.
"But you found me instead," you countered, voice softer now. "How lucky I am."
Aemond stared at you for a beat too long. Your words lingered like incense between you, sweet and provocative.
But you were swaying again, head lolling lightly to the side as you blinked blearily at him. You looked at your feet, then down the corridor, then back at him.
"...Where were my chambers again?"
He sighed.
"You’re hopeless," he muttered and before you could protest, you were hoisted.
A yelp escaped your lips, sharp and indignant as he threw you over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
"Seven—bloody—hells—Aemond!" you cried, voice muffled against his cloak. “You can’t just go around manhandling princesses!”
"Quiet," he hissed. "Do you want to wake the entire Keep?"
"You're kidnapping me!"
He walked briskly, steps silent despite your flailing limbs. You kept yapping as he carried you, unbothered and far too amused by your own drunkenness.
"Are you always this grumpy at night? Maybe you need a drink. I needed three—no, four. That last one didn’t count. Too small. But—"
"If you don’t shut up," he muttered under his breath, "I swear on Vhagar, she wouldn't mind to have a princess as meal."
That got a giggle out of you. “You're so dramatic, uncle.”
"You’re lucky it’s me who found you," he growled low.
"I am lucky," you agreed smugly. "You’re my favorite uncle, after all."
He said nothing to that. But his pace quickened.
When he finally reached your chambers, two handmaidens were inside finishing the lighting of your hearth and arranging fresh towels by your bath. They barely turned at the door creaking open until they saw him, with you slung over his shoulder.
Their eyes widened.
"Leave," Aemond ordered, voice firm.
They scrambled, dipping into clumsy curtsies before hurrying out. The door shut behind them.
He set you down with a gentleness you didn’t expect, guiding you to the bed as though you were made of glass. You landed softly atop the coverlet, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, lips parted from half-spoken thoughts.
But your hand didn’t let go of him.
Instead, your fingers fisted in the collar of his tunic, pulling him slightly downward.
"You’re always in a hurry," you murmured, eyes half-lidded and teasing. "Don’t even stay for a kiss?"
"I have business to tend to."
You pouted. “You’re no fun.”
And with an unexpected strength, still drunk but not entirely helpless, you pushed yourself upright. Your balance faltered, so your hand braced against his chest. Broad, firm, warm beneath the fabric.
Now face to face.
Your breath slowed.
His didn’t.
You stared up at him, barely a hair’s breadth between you. His eye flicked from your gaze to your lips, then back again. His body didn’t move, but something in the air did. Like the moment before lightning strikes.
You smirked.
“Liar,” you whispered. “You’re staying.”
Your fingers slipped to the clasp of your cloak. A flick, a shift. And it fell to the floor with a whisper, revealing the dress beneath.
Aemond stilled.
Gods.
You were still clothed, yes, but only barely. The white fabric hugged your frame too well, too soft, too bare to have come from any of the royal seamstresses. Light caught the sheerness at the hem, and the neckline dipped just low enough that he averted his gaze. Not out of disinterest, but out of sheer discipline.
It was not a dress meant to be worn within the Keep, and certainly not one your mother would’ve approved of. If Rhaenyra had seen you in it, she might’ve summoned a tailor and a septa all in the same breath.
But Aemond was no septon.
And you were no saint.
You swayed slightly, intoxication still clinging to your limbs, but your gaze was clear now. Sharp, curious, hungry.
He forced himself to speak.
"You should rest," he said, tone flat but heavy. "I’ll call your handmaidens to draw your bath. Then you’re going to sleep."
But that only made you laugh.
A soft, melodic sound, mocking and amused.
You reached for his cloak this time, tugging it from his shoulders with easy familiarity. It joined yours on the floor in a heap of dark velvet and silver embroidery.
“You’ve always had such a noble mouth,” you teased, eyes raking over him. “But your body opposes.”
He didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Your hands found the edge of his sword belt, fingers working with almost practiced ease as you began to remove it. Your knuckles brushed against his hips, his abdomen, warmth radiating through his leathers.
Then, your fingers slid to the fastenings at his chest, beginning to unlace the upper half of his usual leather jerkin, tugging at the buckles just beneath his collarbone.
His hand caught yours.
Firm. Final.
"I'm not going to repeat myself," he said, voice low and dangerous.
But you just tilted your head, lips parting slowly, breaths mingling.
"Then don’t," you whispered. "Just feel. Don’t lie to yourself, Uncle," you murmured, your breath brushing his cheek. "I know you want it too."
Your hand slid down, slow and deliberate, until it found the growing evidence of his arousal beneath the folds of his tunic and leathers. He inhaled sharply as your fingers stroked him through the fabric. Unhurried, unbothered, daring.
That was when his hand rose to your throat.
Not harshly.
Not to harm.
But with enough pressure, just enough to remind you that no matter how clever your mouth was or how bold your touch, he was still the one in control.
Your eyes met his.
Neither of you smiled.
This wasn’t jest.
This was truth laid bare.
His gaze was storm and fire. Silent, but aching.
Yours was open, defiant. Willing.
"You're enjoying this," Aemond murmured, his voice low and taut as wire, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "I hope you know what you're signing up for."
You didn’t flinch. You didn’t falter.
Your fingers tightened around the heat of him, stroking with firmer intent now, deliberate and slow. "Always have," you whispered, gaze steady beneath his. "Always been."
"Then you’re mine."
No more warning.
His mouth crashed into yours, wild and starved. You moaned against him as he kissed you like he’d been dying for it, like years of restraint had crumbled in a breath.
And your hand kept working him, unrelenting, until the growl in his throat became something dangerously close to a whimper.
He kissed like a man unhinged. Desperate, controlled only by the years he had forced himself to look, never touch. His hand at your throat moved to your jaw, tilting your face so he could deepen the kiss, tongue sweeping into your mouth as if claiming territory long denied.
But you wanted more.
Your fingers moved with purpose, loosening the leather across his chest, unfastening clasps one by one until his clothing parted, revealing skin hot and taut beneath your touch. You swallowed the low groan that rumbled from his throat, swallowed it and fed it with your hands, your mouth, your need.
And then you dropped to your knees.
Aemond’s breath caught.
Your hands worked him free, the weight of him warm in your palm. You looked up once, just once. And gods, the way he stared down at you… jaw tight, lips parted, his silver hair falling slightly across his brow like he’d stepped straight from one of your dreams. His eye was fixed on you like prey, and yet you were the one who had him trembling.
Your mouth found him without hesitation.
A sharp breath hissed through his teeth as your lips wrapped around him, slow, warm, deliberate.
His hand slid into your hair, not forcing, not pushing, just anchoring. Grounding himself. The silence broke only with the sound of your mouth, the soft drag of breath, the whisper of his voice murmuring your name like a sin on his tongue.
“Seven hells,” he muttered. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”
But you did.
Because you’d thought of this too, countless times. Wondered if he’d taste like fire and fury, if he’d come undone for you, just once. If he'd let himself feel.
His hips bucked once, reflexive, raw, as the tension shattered from within him, years of restraint unraveling into your touch.
A strangled curse escaped his lips, low and guttural, as his fingers tightened in your hair, holding you there, breathless beneath the weight of his need. His other hand lifted your chin as the moment washed over you. Warm and claiming. His gaze never left yours.
You blinked up at him, lips parted, breath uneven. You were trembling slightly, but your eyes, gods, your eyes burned with mischief and fire and something almost like reverence.
“Swallow,” he commanded, voice hoarse and wrecked.
And you did. Obedient, unblinking.
“Good girl.”
Aemond's thumb brushed a stray smear from your chin, his expression unreadable. He brought it to your lips, pressing it against the softness there.
Your tongue darted out, licking him clean.
He wasn’t done.
Aemond’s gaze dropped to your form. Disheveled, wanton, eyes still dazed with pleasure and mischief. His hand slipped to your waist, gripped, then to the sheer fabric clinging to your hips. You barely had time to breathe before the sound tore through the room—
Riiip.
Your dress was nothing but soft seams and delicate stitching, no match for the heat that gripped him now. Silk whispered as it tore apart in his hands, falling like water to the floor. You gasped, but not in protest.
His mouth was on your collarbone, then lower. Teeth grazing skin. Tongue drawing slow lines of fire down your chest, until your knees buckled and your back hit the bedframe.
You laid back, chest heaving. Aemond towered above you like a shadow, his silver hair falling forward, framing that single eye aflame with hunger. His hands ran along your legs, thumbs digging into your thighs as he parted them, gaze locked on yours.
“You’ve no idea what you've done,” he said, voice strained.
“I think I do,” you whispered back, breathless.
And then he was upon you.
His weight pressed into yours, skin meeting skin as he claimed your mouth again. This time rougher, needier. His hips slotted between yours as his hands explored every curve, every inch of you, as though he'd dreamed of this moment too many times to waste a second.
You arched into him, nails dragging down his back, and he groaned against your mouth.
“Tell me you mean this. That you're not just drunk,” he murmured, lips brushing your jaw, your throat, your pulse point.
“Drunk? Yes,” you breathed. “Meant it? Definitely.”
That undid him.
He gripped your thighs and pulled you to the edge of the bed, positioning himself. The tip of him pressed against you, teasing, waiting. Your breath hitched.
“Look at me,” he said.
You did.
Then he pushed in. Slow at first, inch by inch, stretching you open, filling you so completely your mouth parted in a silent gasp.
Your hands flew to his shoulders, clutching, grounding yourself as pleasure shot through you like lightning. He groaned, long and low, at the feel of you wrapped around him, finally, finally his.
He moved.
Not gently.
He thrust deep and hard, hips snapping forward as your legs wrapped around him instinctively, your back arching off the sheets. The bed creaked, the headboard knocking gently against the stone wall, and still, he didn’t slow.
His hand slid beneath your knee, angling you just right, hitting deeper. You cried out his name, and something snapped in him.
“I need to hear it again,” he growled. “Say my name.”
“Aemond—gods, Aemond—”
He kissed you to swallow your cries, his rhythm relentless now. Every thrust felt like penance and worship all at once, like he was staking a claim, branding your body with every desperate movement.
One of your hands found his jaw, holding him close, the other tangled in his hair. His mouth never strayed far from yours. Lips, neck, shoulder, marking wherever he could reach.
You were both unraveling, fast.
The pressure was building. The knot inside you tightening. And his thrusts were becoming more erratic, more desperate. Each one laced with the years of restraint now crumbling between you.
But then you moved.
Aemond let out a breathless sound when your hands pushed gently against his chest. His eyes flying open in surprise, then something darker. You rolled him onto his back with quiet authority, straddling him. His hands gripped your hips on instinct, but he didn’t resist. He watched you, mouth parted, his silver hair fanned out beneath him like a fallen prince.
Now you were the one in control.
You braced your hands against his chest, the rise and fall of it uneven beneath your palms. His skin was flushed, warm, and slick with effort. You had always imagined this. This exact thing. How he’d look beneath you. Tamed. Vulnerable. Yours.
You began to move, hips rolling with purpose, your pace slow at first, savoring every reaction you pulled from him. His fingers dug into your thighs, not to stop you, but to ground himself. Aemond was not a man easily undone, but gods, you were doing it. With every shift of your hips, every breathless moan, every flicker of your eyes locking with his.
“Look at you,” he rasped, voice thick. “Like you were made for this.”
You leaned forward slightly, and his hands slid up your torso, thumbs brushing the curve of your ribs. You felt worshipped, like every part of you was a sacred thing he’d denied himself too long.
He was close again. You could feel it in the way his hands began to tremble, the way his breathing broke. His grip on your hips tightened, grounding himself in the feeling of you, of your heat, your weight, your rhythm above him.
You rode him with purpose now, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing softly through the chamber. Every roll of your hips sent sparks through your spine, every strained sound from his lips drove you higher, until your fingers clawed into the muscle of his chest just to keep from unraveling.
"Aemond," you gasped, the name breaking free like a prayer.
That was what did it.
He sat up suddenly, arms wrapping around you, your bodies flush, your foreheads pressed together as he drove up into you with a force that stole your breath. The sudden closeness, the rawness of it, made your world tilt.
The knot snapped.
You broke apart in his arms. Head thrown back, mouth parted in a moan he swallowed with a kiss as your body trembled around him. He followed right after, with a groan against your skin, the sound low and guttural, his release buried deep inside you. One last thrust. Then stillness.
Heavy breathing. Damp skin. His arms still locked around your waist like if he let go, the moment would vanish.
You didn’t move. Neither did he.
“Better than Jace could make you feel?” Aemond asked, voice low and dry, though the corner of his mouth twitched. Half smug, half something darker. A flicker of something possessive behind the jest.
Your brows furrowed slightly, eyes narrowing as you leaned back just enough to study him. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Uncle.”
He didn’t answer, just held your gaze. Still waiting. Still wanting something you couldn’t quite name.
You sighed, resting your palms on his chest. “Jace is my twin,” you said, as though that should have been enough. And it should’ve been. “We’ve been together since the womb. That kind of closeness.. people will always whisper.”
“But that’s all they do,” you added pointedly. “Whisper.”
Aemond’s jaw flexed.
You smirked, a little breathless still. “Besides… if Jace could make me feel like that, don’t you think I’d be limping more often?”
His eye widened slightly, caught off guard for just a second, before a sharp laugh escaped him, his hands gripping your waist tighter.
“Seven hells,” he muttered under his breath, dragging his lips against your collarbone.
“Don’t start again unless you plan to finish it,” you teased, brushing the silver hair from his face.
This account is made to complement the account I have on c.ai, as I've felt the need to have a place where I can be more in touch with my all of you.
Here, feel free to message me if you want to talk about the requests you want to make, about characters you'd like to see or if you simply feel like talking, I'll be happy to text back.
I'll leave the requests form below, I mostly make bots about Ewan Mitchell characters, cause these are the ones I enjoy the most at the moment, but you can ask for any character and POV you want (from any series, movies, books and fandoms), and I'll make sure to make my best research on it to give you a bot as close as possible to what you're asking for.
Requests form!
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Bots Masterlist P.1 Bots Masterlist P.2
For any doubts, just message me and I'll be happy to answer your questions!
Without more to say, just feel free to enjoy and thank you all for your attention! ۶ৎ
Fandom/Pairing: The Halcyon/Billy Taylor x bestfriend!reader
Summary: Her love affair ends terribly leaving her alone in a hotel room in expensive lingerie until her best friend happens to walk in.
Warnings: MDI 18+, smut, hand jobs
Day 26: Lingerie Kink
Word Count: 2.9+
Another's Note: Poor sweet Billy is being convinced to engage in some naughty behavior once again. Thanks for sticking with me as I slowly, but surely finish these!
“I am sorry.” Surely he wasn’t. “I no longer feel that way about you.” Surely he did.
The tears nearly left her eyes threatening to ruin the “look” she had put together for the evening. There she stood in ta vacated room hoping to create a beautiful memory with her weeks long love. A distinguished guest galavanting with the highest of British society should not have looked twice at her.
Yet he had.
She had stupidly fallen too in love too fast.
He chased each kiss with sweet words and even sweeter promises.
Her head had reeled at the idea of being swept away from her life as a maid at the Halcyon to a life full of dinner parties and garden outings and maids to wait on her. She had believed everything he had said, every promise, every dream, every hopeful kiss.
How could it all scatter in a matter of seconds with only a few words?
“I don’t understand.” She didn’t want to cry. It was the furthest thing from her mind when he had entered the room as planned, another rendezvous to add to their many this time with an added spark.
She had spent her entire month’s pay on her undergarments. She had thought to surprise him. There was thought he may have wanted to engage in more than kissing before he returned home. The young woman had known he liked the expensive sort of life style. She couldn’t afford much, but the pretty white lace and dashing pearls had caught her eye.
It felt soft on her. She felt beautiful in it for, but a moment. Until he was now rejecting her. Now she felt ridiculous and self conscious.
“I have a life to return to.” A bubble of displeasure coiled in her belly at those words. “You know this could not last.” She hadn’t. Why would she have thought that after he had made all those promises? “Our time together was great fun, but it is over.” She folded her arms over herself feeling utterly shameful. “It is best that you get dressed.”
He waited for her to move. She could not. How could she move when she was trying so desperately not to cry? She nearly opened her mouth to ask him a question. Why had he made those promises when he knew they were all lies? Instead he sighed before taking a long sip of brandy he had set in the hotel room than abandoning her in the room alone.
When there was nothing but an empty glass, an empty bottle, and a silent unoccupied hotel room she started to pick up her clothing. The maid uniform was a tad wrinkled from her hurried disrobing to surprise him. She smoothed out the pieces on the bed trying to gather herself together.
The door opened.
“Oh sorry I . . .” Thank goodness it was only Billy. “Oh God! I’m sorry!”
She saw him in a flash. Eager, kind, and flustered Billy Taylor, her best friend if all was to be considered. She had started at the Halcyon nearly a year ago. Billy had taken her under his wing teaching her the ins and outs of the life of a hotel staff member. He had been charming in a way that had eased her anxiousness. Even their mothers had become jolly friends.
He was looking spiffy in his bellhop uniform, always so pressed and neat. Billy took care of himself, taking pride in his job. He could also get up to some mischief as well in cards or talking reluctantly about staff or guests behind their backs. Billy had taught her to be more professional and in return she had aided him in loosening up.
She did not feel very professional at this moment in a vaccant hotel clad in lingerie.
He nearly shut the door when she surged forward.
“Wait!” She shouted too loudly. Her hand cupped her mouth in shock at the raise in her voice. He paused at her response, a dead stare in his eye. “Close the door.” He shut it tightly behind him adverting his gaze.
“You are nearly nude.” Billy looked anywhere but at her.
It was the reaction she had hoped for from her paramour.
“He rejected me.” It was then that she allowed the first tear to sneak from the corner of her eye. She rubbed at it with the heel of her hand. “I feel like such a fool.” Words crossed her mind remarking how she should have known. Nobody of his stature would fall in love with a girl like her, a simple maid in a barely upscale hotel.
What did she have to offer a man like that?
She had no money.
There was no wealthy blood flowing through her veins. Her family was working class. She had a job. To men like him she might as well have been not a person.
She should have seen the signs.
Sneaking off.
Him telling her not to tell a soul about them.
She had broken a promise as well. Her lips had eagerly told Billy, her greatest friend, of the affair. Her mother would have judged her. The other maids would have talked her out of the ordeal, rightfully so she now knew. But Billy . . . he just listened. He was grateful to hear her stories, ask the right questions, and be happy that she was happy.
“You are not a fool.” Finally he looked up. He swallowed heavily, eyes fixated on her breasts for a flash of a moment before retreating to her eyes. “Anything but. He is the fool.”
“You are only saying that because you’re my friend.” She tucked another stray tear away sniffling thrice.
“I am saying that because I have eyes . . . and a heart.” It was then that she saw his eyes, happily looking at her in a way she had not noticed before. “He is the one who does not deserve you.” When she saw how kind his eyes were she had a thought.
“I spent my month’s pay on this lingerie. He barely looked at me.” She could not hide the disappointment. She ran her fingers over the lace garter tracing the length of it. “It feels a waste. He did not even humor me with telling me if it looked nice.” She brushed over the feel of the lace coating her breasts. The wire was holding them up from underneath in a discomforting way, but she had thought it made her look perky. She was beginning to second guess herself now. Billy was looking away again. “Oh it’s hideous isn’t it!” She nearly coiled back into herself. “Tell me the truth Billy. Is it absolutely garish?”
It seemed like Billy was forcing himself to look up. She should have taken that as a sign. The young man quickly made his thoughts apparent.
“No. It is not. Quite the opposite in fact.” She saw the light pink coloring in his cheeks. It was astonishing how he seemed to brighten upon looking at her. Had this always been the case or was it the lingerie? “It is stunning.” He swallowed hard, almost allowing his eyes to look past her collar bone.
Not quite.
“Is it? Every piece? Even the bottom?” Her finger teased the pearls decorating her hip. She had been so delighted by the design. Her finger tickled the edge of the panties at her cunt, dipping low to show a peak of it there.
Billy nodded letting his eyes fall to where her finger traced. His mouth hung slightly open. His eyes seemed to twinkle with moisture. Perhaps he was so displeased he was crying.
“It’s . . . nice.” He swallowed hard once more adverting his gaze.
“Then why can’t you look at me?” Her eyes tried to find his. She saw his hands carefully cover his lower half. “Billy?” He seemed to have pinker cheeks. “Are you alright? Are you catching a fever or . . . “ She stepped closer, putting the back of her hand to his temple.
“Please.” She saw his eyes fill with moisture again, the breath that quickened. His eyes filled with slight tears. “Put on some clothes.” Her hands fell at her sides. She saw he was embarrassingly hiding something at his crotch.
“Oh.” The realization made her feel moronic.
Maybe the lingerie did have the desired effect.
“I apologize.” He said sheepishly. “I did not mean to react so . . . ungentlemanly. I did not expect to find you here in such a state.” A strong curiosity crept up inside her. She wanted to respect Billy’s dignity so instead stepped away.
“It is a natural reaction. No fault of yours.” She wondered if Billy would react to anyone he found in lacey white expensive lingerie or if she were special. She heard him sigh, slowly move his hands. That is when she saw the bulge there, slight, but quite noticeable. “I don’t believe you should return to work in this state.”
Billy shook his head before closing his eyes as if he could wish it away. He squirmed a bit uncertainly. He adjusted his trousers as if that might help.
“Does it need attending?” She wondered. His eyes grew wide.
“I could take care of it if you keep watch. There is an en suite.” He eyed the bathroom.
All she could do was nodd as he scurried to the bathroom. She locked the door to the room. She debated putting her maid uniform back on. The undergarments had been under her uniform all day waiting for the right moment to slip her would be suitor a note of which room to meet her in. It felt a shame to not at least feel the weight of her purchase on her for a few more shared moments.
She stood by the door mulling over every promise he had made to her. She ignored any noise coming from the bathroom. When Billy had meant “take care of it” she was sure he meant manual stimulation. She recalled having sweet kisses with her former love until he was stiff and wanting. He always desired more, but she was afraid they would be caught and left it at kisses.
A few days ago he had begged her to touch it. The it in question being a very hardened member. She had relented more out of her own curiosity than his pleading. He had offered her many jewels and sweet promises in exchange for a simple touch. She remembered it being firm as a ripe melon when in her palm. Her hand had moved across it moving the skin. His moan had been pleasant to her ears, loud and whining.
The control had caused tingles throughout her body even jutting into her core. When she had teased the tip of his cock it had been softer, nearly spongey. The whole ordeal had felt warm and intimidate.
What a lie that had been.
“I’m sorry.” She heard through the door. “I can’t.”
Then she had a thought.
She pulled open the door to see Billy Taylor smoothing out his uniform, the bulge still present.
“Can I help?” She asked firmly.
“What?” His eyes grew wide.
“Since I am the cause perhaps I can be a part of the solution.” Still clad in her under garments she somehow remained sharply confident in that idea. “It would only be to ease you. Nothing more than that.” Oh why had those words felt somehow untrue?
Why had she not noticed how very tall Billy Taylor was?
“Come now,” She plopped on the bed with a soft thud. “You can not go about your day looking like this.” She pat the spot beside her.
He moved slowly as if like a deer trying to accept food from a stranger. The way he sat was painfully slow. She waited. They awkwardly sat beside one another for a few silent moments. He shifted his feet scuffing them along the carpet. The sound began to bother her some though she said nothing. She did not want to make him more uncomfortable than he was already. Perhaps the discomfort alone would sate him. It was a hope at the very least.
Her eyes laid on the hardness in his trousers, still very apparent.
“Shall I remove your trousers or -”
“No,” He nearly shook as he spoke. “I ca- a -an.” He stuttered the words before swallowing harshly. His fingers worked on each part quicker now.
He may have wanted to get it all over with.
Once his trousers were at his ankles she could see him more clearly. He had on thin briefs, white to match her. Though they were frayed and worn she could see at the center a little wet marking. Her hand touched it lightly. Underneath she felt that spongey tip. When she looked up his eyes were staring at her, questioning in a way she did not quite understand.
“It’s alright. I promise I can help.” The need to feel wanted or at the very least useful was quite strong in her today. Her hand eased pass the elastic waist band of his briefs to feel the smattering of hair at his base, curled and course. Not a strange sensation. When her fingers traveled further she realized that not only was Billy quite impressively hard, but thick as well.
He hummed softly shutting his eyes tight as if in pain. By the feel of him she knew that was not the case. She could nearly feel his thudding heart through his girthy member. She let her body relax, moving closer to him enough that she could tell he was near hyperventilating.
“If it’s too much I can -”
“No please, I like it. I promise.” He tried to ease his breath, calm himself. She imagined that Billy did not have many ladies sticking their hands down his briefs. He should though. Billy was kind and caring. Why shouldn’t young ladies be falling over themselves to get to him?
“Is this alright?” She rubbed the hard skin moving it in a slow rhythm up and down his shaft. He huffed and puffed a bit. His eyes shut once more in concentration, very tight as if he wanted to block her from his vision.
“Yes. Very good. So good. Th-thank you.” She continued smiling to herself that she was making him feel good.
Her body leaned into him feeling intimate in the moment as she stimulated this most sensitive part of her friend. She could smell the strong cologne at his neck, the sweat on his collarbone, the pure sexual scent leaking from him. She dared to tease his tip. He flailed slightly as if she had ignited something within him.
“OH GOD!” He called out too loud. Her other hand muffled the noise as she felt spurts of his seed, hot and wet, onto her fingers. His legs kicked out than became near limp. He seemed to have spent himself for the moment as she felt him soften. Slowly she removed her hand. “I’m sorry I -”
“No need. That was the goal. It was a success.” She smiled politely. Her eyes only glanced at her hand for a moment before hurrying to the facilities. She let the water run over her hand stained in his semen before deciding to speak. “Have you ever received that kind of attention before, Billy?” She waited for an answer watching as the water washed it all away.
She could wash it from her memory as well as quickly as the water had drained down the sink. However many parts of her did not want the memory to disappear. Touching him had felt different than the other man, yes in her mind he had already occupied less space. With Billy it felt easy.
It felt right.
“Billy?”
“Oh, yes?” He suddenly seemed in high spirits. “Oh your question. No. I have never . . . done anything with another before. It was my first time, but I suppose you have had experience with your fellow.” She shut off the water.
“He isn’t my fellow. I suppose he was never mine.” She walked into the room seeing Billy Taylor with new eyes.
He did look quite dashing in his uniform now that it was back on.
“I quite liked that.” She admitted as she went to the bed to redress herself.
“You don’t have to say that.” He stated sheepishly.
“I am serious. It felt nice to be intimate with a close friend. Natural even.” That was the word. It felt as a natural development in their friendship. Though she feared she could never glance at Billy again. Not with knowing what lay underneath his trousers.
“It did?” She nodded. He smiled wide. “Well maybe than we could go on a proper date.” She paused in her tying on her apron looking wide eyed toward him. “Unless of course you would like to keep things secret . . . I can understand -”
“No. No more secrets.” She swallowed at the suggestion.
“Than perhaps I should say that,” He cleared his throat breathing in harshly before speaking his truth. “I have liked you for quite some time and would be delighted if you would go to dinner with me this weekend. We are both off and I believe as you said this is a natural progression to our relationship as it were.” She heard him be so very genuine about his feelings.
“Yes, Billy. I should like that. And if all goes well perhaps we can officially become an item.” She tied off the apron seeing his face light up.
WARNINGS: 18+Minors DNI; DD:DNE; NonCon/DubCon; Mind Control; Kidnapping; Blood; Biting; P in V sex; Fingering; Rough Sex; Mad, Bad & Dangerous Aemond; Mention of oral, M rec; Mention of murder
Aemond Targaryen Masterlist
He wanders the dim hallways of his long-cherished home as he has done so many nights before, pausing to admire a favorite painting or priceless artifact.
But the rare items of art and history no longer provide him with the same satisfaction they once did.
‘I need to stop clinging to the past.’
He's told himself this before, but he knows he won't change. He's considered abandoning this estate and all of its contents, but he always returns, seeking the familiarity and refuge it offers him.
Emptiness and frustration increasingly replace the solace he once found here, serving as a stark reminder that he is not of this time. Every room here, and every object in it, drives home the inescapable truth that he himself is a wicked relic that should have ceased to exist long ago.
Desperate to ease the simmering turmoil inside him, he enters an upstairs bedroom without knocking, waking the nude woman sleeping in the bed.
Hours later, he sits in a fine leather chair at an antique mahogany desk in his suite, a closed laptop computer before him.
Clad only in a pair of silken pajama pants under a finely embroidered robe, his hair still damp from the shower he took to wash Laela’s scent from his body, he ponders his next move.
He left the honey-haired blonde collapsed on her bed, her face stained with dried tears from gagging on his cock and exhausted from him fucking her. Cumming a few times in her lovely body eased his tension, enabling him to think more clearly.
He opens his laptop and sends an email, arranging to return to the city of his birth. If he cannot find peace here, perhaps indulging his dark nature in the still seedy parts of that city will at least provide some needed distraction.
As the morning rays of the sun bathe the countryside in light, he removes his robe, climbing between the black sheets of his bed, surrendering to his need for rest.
King’s Landing
‘Thank the gods I fed earlier.’
This is what he tells himself as he stands by the railing of the museum’s second-floor balcony. A moment earlier, his heightened senses picked up an utterly tantalizing scent that almost made him forget to breathe, to blink, or to move as a normal human man.
She enters the resplendent marble lobby of the museum, accompanying her employer, Leo Kidwell, to the museum’s fundraising gala and celebration of the newest exhibits on the Great Houses of Westeros.
Kidwell’s, where she works as a junior specialist, is the nearly 300-year-old prestigious auction house for fine art, jewelry, and luxury items, and Leo Kidwell is the chairman of the King’s Landing flagship location.
It takes all of his will to project calm while he searches the crowd, seeking the source of this enthralling temptation. His keen eyes quickly find a young woman standing among a group of people, greeting each other.
He continues to observe her from above, watchful of every movement she makes. The man she appears to be with is older, and her body language suggests she’s not entirely comfortable around him.
At that moment, as if she can feel the intensity of his gaze on her, her head tilts up towards the balcony where he stands. They lock eyes for a moment; he gives her a smile and a slight nod before she has to return her attention to her companions.
‘Who is she?’
He has no idea, but he intends to find out.
No one was more surprised than she when Mr. Kidwell called her into his office and invited her to attend the museum gala with him and several other senior executives. Her boss’s lingering gaze on her chest quickly dimmed any happiness that her hard work was being rewarded.
‘Fucking perv,’ she thinks as she graciously accepts the invitation.
For days she considered backing out, but in the end she gave in, fearing a refusal could harm her career. Furthermore, she was eager to go to this gala, which will have prominent figures from the art world in attendance. Perhaps she could use this as an opportunity to make important contacts.
So she bought a dark blood-red dress with a deep V plunge to show off her assets, determined to turn this to her advantage.
He stalks the young lady from the fringes of the crowd, his eyes never wavering from her. His superior hearing picks up their conversations, discovering identities and professions. He learns her name and hears her beautiful voice, like a siren's song calling to him.
This evening is going wonderfully. Mr. Kidwell, clearly pleased with her, is calling her “one of the firm’s bright young stars.". Only the nagging feeling of being watched bothers her.
She keeps scanning the crowd, looking for the man who mischievously smirked at her from the balcony. For some reason, his fleeting gaze sent chills down her spine.
His eavesdropping pays off, leading him to an elderly man, a respected member of the museum’s board.
‘Introduce me.”
He smiles as the man leads him to Mr. Kidwell and repeats word for word the introduction he planted in his mind.
“Mr. Kidwell, I’d like you to meet Mr. Thomas Bennett," he says. “His family has long been generous supporters of the museum, and he has inherited an impressive art collection as well.”
She suddenly finds herself facing the man she saw on the balcony. As they make introductions, his large hand with beautiful long fingers envelops hers.
Another shiver goes through her at his cool touch, his grip on her hand lingering a bit too long. Her eyes widen slightly at his handsome face. He has striking features, an aquiline nose, curved lips, and a sharp jawline. But it’s his piercing blue eyes that captivate her, almost mesmerizing her.
As he speaks with her boss, she notices his attire. His long coat, perfectly tailored to his tall frame, tapers in to highlight a trim waist. It’s a modern twist on a classic, old-money look.
He’s sporting an incredibly expensive watch on his slim wrist. She estimates that between his watch, rings, pearl pin on his lapel, and earring, he must be wearing nearly a million worth of jewelry.
“What area is your specialty?” He asks her.
“Classic art from Westeros and Essos, with a particular interest in Old Valyrian-influenced art,” she replies innocently, unaware of the profound effect this has on her new companion.
“I have a painting by Maehavar Malgaris that I’m considering giving up,” he discloses. "The Black Walls of Volantis and perhaps a few other pieces."
Everyone’s eyes within earshot widen at the mention of the great painter, a descendant of Valyrians who escaped the destruction, and whose few works are considered masterpieces.
Mr. Kidwell immediately offers the firm's services, quickly moving to initiate a discussion with Mr. Bennett.
“Hmm, I’d love to make an arrangement with your firm,” he responds. “Let’s see if your rising star is up to the task.”
Her lips part in surprise, and her boss clears his throat as Mr. Bennett boldly offers her his hand, clearly expecting her to accompany him.
After a quick glance at her miffed boss, she places her hand in his, allowing him to lead her away.
“What is it about Old Valyrian art that intrigues you?” He inquires after escorting her into the House Lannister exhibit, grabbing two glasses of champagne for them along the way.
“I always had a fascination with the Targaryen dynasty, beautiful blonde dragonriders,” she begins, smiling. “Then I went on a school trip to Dragonstone museum; I fell in love with the Old Valyrian architecture and art. It seemed so mysterious and otherworldly to me.”
She pauses before wistfully adding, “It also made me sad.”
“Why sad?” He tilts his head, genuinely curious.
She smiles awkwardly, feeling self-conscious about adding something rather personal to her, unsure of why she even said it. “The Doom of Valyria destroyed so much. We’ll never know what the world lost.”
She quickly asks, eager to get the conversation back on track, "What pieces are you considering selling apart from the Malgaris?"
The corner of his curved mouth turns up slightly. “We can talk about that later,” he says. “I’d much rather talk about you and how breathtaking you are in that dress.”
He speaks softly with a subtle accent that she finds difficult to place, yet the sound captivates her. His is the kind of voice that can make something innocent sound dangerously provocative.
She can’t help the warm flush she feels on her face at the compliment. “Thank you, Mr. Bennett,” she responds. “But I thought you were eager to discuss an auction or private sale.”
“Please, call me Tom,” he insists. “The Malgaris was part of my plan to rescue you.”
“Rescue me?” She smiled bemusedly.
“You looked somewhat uncomfortable at your boss’s side,” he points out. “Let me guess, it's hard to say no to your boss when they ask you to do something you're uneasy with?”
Momentarily dismayed by his accurate observation, she initially intends to deny it but instead worriedly asks, “Was I that obvious?”
“No, you hid it well,” he assures her. “But to someone paying very close attention, the signs were there.”
They continue to converse as they walk through the exhibits, commenting and expressing their thoughts on the many works of art on show. She's impressed by his artistic sensibility and knowledge of classical art and painters. He's also clearly well-versed in Westerosi history.
“Do you live in King’s Landing?”
“I keep an apartment here,” he replies. “Though I don’t consider it home.”
“Oh, where is home then?”
“My family owns a few properties, and I travel quite a bit,” he informs her. “But my estate in the northern countryside is the only place that feels like home,” he responds truthfully.
“I’m supposed to be securing an agreement for Kidwell to handle the sale of your painting,” she reminds him. “What should I tell him?"
“Hmm, tell him that I need to see you a few more times,” he replies nonchalantly.
“Mr. Bennett, do you truly intend to sell the Malgaris?” She asks, concerned that he was playing games with her.
“Have dinner with me, and we shall discuss what pieces I may consider selling.”
She feels irritated, despite how much she has enjoyed his company. If for any reason he does not agree on a sale with Kidwell's, she will take the blame for it, but seeing him socially could harm her professional reputation.
“Mr. Bennett, while I’ve enjoyed our time here, I really must insist on a strictly professional relationship,” she tells him, her tone polite but firm.
His lips twist almost into a pout. “Are you saying that you’re only interested in my painting?”
“I’m saying that I won’t jeopardize my reputation with inappropriate behavior, Mr. Bennett.”
He lets his gaze boldly wander over her body, lingering on the plunging neckline of her dress before leaning in too close, murmuring in her ear. “Only inappropriate thoughts have crossed my mind since I first saw you in this fucking red dress,” his voice low and seductive. “Now, be a good girl and call me Tom, like I asked you to.”
When he pulls back enough that she can see his face, she finds the blue of his eyes dark with smoldering desire.
His cockiness, his undressing her with his eyes and brazen words, should have been offensive coming from a man she just met. But he manages to get away with it. His cool charisma pulls her in, enticing her with tantalizing promise. The look in his eyes makes her feel like the most desirable woman in the world.
Her nipples tighten, and warmth blooms deep within her core from his closeness—his words.
Being this close to her is delicious torture.
He knew he would take her and make her his the moment he saw her from the balcony. In his younger days, when he was more impulsive, he would have already lured her out of the museum to some dark place, where he would have tasted her and ruined her.
But now he was grateful time had taught him restraint, because this alluring creature should be savored like the rare delicacy she is.
What he didn’t expect was to actually enjoy her company. Her intelligence and passion for art and history seducing him as much as her lovely body and face.
She swallows hard, trying to remember to breathe. She steps back, needing to put even a little distance between them. Her fear is not of him, but of herself.
Hoping her voice doesn’t quiver, she says, “Tom, perhaps I should rejoin Mr. Kidwell and my colleagues.”
“As you wish,” he replies, a sly little smirk still on his lips.
She finally felt a sense of relief when she returned to her apartment, shedding her heels and swapping her gown for comfortable pajama shorts and a t-shirt. Padding barefoot to her kitchen, she grabs the already opened bottle of Arbor Gold and pours herself a generous glass.
Plopping down on her sofa, she reflects on her evening.
With the crowd dwindling due to the lateness, finding Mr. Kidwell fortunately wasn’t difficult.
After praising her as 'exceptional,' Tom left with a softly spoken, "I'll be in touch."
Before they left the museum and as he drove her to her apartment, Mr. Kidwell peppered her with questions about Tom Bennett.
She attempted to reassure her boss by stating that Mr. Bennett needed time to select what other pieces to include in the sale.
Just before she got out of the car, he made it clear that her success or failure would impact her career.
Sipping her wine, she grabs her phone and searches "Tom Bennett," remembering that he has no social media.
Since the name Bennett isn’t that uncommon, her search brings up doctors, lawyers, and accountants, but nothing on a dangerously handsome wealthy man who makes her panties wet.
Giving up and checking the time, she heads to her bathroom to get ready for bed, glad that she only has one more day of work before a long holiday weekend.
“Drop me off a couple of blocks from the waterfront,” he tells his driver as he's picked up outside the museum.
He quickly takes his phone from his coat pocket and calls the private number of his most trusted associate. A male voice quickly answers.
“Yes, sir?”
“My plans have changed,” he begins, not wasting time with pleasantries. “I will return to the estate late tomorrow afternoon on the jet, and Thomas Bennett needs to disappear completely.”
He gives extensive orders over the next several minutes, ranging from needing the security camera footage from the museum deleted to having cleaners remove all traces of him from his city apartment.
“I’m sending you a name; she works for Kidwell Auction House,” he continues. “I need an address quickly and a complete background check done. I want her apartment broken into tomorrow night; make it look like a robbery. I’ll send you a list of items I want. Also, the lady will likely be reported missing within the next few days; any police investigation will need to be monitored.”
After the call, he leans his head back, contemplating the plans he has set in motion.
He's breaking many of his own rules with what he intends to do, but he employs well-paid individuals to conceal his activities.
He casually lights a cigarette after he exits the luxury car near the worst part of the city. He follows his heightened senses, letting them lead him. He sees dangerous-looking men standing on shadowy corners and hears fights and fucking in rundown buildings.
He fed just after sunset, but the strain of resisting his impulses for hours leaves him charged. His body feels exhilarated, almost bewitched, from being around her; he needs a release.
Vampires are curious creatures. He’s still very much a man, with a man’s desires, but he’s also a predatory monster, one that loves violence and needs blood.
And the little junior specialist has aroused both sides of him.
When her alarm goes off in her small apartment just outside the city and she gets out of bed to get ready for work, he is in a dark bedroom in a luxury high-rise apartment building.
Laela whimpers with each powerful thrust from him as he holds her bent over, bracing herself on the bed. He leaves the bedroom without saying a word and goes into the walk-in shower after cumming deep in her tight cunt.
A frenzied feeding last night in a blood-splattered alley was satisfying, but his cock still ached when he returned to his apartment.
Laela had waited for him to return, and within moments she was on her knees sucking him off. But her adoring face looking up at him only irritated him. He had to close his eyes and imagine a different face; pretend it was a different pussy he was fucking before he could cum.
Happy her workday is finished, she opens her umbrella before stepping out into the light rain. It's just a short walk to the station to catch the train home.
Only two blocks from her office, she recognizes the tall man under a black umbrella near an illegally parked, sleek luxury car with dark tinted windows. He gives her one of his smirky smiles as he flicks his cigarette into a puddle before approaching her.
“Tom, what a surprise,” she greets him. While he looked polished last night, today he's the wealthy bad boy. He's wearing a leather suit jacket over a dark shirt. His hair is a touch disheveled, and he has a little stubble on his face.
“Let’s have dinner,” he says, glancing towards the car.
She really doesn't know what to say. She hesitates as common sense and good judgment say no, but seeing him excites her, and the thought that he's been waiting for her makes her grin and get in the car with him.
As the car pulls into the rush hour traffic, Tom looks over to her with a wicked smirk on his face. “You really should have listened to your instincts about getting into a car with a man you barely know.”
Stunned, she can only stare at him, fear creeping up her spine.
Forcing out a nervous laugh, “What are you talking about?”
“Lykiri. Be calm.”
Her rising alarm dissipates under the intense gaze of his silvery-blue eyes and the sound of his voice in her head; her body relaxes against the leather seat.
He moves closer to her, his arm going around her shoulders as he grasps her hand. “No need to worry,” he tells her, his voice soothing her. “I enjoyed our time together so much that I’ve decided to take you home with me.”
“Oh,” she responds softly, her brow creasing in confusion.
Bringing her hand to his lips, he places soft kisses on her skin before pressing her palm against his cheek, holding it there as he leans his face into her warmth. “It’s a place where I can have all of the time I want with you, completely undisturbed.”
Frowning, part of her does not like what he is saying, but she simply feels no concern.
“Hmm, you’re being so good,” he murmurs to her. “I’m going to take such good care of you.”
Releasing her hand, he picks up her leather bag, placing it on her lap.
“Unlock your phone and give it to me.”
She immediately reaches into her bag, retrieves her phone, obediently enters her passcode, and hands it to him.
Tom observes her with a satisfied smile. He mastered his little mind tricks long ago, a gift that allows him to manipulate others with minimal effort.
“Close your eyes and sleep now.”
Keeping his arm around her shoulders, he pulls her close, letting her head rest against him as she sleeps. While he would rather amuse himself with her during the ride, he has other matters he needs to attend to.
He quickly scans through her texts, emails, and apps, his fingers moving deftly at an unnatural speed, memorizing all he sees, while the car makes slow progress in the heavy traffic. Once he finishes with her phone, he turns it off and effortlessly snaps it in half.
As the car speeds across a bridge, he flings the broken pieces of her phone out the window and into the river below.
Shortly before sunset, the car stops next to a small private jet. He gathers the still-sleeping woman into his arms, carrying her onto the plane where Laela awaits him, while his driver retrieves her belongings from the car.
Within moments, the plane takes off and sets a course north.
A few hours later, a car drives through the gates of a winding private road that goes further into the forested hills and mountains before arriving at a structure originally built hundreds of years ago.
One of the large double doors opens to allow his security guard to greet him.
Again, he takes her into his arms, carrying her inside, with Laela following behind.
"Are you taking her to your suite?" She asks, surprised.
“Yes, she stays with me,” he replies quickly, barely slowing his pace, forcing Laela to try and keep up with his long strides. “Make sure meals and drinks are prepared and available when I send for them. I don't want any interruptions.”
In his haste, he fails to notice the frown that forms on her face.
Entering his private master suite, he continues to his bed, gently laying her down, while the guard deposits her bag on a table before quietly leaving, closing the modern steel security door behind him.
After he removes her shoes, he stands beside the bed for a moment, just gazing at her sleep-softened features and the rise and fall of her chest with each breath she takes.
He proceeds to remove his own leather suit coat before unbuttoning his shirt, his entire being humming with the excitement he's been suppressing since he saw her, almost feeling like a child about to unwrap his present.
“Awake.”
That one softly spoken word in her head rouses her from the deep sleep she has been in. Her clouded mind initially assumes she's dreaming, a fantasy of feeling a lover's touch.
“Open your eyes.”
Something about the voice pierces through the sleepy haze, alarming her. Her eyes flutter open to realize her dream is a nightmarish reality. She’s lying on a massive four-poster bed in a strange room with Tom Bennett sitting beside her, his shirt unbuttoned and his hand resting on her hip.
Her eyes dart around frantically while her mind desperately tries to recall what happened.
“Did you have a nice nap?” He poses the question sweetly, almost innocently.
“Where am I? What have you done?” She demands after bolting upright.
He looks amused by her questions, a sly smile on his curved lips. “I’ve brought you to your new home,” he informs her.
Horrified by what he said, she tries to scramble across the bed, away from him. But his quick reflexes prevent her; his arm wraps around her waist, easily pulling her back.
“No, let go of me!” Panic surges through her, but he tightly hugs her to his chest, restraining her.
She stills, and her blood runs cold when she gazes up at his face. The skin around his eyes and his lips has darkened while his eyes almost shine, and he grins broadly at her, revealing sharp, inhuman fangs.
She flinches back, open-mouthed with shock. “Who, what are you?” Her voice comes out as a quivering whisper.
”What do I look like?”
Only one thing comes to mind, but she refuses to accept it. She shakes her head, “No.”
“Say it,” he urges.
Too terrified to speak, she can only stare at his changed face.
“Vampire,” he says, gazing into her wide eyes. “Yes, we do exist. We live amongst you.”
“I only went to the museum to pass the time,” he murmurs, the tip of his nose brushing against her skin. “Instead, I found you.”
Nuzzling her neck, feeling her pulse beneath his lips, he moans softly as he breathes in her provocative scent now mingled with fear.
‘Not yet,' he wills himself.
But his inflamed vampire senses push his resolve to the breaking point.
She starts to cry as he holds her tightly, nipping and sucking on her skin, leaving marks. He then uses his tongue to soothe her. His lips move up her neck to her mouth, his fangs lightly grazing her bottom lip before he runs his tongue over the minor wounds, lapping up the tiny droplets of her blood.
His body shudders around her; his hardening cock pressing against her. Then with a hiss, he forces himself away. Silently, he stares at her, terrifying her with a wicked smirk on his curved lips.
Her scent, her trembling body, and the taste of the ambrosia that flows through her veins ignite his bloodlust, weakening his self-control.
‘Don’t fight me.’
Releasing her, he shrugs his shirt off before grasping the zipper running up the back of her dress, pulling it down, and baring her back.
She cries out as he undresses her, but her body refuses to try and stop him. She feels helpless and bewildered as he rids her of every bit of clothing, pushing her down on her back, before slipping his trousers and boxers off in one fluid motion.
She's dismayed by the lack of control over her own body. “What did you do to me?”
Leaning over, he grabs her wrists, pinning them to the bed on either side of her head as he swings a slender leg over her body, straddling her hips.
Relishing the warmth of her body beneath his haunches and his balls resting heavy on her belly, he explains that vampires have a talent for bending someone to their will. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself trying to fight me.”
He had intended to take his time, toying with her body before fucking her, but he knows he won’t be able to wait much longer. He pauses over her, savoring the sight of her naked and crying, her body trembling beneath him as he releases his hold on her wrists.
He runs his big hands along her delicate skin, up over her ribs to squeeze her breasts. “So lovely,” he murmurs, pawing at her firm mounds, loving the way they fill his hands.
She clenches her eyes shut as he rolls and tugs her nipples with his fingers, teasing them to hardened peaks to her horror.
He chuckles at her obvious shame.
“Shh, I need you to listen to me,” he tells her. “I’m going to be kind and give you a choice.”
She tries hard to stifle her cries.
“I know I’ve frightened you,” he says softly, his voice velvety smooth. “I can leave you like this, terrified, yet unable to resist me, or I can take away the fear.”
Her shocked mind struggles to understand what he means, still overcome by his changed face and fangs while he continues to play with her tits.
“No fear, only pleasure,” he murmurs. “I can make our first time wonderful. I can fuck you any way I want and make you love it.”
A fresh wave of tears flows as he grins down at her, baring his fangs.
“Can’t decide?” He teasingly asks her. “Would you like me to decide for you?”
He murmurs, pretending to think for a moment, "Decisions, decisions."
‘No fear.’
He watches as her body relaxes; calmness comes over her as she stops crying.
‘You want this; you want me.’
He's seen her eyes go from being terrified to calm, and now they're filled with desire.
He lowers his head to her breast, taking her pebbled peak into his mouth.
Her hand moves of its own volition to grasp the back of his neck, holding him to her as he sucks and licks one nipple while he teases his thumb over the other, making her sigh with pleasure.
Without warning, he fastens his mouth over her areola and pierces her skin slightly with his fangs.
Her eyes snap open, gasping from the sensation. Her surprised gaze meets his heated one, as she can feel him drawing her blood into his mouth and drinking from her breast.
The taste of her blood is almost indescribable to him—a succulent nectar. It would be so easy to lose himself, but his mind fights his bloodlust, forcing his mouth to release her before taking too much.
“Look at me,” he orders her, his voice straining with his arousal.
His intense stare is almost hypnotic to her, his eyes an unnatural hue, smoldering with dark desire. His lean body resembles a marble statue, finely sculpted and pale. A shudder goes through her as her gaze falls to his veiny, swollen cock jutting out from his groin.
Heat pools deep in her belly at the sight of him.
Sliding down her body, he positions himself between her legs. Pushing her thighs wide, he bares her pussy to him. “Keep your eyes open,” he tells her before licking his fingers and pressing them against her clit. “I want to see your pretty eyes while I fuck you.”
He teases her clit, making her wetter. Then he inserts a long, slender finger in her, soon adding a second, pumping them smoothly inside her walls.
When he can’t ignore his throbbing cock any longer, he abruptly withdraws his hand, licking his slick-coated fingers, relishing her taste.
She hums with pleasure as he slides his hard length through her folds, coating himself in her wetness.
He slowly begins to push himself inside of her, pausing to lean forward, grabbing her wrists again, pinning them to the bed.
She spreads her legs wider, bending them as he fills her inch by inch, loving the delicious stretch she feels.
“Shh, almost there.”
He gazes down at her, her full lips parted, his cock fully sheathed within her. “Feel how deep I am?”
"Yes," she says with a breathy moan, her hands gripping his slim hips.
Pulling back, he almost withdraws completely before his slim hips drive forward slowly, filling her again. He quickly finds a steady rhythm of slow, deep strokes, while she clings to him and her hips lift to meet his thrusts.
“Fuck, your cunt is tight around me.”
"Tell me what you want," he demands.
'Mmm, fuck me; please fuck me," she begs.
Adjusting his body slightly, he increases his pace, rocking his hips into her more forcefully. Each forceful thrust, the new angle stimulates her nerves, causing her breaths to quicken and become muffled.
Before long she feels the tightening begin deep in her core, and soon she is trembling and clenching around him as she cries out. He continues to fuck her hard through her climax until he gives in to his own release, grunting as his body shudders, twitching, and spilling inside her.
After what seems like only a brief moment of rest for her, he effortlessly flips her onto her stomach, his harsh grip on her hips yanking her to her knees. Maneuvering himself behind her, he shoves the long length of his still hard cock back into her pussy in one deep plunge.
“Nowhere near done with you yet,” he says darkly, immediately setting a furious pace, slamming his pelvis against her again and again.
A firm hand on her back pushes her shoulders back down when she tries to rise to her hands and knees. All she can do is grip the covers in her fists as he roughly uses her body. The room fills with the lewd sounds of hard fucking, skin hitting skin, wet squelches from her juices and his cum, her moans, and his animalistic grunts of pleasure.
His balls repeatedly smack her clit with each deep thrust, causing her to whimper. She barely registers the change in his voice, now a low rumble when he praises her for being a “good girl, taking his cock so well.”
Sliding his hands along her soft skin, he palms her tits, raising her until her back presses against the hard planes of his chest, his hips continuing to pound into her. Her head lolls back against his shoulder when his fingers drift between her legs to rub her clit, while his other hand rolls her nipple.
His second release builds, and he forces her to peak again, feeling the spasms go through her body, her cunt contracting around his shaft. As he fucks her through her intense climax, he lets himself go, sinking his fangs into her neck. Pulling the blood from her, he swallows greedily while he cums hard inside her cunt.
A strangled scream is torn from her throat along with her blood. Overwhelmed by the shattering orgasm exploding in her belly and the dizzying euphoria of him feeding from her, her vision fades to black while in his arms.
summary | when you were but four years old, your mother had declared jacaerys as her heir, despite the fact that you were born first. in truth, it was a measure born of love; she knew you, with your striking silver locks and lilac eyes—her sweet daughter—would be safe, whilst her sons would not.
tags | FLUFF, FLUFF, targaryen incest, reader is described to have silver hair and lilac eyes (that's all), very very soft aemond, and after fluff comes ANGST, ANGST and more ANGST, also reader is a sensitive queen.
a/n | wrote this in 2 days 💪, and there will DEFINITELY be a PART 2
likes, comments, reblogs are always appreciated ✨
𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 — 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 2 — 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 3
Duty and shame. These were the threads from which you were woven—not love, nor passion, but the heavy fabric of obligation and regret.
The firstborn of Rhaenyra Targaryen came into the world not as a son with dark hair and brown eyes, but as a daughter, blessed with ethereal lilac eyes that mirrored her mother's lineage and the shining silver curls that heralded her Velaryon heritage.
Laenor Velaryon and Rhaenyra Targaryen had fulfilled their solemn duty to conceive an heir. For Rhaenyra, each night was steeped in a prayerful longing to erase the memory of her wedding night—a night marked by discomfort and tears. The truth was evident to all: Laenor's heart was not inclined towards her nor any woman; his desires lay with men. Yet, their obligation demanded they play their parts.
After their hurried nuptials in a clandestine ceremony, they found themselves confined within a chamber, the weight of expectation pressing down upon them. When the act was done, the silence that enveloped them was shattered by Laenor's grief; he collapsed into Rhaenyra’s arms, his body wracked with sobs as he mourned the loss of his beloved, wishing loudly that he could be “normal.” It was in that moment, as she held him close, that the young princess, overwhelmed by the weight of her fate, found herself wishing she could shed her identity, to become someone else entirely.
But when Rhaenyra beheld her daughter for the first time, it was as if the world shifted. A spark of profound love ignited in her heart, banishing the shame that had once gnawed at her spirit during her pregnancy and the painful hours of labor. There had been moments when she had cursed the very life growing within her, moments steeped in bitterness toward the infant she carried. Yet now, cradling her sweet babe—her precious dragon treasure—Rhaenyra understood that she would willingly endure a thousand painful pregnancies for this singular joy.
What a delight you were, a soothing balm for Rhaenyra amidst the swirling intrigues of King’s Landing. It was your voice that first captivated her heart, from the moment your tiny lips could form sounds, you babbled with delight, engaging your mother in joyous conversations, even though she could scarcely grasp what you were saying. Your smiles were a sunbeam that brightened her darkest days; the first time you graced her with a radiant smile, it became a memory she would hold dear until the end of her days.
But as the tides of fate turned, life grew more intricate. Once Rhaenyra and Laenor fulfilled the sacred duty of securing an heir, they were free to pursue their pleasures separately, allowing Rhaenyra to take Harwin Strong into her bed. To Rhaenyra, her time with Harwin had never felt like a mistake, nor the first child they conceived together —Jacaerys Velaryon.
Yet, his hair—dark as the raven's wing— and eyes — brown as the earth—set him apart from Rhaenyra’s lineage, with none of her ethereal silver locks or striking violet eyes. Instead, he bore the unmistakable mark of his mother’s sworn protector, a truth whispered in the shadows of the Red Keep, even as Laenor publicly embraced him as his true son and the rightful heir of Driftmark.
Alas, Rhaenyra found herself repeating the same error. Another son came forth from her union with Harwin—a second boy with hair as dark as night and eyes of rich brown. Lucerys Velaryon. Whispers began to flutter through the court, dark murmurs and scornful jibes accusing her children of being bastards. It was the painful truth, yet Rhaenyra, fiercely protective as any mother, longed for her sons to live free from the burdens of her choices.
And so, Rhaenyra was faced with the most harrowing decision of her life, a choice that would weigh upon her heart for years to come. When you were but four years old, she declared Jacaerys as her heir, despite the fact that you were born first, and had Laenor declare Lucerys the heir of Driftmark. In truth, it was a measure born of love; she knew you, with your striking silver locks and lilac eyes—her sweet daughter—would be safe, while Jace and Luke would forever need her protection in a world that could be mercilessly unforgiving.
In the quiet confines of the Red Keep, a yawning silence enveloped the lesson, a silence only broken by the steady, droning voice of Septa Agertha. As a ten-year-old princess, you found your patience with such tedium wearing thin, particularly in the tedious recitation of the Faith of the Seven—each doctrine blurring into the next, sapping your spirit with every word.
Beside you, your beloved aunt Helaena sat in her own world, her delicate hands guiding the needle in and out of the fabric, her gaze distant as though the colors and threads offered more solace than the dull teachings of the Sept. You could see it in her eyes; the spark of interest had flickered away, leaving a solemn stillness where interest once danced.
Embroidery, you thought, was a most tiresome endeavor—how many times had you pricked your own fingers accidentally? It seemed the needle was always too eager, as if it shared your disdain for the task at hand. Your heart longed for the vibrant strokes of paint on canvas, the joyful freedom of creation, but Septa Agertha had sternly deemed such messiness unfit for a princess of House Targaryen.
"Focus, my princess," Septa Agertha’s voice broke through your wandering thoughts, pulling you back from your reverie. In that moment, you wished for nothing more than a dragon's flight, high above the clouds, far from the confines of the castle and the constraints of your title.
You glanced at your Septa, your expression hesitant as you mustered the courage to speak. “Septa Agertha,” you began, your tone dipped in respect, “mayhaps I might be excused to inquire if my mother has finished her labor?”
The Septa regarded you with a mixture of exasperation and fondness; her demeanor softened as you widened your eyes and pouted just enough to tug at her heartstrings. “Very well, my princess,” she relented with a heavy sigh, “our lesson shall conclude for today.”
A joyful smile bloomed on your face, and you offered a swift, sincere thank you, excitement bubbling within you. Leaning over, you pressed a quick kiss on Helaena’s cheek—a fleeting farewell—before darting toward the door. Your sworn sword, Ser Rowan, steadfast and vigilant, attempted to match your youthful enthusiasm, but your spirit was unbridled and wild, leaving him struggling to keep up.
You raced breathlessly down the corridor, your heart racing with exhilaration, until you reached your mother’s solar. As you reached for the door’s latch, you hesitated, hearing the comforting jingle of Ser Rowan's armor behind you. With a bashful grin, you withdrew your hand, glancing back to find him nearing, his breath coming in measured puffs as he opened the door with a respectful bow.
But as you stepped into the warm chamber, your excitement began to wane. A sudden twinge gripped your young heart at the sight of nearly everyone gathered within your mother’s solar, unbidden thoughts swirling as to why you had not been summoned.
Yet those troubling questions were swiftly banished as you cast your gaze upon your mother, weary and glistening with the exertion of childbirth. Ignoring the soft coos of the newborn cradled in your father’s arms, you dashed toward Rhaenyra, laying your small hand against her damp cheek. “Mother, are you well?” you asked, concern threading through your words.
A tender smile softened Rhaenyra’s features at your worry, and she grasped your hand gently, kissing your palm in a soothing gesture. “I am better now that you are here,” she replied, her voice warm like the sun breaking through the clouds.
You turned at the sound of your brother Luke's voice, a warm smile stretched across his face. "We selected an egg for the babe, and for you as well, sister," he announced, his eyes bright with excitement.
"Ahh," your mother’s voice came softly from your side, laced with affection, "Those look perfect indeed."
"I let Luke choose," Jace declared with a hint of pride.
With a nod and a grin, Luke acknowledged his brother's words, "Thank you, Jace."
"Not every day an egg leaves the Dragonpit, Princess," Ser Harwin Strong intoned, his hands clasped thoughtfully before him. "I deemed it fit to escort the lads."
Rhaenyra turned to him, her voice gentle, "Laenor and I thank you, Commander." Her gaze shifted slowly to you, warmth radiating from her eyes. "What do you think, my love?"
Your eyes were drawn to the two shimmering eggs nestled snugly in the hatching pot. You should have felt joy, perhaps excitement, yet a shadow of sadness draped over your young heart. "Why was I not included?"
An uneasy silence fell over the chamber, heavy and palpable. Ser Harwin broke it first, offering a sympathetic smile, “You were busy with your lessons, princess. We did not wish to disturb you.”
"But surely Jace and Luke were occupied with their dragon lessons as well," you replied in a soft voice, the undertone of hurt evident in your words.
Rhaenyra immediately noticed the glimmer of tears pooling in your lilac eyes and the tremble of your lips, as she rushed to uplift your spirits. "Look, my love, it is purple, your favorite color."
No sooner had Rhaenyra spoken than Laenor interjected enthusiastically, “I have a good feeling about this one, my darling. You know what they say—third time’s the charm.”
Third. This was to be your third dragon egg. The first, a vibrant orange, had turned to stone in your cradle, a cruel fate none could have foreseen. The second, a deep crimson egg, had been bestowed upon you with the birth of Luke, yet it too remained unhatched. As you gazed at the violet egg in the pot, hope eluded you, replaced instead by the grim certainty that this egg too would not awaken.
“Now I am certain you would like to meet your new brother,” Rhaenyra murmured, wrapping an affectionate arm around you.
“A boy?” you whispered, your eyes lifting to seek the babe cradled in your father’s arms.
“Yes, my love.”
“Oh.”
Rhaenyra could instantly see the disappointment which weighed heavy on your features at the prospect of yet another brother, and it became ever clearer in your silence. Rather than springing toward your father, you chose instead to nestle deeper into your mother’s embrace, seeking comfort in her warmth.
As you reclined against your mother’s side, you gazed at Ser Harwin, who now cradled your newborn brother, Joffrey. At merely ten summers, you could discern the affection in Ser Harwin's gaze as he looked at Joffrey—a tender look reminiscent of the affection he often bestowed upon your mother. It was a gaze filled with adoration, one he also offered to your other brothers, yet curiously, yet it never seemed to touch you. How curious this felt, a wonder mixed with a hint of sorrow.
When your father ushered your brothers from the chamber, it left a stillness that enveloped you, your mother, Ser Harwin, and the tiny new life nestled in his arms.
“Mayhaps you should return to your lessons now, my love,” Rhaenyra said, her voice soft and melodic, turning her gentle gaze towards you.
A twinge of sorrow flared within you once again, and you glanced up at her, barely able to protest. “But—I just arrived,” you murmured, the longing in your tone betraying your desire to remain by her side.
Ser Harwin, ever the loyal knight, defended your mother, answering with a reassuring tone, “I am certain it is merely that your mother seeks rest, my princess.”
Reluctantly, you eased away from your mother’s embrace, turning slightly so she wouldn’t witness the tears that threatened to spill from your eyes. “I’ll go find Helaena,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath.
You heard her sigh, a sound laced with affection and understanding. Then, you felt her hand encircle your wrist, drawing you back to her warm side. She pressed a firm kiss to your forehead, her love wrapping around you like a cloak. “If you wish to keep me company whilst I rest, I shall never protest, my treasure.”
And so, you settled back against her, safe and cherished, while Ser Harwin gently rocked Joffrey to sleep. Your mother cast the same tender look upon him that Ser Harwin had, her eyes shimmering with a light of love—a look you noticed she had never bestowed upon your father. With this curious thought lingering in your mind, you surrendered to the soothing comfort of your mother's embrace, drifting gently into a blissful slumber for an impromptu nap.
“This one has rings...and two pairs of legs on each,” Helaena whispered, her voice a gentle hum as she held a slithering black insect close to her face, its glossy body glinting in the soft light.
“That makes two hundred and forty,” she concluded, her gaze fixed on the peculiar creature, while you regarded it with wide, curious eyes.
“Yes, indeed,” the Queen murmured thoughtfully from her perch beside Helaena.
You had awoken to find your mother still lost in slumber after drifting off beside her. With utmost care, you slipped away from her warm embrace, seeking out Helaena as you waited for the boys to finish their dragon lessons — and by boys, of course, you really meant Aemond.
“It has eyes...though...I don't believe it can see,” Helaena continued, bringing the strange creature nearer to you. Instinctively, you leaned back, wary of its closeness.
“And why is that so, do you think?" Queen Alicent inquired, her brow cocked in gentle curiosity.
Helaena merely shook her head, a mystique in her expression. “Some things lie beyond our understanding.”
“I suppose you are right,” Queen Alicent replied in a soft tone, a touch of wisdom in her words. “Some things simply are.”
"That sounds quite scary," you ventured, finally chiming in.
Both heads turned to your direction, and Helaena regarded you with a gentle curiosity. "Why do you say that?"
You offered a slight shrug, your finger gliding over the peculiar, scaly texture of the insect before you. "I suppose I’d feel so helpless, not being able to see anything. It would be a sad too, not to behold colors or shapes."
Queen Alicent regarded you with a softened gaze, her expression a mixture of contemplation and warmth. While her heart held a shadow of disdain for your mother, Princess Rhaenyra, and your brothers, who bore the stigma of bastardy, she recognized the innocence in you. A precious blend of Targaryen and Velaryon blood, you were a vision of purity akin to a delicate flower springing forth amidst thorns. It certainly didn't hurt that your sweetness was reminiscent of the ripest strawberry tart.
"Well, since it has never encountered colors or shapes, my dear princess, it has no reason to feel sad," she said softly.
Your brow furrowed, the Queen's words weaving through your mind like threads of a tapestry, before a radiant smile broke forth on your cherubic face in understanding.
The calm of the Queen's solar shattered abruptly as the heavy door swung open, revealing Aemond, forcibly ushered inside by a stern Kingsguard. All eyes, filled with concern, turned toward the commotion, “Your Grace.”
Alicent sprang to her feet, her voice laced with accusation. “Aemond. What have you done?”
You trailed closely behind the Queen, keeping a respectful distance as she unleashed her frustration upon Aemond, who stood there, cloaked in ash from head to toe. “After how many times you've been warned, must I have you confined to your chambers?!"
Your heart twisted painfully at the sight of your friend’s distressed expression. “They made me do it!" he pleaded, desperation lacing his tone.
"As if you needed encouragement," Queen Alicent rebuked him, her hands firm upon his shoulders. “Your obsession with those beasts goes beyond understanding."
“They gave me a pig!” Aemond’s voice rose, indignation spilling forth, and you flinched at the raw hurt echoing in his words.
Alicent paused, her brow furrowing in confusion. “A what?”
He turned his gaze away from his mother, the shame evident, but when his violet eyes fell upon you, they swiftly darted back, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his features. “They said it was a dragon… but it was a pig.”
The stern lines of the Queen’s face softened, and she spoke with conviction. “You will have a dragon one day. I know it."
“They all laughed at me,” Aemond murmured, his sorrow palpable in the air.
You yearned to bridge the distance and offer solace, for in that moment, you understood his pain more profoundly than anyone else in the room. Yet, you recognized that he needed his mother’s embrace more than your support. As Alicent enveloped Aemond in a tight hug, his violet gaze met yours once more, and all you could offer him was an understanding look, a silent promise that you would be there when he needed you.
As the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting amber rays that danced across the ornate shelves of the Red Keep’s library, you found yourself seated beside your uncle, who had only just tidied himself after that unpleasant encounter. His eyes remained fixed on the pages of the book detailing Aegon's Conquest, but the tense silence between you weighed heavily in the air.
The heavy silence lingered, thickening the air around you. Restlessly, you glanced up at your uncle and whispered, "I am truly sorry."
He did not lift his gaze from the book, his tone icy as he replied, "Why do you say you’re sorry? You bear no blame in this."
Your heart ached for him, as you said softly, "I am sorry for what happened, for the pain it brought upon you. I will speak to my brothers about their behavior, I promise."
Aemond’s expression hardened, his lips pressing together in frustration. "I don't need you to save me, niece," he retorted, the sharpness of his words echoing in the quiet library.
Your heart sank, and you instinctively dropped your gaze. You could sense his turmoil; and you understood the pain and inferiority he was feeling. You had only wished to help, yet somehow, your kindness seemed to have been misread. You recognized when your presence was unwelcome, so with a small, resigned 'alright,' you began to rise from your seat, intending to leave him in peace.
Yet just as you turned, Aemond’s head snapped up, a wave of guilt crashing over him. He realized harshly that he had been unfair to you—his darling niece who was merely being her sweet, caring self. In a swift motion, he reached out for your hand, "Wait," his voice softer this time, “I did not mean to be cruel. I...I apologize.”
A warm smile crept across your face as you met his earnest eyes. “I accept your apology, uncle." You furrowed your brows playfully, a hint of mischief in your voice. "Come with me."
Before he could protest, your fingers intertwined, and you pulled him along with a gentle urgency. Aemond, caught off guard, found himself captivated by the warmth and softness of your hand in his. In the innocence of your youth, holding hands and being with each other everyday all day had felt natural, but with each passing day, as you both grew older, the simple act took on an air of unspoken indecency. Still, he let himself be led, wrapped in the comfort that his niece eagerly offered.
Aemond hesitated as you guided him into your chambers, pausing at the threshold, uncertainty written on his brow. However, any tension was quickly vanquished as you drew him inside. Your quarters brimmed with the elegance one might associate with a princess; the canopy bed was adorned with delicate pink linens and plump pillows, while vases scattered throughout the room overflowed with a lush assortment of pink and purple roses, their fragrance sweetening the air.
Yet, it was the object resting on the small table before the crackling fireplace that truly seized Aemond's attention. Nestled atop the table was a warming pot, housing a radiant violet dragon egg that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. "A dragon egg," he murmured, his fascination palpable.
You guided Aemond to kneel beside the table, where the two of you were drawn into the stillness of the moment. With a tender whisper, you began to recount the story behind the egg. "My brothers retrieved it when they sought an egg for my newest brother, Joffrey."
"Joffrey?" Aemond asked, a hint of skepticism lacing his tone as he met your gaze, "That name sounds far from Targaryen."
Your focus remained on the egg, brushing aside his remark. After a moment of contemplation, you finally shared the weight that had settled in your heart. "I fear it won't hatch."
Aemond's reaction was immediate; his head snapped towards you, irritation flickering in his eyes. "Do not speak such things."
"It is but my opinion, Aemond," you replied gently, undeterred by his sharpness. You understood that his frustration was not truly aimed at you; it never was.
“Why do you believe such a thing?” His voice softened, a hint of curiosity threading through his concern.
You averted your gaze, feeling the weight of his scrutiny. “It is foolish,” you murmured, hesitant to reveal the depth of your fears.
“And so?” he pressed, his intensity unyielding.
Drawing a steadying breath, you finally revealed your heart. “In my mind, the egg shall only hatch if I do not care for it deeply.”
Aemond’s brow furrowed, understanding dawning. “So, you do care, then?”
“No, I do not!” you insisted too quickly, casting a furtive glance at the egg as if it had heard Aemond's words.
Frustration etched across Aemond’s features, he clenched his fists tightly. “It is unfair that your brothers possess dragons while we remain without, since they are—”
“What?” you interjected softly, concern lacing your tone. “They are what?”
Your earnest look tugged at the fragile threads of his heart. He couldn’t assume you were unaware of the whispers that painted your brothers in shadows, nor could he believe you were deaf to the harsh truths woven through courtly gossip. Yet, he would never voice those words to you. Instead, he muttered grudgingly, “Not as special as us.”
A small pout formed on your lips, drawing his attention away from the dragon egg that lay neglected between you. “You do understand that it was most likely Aegon who orchestrated that prank, yes?” you pressed, your voice laced with a gentle resolve.
Aemond scoffed and turned away, the weight of your words lingering in the air like an unwelcome specter. “Are you truly defending them?” he challenged, though he felt the shake of his conviction.
“No, Aemond,” you replied, your voice as sweet as summer rain, “What my brothers did was wrong. But more often than not, you never hold Aegon accountable, despite him being the leader of their little group.”
His back remained turned to you, pride keeping him rooted as he mulled over your words. Deep down, he recognized the truth in them, though he loathed to concede, for Aegon was his elder brother. He longed for the bond that appeared so effortless between you and your siblings, and it felt far more convenient to direct his ire toward them instead.
As Aemond continued to brood, you glided closer, resting your chin on his shoulder, your presence as warm as the sun’s rays. “If my egg should hatch, perhaps we could share the dragon?” you suggested brightly, seeking to lift his spirits.
He let out a disdainful scoff, turning to face you so closely that your noses nearly brushed. “Now, that is simply absurd.”
“Aemond,” you admonished softly, undeterred.
“Never has there been a dragon with two riders,” he rebutted gloomily, his voice laced with skepticism.
“So we would be the first,” you retorted, rising to your feet with animated gestures. “There must always be a first, for only then can things be normalized. Just wait and see, Aemond—one day, a Targaryen will claim more than one dragon!”
He regarded you with an unreadable expression and replied matter-of-factly, “That is entirely selfish, niece.”
You huffed in exasperation, settling back down beside him, your patience wearing thin. At moments like this, Aemond’s stubbornness made him seem dreadfully dull. “You fail to see the vision, uncle."
It was curious how swiftly the tides of life could turn. You had often confided in your mother about your aversion to change, and her response was always the same: "Change is inevitable, my love." You were not certain what that meant, but you understood now, as the world around you shifted in the blink of an eye. The sudden sadness that gripped your heart was puzzling, especially since you were so young. Just like that, you had been whisked away from the familiar streets of King’s Landing to the distant shores of Dragonstone, all because of your mother’s choices, which felt like a shadow beyond your grasp.
Dragonstone loomed before you, ominous and strange. You had never set foot on its rugged shores, but a sense of dread weighed heavy in your chest, telling you you would despise it here. The library would be smaller, you thought—if Dragonstone even had one at all—and the gardens could not possibly rival those sprawling ones in the Red Keep. Most troubling of all was the thought of being separated from Helaena and Aemond.
Helaena, your sweet aunt, sometimes it felt as though you could almost imagine her as your sister. Though her peculiar musings often escaped your understanding, it was her delightful oddities that you cherished most, setting her apart from all the other court ladies.
And Aemond—nothing in this vast world could rival the bond you shared with your uncle. You both understood one another in a way that few could fathom. The two dragonless Targaryens united by the same unspoken grief, felt the weight of their inferiority hanging over them like a storm cloud. Yet within that shared pain grew a deep-rooted connection. Aemond was your anchor in a world that often felt lonely and overwhelming. With him, you never felt truly isolated; you were never alone.
As the time arrived for your departure, Aemond attempted to mask his feelings with indifference, but you could see beyond his brave facade. The glimmer of tears in his violet eyes and the strength of his embrace told you everything: he would miss you just as fiercely as you would miss him.
Once again, the sea had darkened, mirroring the heaviness in your heart. The next time the two of you would gather would be under the shadow of sorrow. Your Aunt Laena had passed, and your family was bound for Driftmark to honor her memory. Despite having never met her, a sharp ache coursed through you, all the more intense for the grief etched across your father’s face. Laena had been his twin, after all. Then there was the loss of Ser Harwin Strong as well, which weighed heavily on your mother and brothers. Yet, for reasons you couldn’t quite grasp, your own heart felt strangely untouched by sadness.
The funeral had drawn to a close. Your mother gently encouraged you and Jace to offer words of comfort to your cousins, Baela and Rhaena. But Jace spoke without thinking, a clumsy remark about how you all should have been at Harrenhal instead of Driftmark. You felt a rush of frustration rising in your throat, longing to assert that his pain didn’t lessen the tragedy of the day. After all, he was only voicing his own hurt.
With a quiet huff, you had marched away in silence, finding your perch beside a jagged stone wall, where you could observe your father from a distance. He stood in the shallows of the ocean, the waves lapping at his knees, as if being closer to Laena might ease the sorrow that weighed upon his heart. It pained you to witness him so downcast; the truth was, you had always thought your father impervious to sadness, having never seen his face devoid of a smile before this moment.
“How fares Dragonstone?”
A smile began to bloom on your lips at the familiar sound of Aemond's voice, bringing warmth to your gloomy thoughts.
"It is cold and windy," you replied quietly, shifting your gaze toward him.
Aemond paused, taking in the sight of you. It had been merely weeks since you left the Red Keep, yet in your absence, the loneliness had curled around him like a thick fog. Seeing you now felt like sunlight piercing through gray clouds after a long storm. He regarded you for a moment longer before nodding subtly toward your brothers. "My condolences for Ser Harwin. I assume that is what had your brothers weeping."
“The bond between him and my brothers was indeed strong,” you admitted, a furrow forming in your brow as Aemond stifled a laugh with a cough. “I am sad he has passed, just as I mourn Aunt Laena. But the sorrows I feel mostly arise from witnessing the devastation their losses have cast upon my mother and father.”
Your lilac eyes shifted back toward your father, worry etched across your youthful features. You bit your lip, glancing at the water below. Surely it had turned icy, “I wish I could help him, to see him smile once more. But I’m not sure what to say.”
This was a curious moment for Aemond. Throughout his life, he had cherished you as his dearest friend, his beloved niece. Yet, recently, he began to view you in a new light—the way your silver curls captured the sunlight, glowing as if spun from starlight, or how every gown you wore magnified the beauty of your lilac eyes.
He licked his dry lips and spoke gently, “I reckon there’s little you could say that would ease his pain. Instead, find a way to show him you stand with him. That might be enough.”
You nodded thoughtfully at Aemond's words, your gaze drifting toward Rhaena and Baela. "I feel so awful," you confessed, your voice scarcely above a whisper. "I could never imagine losing my mother."
"Me neither," Aemond replied softly.
After a moment of silence, you added, "I think I would die from the heartbreak." You could sense Aemond’s eyes upon you, a question hanging unspoken in the air between you. A small sigh escaped your lips as you said, "It didn’t hatch, if that’s what you were thinking?"
From the corner of your eye, you noticed Aemond's head lower slightly. "Oh," he murmured, disappointment lacing his tone.
You lifted your chin, trying to display strength despite the disappointment gnawing at your heart. "I suspect I am not meant for a dragon," you asserted, forcing a brave smile.
"Don’t say that," Aemond insisted, his voice firm yet gentle.
Turning to face him, you allowed your hopelessness to seep through your facade. "Three times, Aemond. Three times my egg has failed to hatch."
"There are many unclaimed dragons on Dragonstone," Aemond suggested with a hint of resolve. "Perhaps you could try with them?"
"At the risk of my life?" you replied, arching an eyebrow at him. But then, your lips curled into a playful smile as you reached out to take Aemond's hand in yours. "But really, why would I seek a bond with a dragon when my bond with you is far more precious to me?"
Your words made Aemond’s cheeks flush a deep crimson, his heart thudding like the wings of a dragon. Though you seemed to find comfort in his friendship over the absence of a dragon, Aemond couldn't shake the feeling of urgency. If a dragon was to be claimed, it would be up to him—the time had come, for both of your sakes.
He remembered that at this very moment, there was the legendary Vhagar, unclaimed and free, somewhere on the island, waiting for someone worthy to forge a bond with her. And he would do it in your honour.
You were jolted awake from your slumber, the sound of your name ringing insistently in your ears as someone gently shook your shoulders.
Opening your eyes with heavy lids, you frowned to see Jace’s eager face hovering over you, his hands gripping your shoulders.
“Jace, what is it?” you mumbled, pushing him away with tired reluctance as you struggled to sit up.
“Vhagar has been stolen! We must find out who did it!” he exclaimed, his voice bubbling with urgency as he tugged at you to rise from your bed.
“We?” you replied slowly, letting the word hang in the air. Your gaze drifted past him, landing on Luke, Baela, and Rhaena, who stood ready to storm out.
You groaned and collapsed back into your pillows, muffling your voice as you protested, “Can this not wait until the sun graces the sky?”
Once more, Jace insisted, pulling you upright, even as you felt something being slipped onto your feet. You turned your bleary gaze to see Luke kneeling beside you, fastening your boots with surprising urgency.
“No time for that! We needed a person of age to accompany us,” Jace declared, lifting you to your feet with determined hands.
You froze in place, fixing him with a look that was a blend of disbelief and exasperation. “Jace... I’m ten, and you’re nine.”
Yet your protest went unheard as Jace and Luke eagerly dragged you through the castle’s dim corridors, Baela and Rhaena leading the way with purpose. A terrible knot of dread twisted in your stomach, and you murmured under your breath, “Perhaps we could find a guard.”
“That would take far too long,” Rhaena replied sharply, her steps firm as the twins guided you deeper into the shadowy tunnels beneath the castle.
Your eyes widened in disbelief, and your mouth gaped open as you caught sight of Aemond standing before you, his hair tousled and a cocky smirk dancing on his lips.
“It’s him,” Baela exclaimed, realization dawning on her.
Aemond's smirk widened, and he drawled, “It’s me.”
“Vhagar is my mother’s dragon,” Rhaena said, her voice trembling with indignation.
“Your mother’s dead. And Vhagar has a new rider now,” Aemond shot back, his words sharp as a dagger. You flinched at the cruelty woven into his tone.
“You claimed Vhagar?” you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath. Aemond’s gaze met yours, filled with an expectation of pride, but instead, he found only shock and hurt reflected in your eyes.
But before you could gather your thoughts, Rhaena’s voice pierced the air, filled with anger, “She was mine to claim!”
“Then you should’ve claimed her!” Aemond roared, his voice echoing through the tunnel. “Perhaps your cousins can find you a pig to ride. That would suit you better!”
Disgust twisted your features at Aemond’s taunts, yet your attention shifted as you saw Rhaena charging toward him. “Rhaena, wait!” you cried out, but it was too late.
In a heartbeat, Rhaena slammed into Aemond, pushing him with all her might. In response, he shoved her to the ground, and the chaos spiraled out of control. Everything happened so swiftly that you barely registered Baela darting past you until the sharp crack of her fist meeting Aemond’s cheek rang in your ears. He retaliated in an instant.
“Come at me again and I’ll feed you to my dragon!” Aemond roared, fury lighting up his features.
A gasp escaped your lips as you instinctively shouted, “Aemond!”
“She hit me first!” Aemond yelled back, his frustration spilling out around them like wildfire.
Just then, you felt a rush behind you as Jace charged forward, his own fury ignited. He struck Aemond squarely on the nose. In the blink of an eye, the fight erupted around you, with Jace, Luke, Rhaena, and Baela striking Aemond from every side.
It was only when you felt that surge of panic return to your mind and body that you tore yourself away from your stunned silence, sprinting toward the melee. “Stop it! All of you, stop!” you cried, your voice rising above the clamor.
But your pleas fell on deaf ears as the thrashing continued. In the fray, Jace’s elbow inadvertently crashed into your face, sending you spiraling toward the stone wall. Your head thudded sharply against the rough surface, pain blooming as darkness threatened to close in.
Time seemed to slow, and suddenly, the fighting ceased. Jace’s wide eyes met yours, filled with shock. “I—I didn’t mean to,” he stammered, guilt clouding his features.
Through the ringing in your ears, you attempted to open your eyes, focusing on the concern etched on your brother's face. “I know you didn’t mean to, Jace,” you murmured, your voice a fragile whisper.
Yet the fury of the confrontation did not relent; the struggle surrounding Aemond grew more fierce, spurred on by your injury. As blood trickled down your forehead, thick and unwelcome, Aemond's anger erupted. “You hurt her!” he roared, his voice laced with venom.
A throbbing pain radiated through your skull, swelling with every clash of voices and yells. Gritting your teeth against the discomfort, you finally opened your eyes wide enough to glimpse Jace, knife in hand. A pang of urgency surged within you, prompting a weak plea, “Jace, put that away.”
You longed to retreat into darkness, to let the cacophony fade away, but the din continued to swell. Jace unleashed a handful of sand, blinding Aemond momentarily, while Luke, with fierce determination, rushed forward carrying Jace's knife. “Luke, no!” you cried, though your words were nearly drowned in the chaos.
And then, before you could breathe another word, the world faded away into shadows, consumed by the horrifying scream that sliced through the air — Aemond's anguished cry as Luke struck at his eye.
TW: Murder, explicit smut, erotophonophilia (deriving sexual excitement from killing), face fucking, manipulation & slight stockholm syndrome..overall he’s not a good dude.
Thanks to the lovely @volklana for collaborating with me on this! And always being such a fantastic support 🖤 and @mintwrit3z for beta reading.
Word count: 9.6k
There’s something about the quiet reflection of smoking alone, while a party rages on behind thick concrete walls, that you’d always found incredibly relaxing. Your focus lay solely on your breath and the object balanced delicately between your fingertips. For a few short moments, it seemed like it was just you and the night, in silent communication.
Autumn was your favourite time of year. Crisp, cold nights and fresh days with the sun dipping lower in the sky. You felt the magic of this season hanging heavy in the night air, it was as if it spoke to you. Perhaps it was because you were born in autumn, perhaps it was the mystical nature of the season. The veil between the worlds was thinner, and as Halloween approached, you felt the subtle shift in the elements. Taking a large lungful of smoke, you communed with the darkness, enjoying a brief moment of peace in a night full of frivolity and alcohol fuelled debauchery. But the black night shrouded all manner of sins from your eyes, and in that moment, your only focus was on the glowing embers dying at the tip of your cigarette. You had no idea what horrors lingered in the shadows, what terror lay only inches from your feet.
With your back propped up against the heavy wooden door, music boomed from inside, penetrating the thick oak slab behind your head, yet your mind was caught in a thick fog. The night air was cool, your breath and smoke mingling in the frigidity around you. For once, you weren’t overthinking how you looked or dissecting a conversation you just had. For a brief few minutes, you had true calm descend over you in the form of cold evening air and invigorating substances in smokable form. That is, until the door swung open, sending you hurtling into two veined arms that quickly righted you upright and encapsulated your torso.
“Jesus…shit…you scared me…”
Your asshole of a boyfriend simply laughed, a rumbling display of amusement spurred on by your skittish reaction. He simply nuzzled his chin into your neck, huffing in delight against the delicate skin and inhaling a nosefull of your scent.
“What's the matter, baby? You look like you've seen a ghost..”
“Aem, quit it, you know I'm normally not scared so easily” you scowled, your face painted with fake displeasure. Though you couldn’t help but squeal as his hands wandered your sides, hitting every ticklish spot on their way, breaking your face into unrestrained smiles. Aemond was always incredibly handsy, though as touch starved as you were, you never complained. You loved getting attention from the prettiest man you’d ever encountered, you felt blessed to have his hands roaming your flesh, his good eye trained on you and only you.
You'd only been together a few months, and though the relationship was relatively fresh, you'd fallen…hard.
Aemond was unconventionally attractive. His face, though it looked like it had been carved from pale white marble, was marred by blanched pink scars, which spanned the length of his right cheek. One eye had been damaged in an accident as a kid, so in its place sat a prosthetic painted in the most dazzling shade of sapphire blue. Somehow, it only added to his ethereal nature, never detracting from his unusual beauty. That, alongside an entirely black wardrobe consisting mostly of band shirts and leather, complimented his stunning features. He was a man of great contrast, his look most striking, while his personality was more reserved. He was the most captivating, yet troubled young man you'd ever laid eyes on, and you couldn't help but fall face first into quite an intense entanglement after being introduced.
Aemond was always the most attentive partner, always paying heed to even the smallest details. He noticed things most boyfriends would completely ignore: changes in your expression & body language, slight shifts in your mood, and he always anticipated your needs before you’d even have to ask. When you were around friends, Aemond’s hands stayed connected to your skin at all times, holding your hand, tracing delicate patterns against the back of your palm, or running his spindly fingers along the column of your neck. His eye would always be on you, following you around the room. In private, he was even more impassioned. He loved feeling your body pressed against him, the warmth of your flesh against his own. Instead of psychoanalysing these slightly possessive traits, you leaned into them, rivalling his intensity with your own eccentricities. You were a rather odd, but well balanced match.
On this night, as you stood in the dark, your face only highlighted by the glow of your cigarette, Aemond took advantage of the privacy the shadows afforded and peppered your neck with kisses, pulling you tightly against his chest as you stood resolutely, facing into the black night. You loved how needy he was, but also domineering in equal measure. He never used those sculpted muscles against you, except to further your pleasure, to satisfy you in every way you desired. And now he cuddled you against the cold, sheltered you from the chilled wind blowing through the trees. “It’s such a nice night out…you thirsty baby?” his warm breath vibrated against your skin. He extended a hand out, a chilled beer bottle grasped between several graceful fingers. Even the sight of them made you shiver, though that could’ve also been the bitter breeze swirling around your ankles. “Thank Aem, I'm parched.” You happily snatched the slim bottle from his hands, your fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary against his digits, which earned a smirk, the corners of his mouth turning upwards as the fermented amber liquid ran down your throat. The familiar quenching of thirst came with a promise in itself, you could see the hints of mischief present in his smile.
In return for his generosity, you extended a frigid hand, the end of your cigarette blooming between your dainty fingers. He didn’t even need to say anything; instead, Aemond leaned down, wrapping his plump lips around the thin paper. One sharp inhale and his body filled with an addicting sense of elation, one he sought out in other avenues of life. He found it touching your body, pulling you close, and feeling each curve and valley of your perfectly sculpted frame under his fingertips. He found it in coaxing those pretty mewls from your lips, a soundtrack he’d gladly play on repeat. Yet there was always the pull towards something darker, something a little more… taboo.
As he stood with you in that doorway, the swell of your arse pressed against his quickly growing bulge, Aemond realised that the evidence of his other, perhaps more niche hobbies lay only inches away, neatly tucked around the shadowy corner.
It was only sheer luck that you hadn’t noticed a pool of sticky crimson blood inching across the damp mud, crawling towards your feet - but the night had long descended, the sun had fallen from the sky, replaced by the heavy blackness of an autumn night. The dark provided cover for his lurid savagery, shrouding the horrors from your sight.
With one drag, Aemond filled his lungs with the delicious sting of nicotine. There was only one languid last puff left, one draw of the bitter nectar he so often craved. With a sharp exhale into the night, he dropped the butt of the cigarette to the ground and stubbed it out, the heel of his shoe squelching the dying embers into the damp earth. Not too far away, the mud was stained red with blood, a pool slowly forming beneath the corpse of a man who dared lay his beady eyes on you across a packed dancefloor earlier that same night.
Warm hands kept you pressed to his chest, pulled close to a heart beating softly beneath leather clad skin. In that darkened doorway with the man of your dreams hanging on your every breath, you found yourself smiling like an idiot. Your eyes were drawn to the curve of Aemond’s mouth as it encased the last of your cigarette. You marvelled at the swell of his cheeks as he billowed smoke into the crisp night air. He always stole your focus, captured your attention simply by existing. You were utterly entranced by his sharp, angular features. Such beauty in a man was rare, but he had both softness and a sharp edge, a traditional pretty boy look laced with danger and the added oddity of his disfigurements. He somehow appeared angelic and devilish in equal measure, an enigma wrapped in the most beautiful packaging. And as he held you against the frigid wind, the darkness encroaching on your romantic moment, you couldn't help but be completely taken with the man you called yours once more.
Yet the wind brought with it a certain anxiety, a subtle foreboding that settled in your mind. As he crushed the remains of your cigarette under his boot and pulled you tightly into his arms, sandwiching your body between his hardened chest and the wall, you utterly fell to his wiles, melting like butter under his smoldering gaze. You couldn't help but see a glint of mischief in that unyielding stare. As if he had a plan you were not yet privy to, but it was wrapped in warmth, in a certain affection that you sought out in every room.
Before long, strong hands dragged you from the chill of night and guided you back into a sea of drunken bodies, each one swaying to their own rhythm, some with the music, some following a tempo of their own design. Each one moved like a branch in the breeze. The intoxicating scent of liquor billowed from inebriated lungs, mouths that messily combined on the dance floor, swapping saliva and the lingering traces of whatever they'd been drinking. Bodies undulated like the tide, a swell of flesh to music, yet even that couldn't distract you from those dazzlingly blue eyes piercing into your flesh as his searing grip held on and led you across the crowded room. The atmosphere numbed any unease in your mind, the sense of frivolity and joy contagious. Even under the haze of alcohol, you felt Aemond’s eyes trained on you as he walked you through a sea of drunkards. Never once did you suspect distrust in your relationship, yet he kept his eyes on you as if you’d disappear into the night.
Instead of allowing you to wander into the haze of debauchery that surrounded you both, Aemond pulled you flush to him, and began to sway along with the other bodies in the pool.
His hands wandered to your hips, feeling in the dark for anywhere he could grasp onto. Moving in tandem with the pulsing rhythm, his hips were pinned against your own, undulating in time with one another. You allowed your mind to go blank, to exist solely in the moment with Aemond, his eyes as hypnotising as the thrumming beat over the speakers, the swell of want between his legs enough to send waves of desire through your body. It was almost intoxicating, surrendering to the music and the feeling of uninhibited bodies around you. It was a certain type of freedom, a complete departure from your regular life.
It took a while for people in their drunken stupor to notice that someone was missing, and inebriated people eventually tottered around the room in search of a man who’d never walk through those doors again. Aemond noticed the commotion, yet remained cool and collected, instead channeling his focus towards you, as your body mirrored the mindless drones around you, swaying in time with the music. He was never one to dance, usually opting to prop up the wall with a beer in hand instead, but he'd follow you anywhere, would do anything you asked. That included grinding on the dancefloor to the dulcet tones of ‘Don't Fear the Reaper’, well lubricated by several shots of whiskey beforehand. You'd have never realised that he also had an ulterior motive for his compliance. Participating in such a charade was a small price to pay, to keep certain secrets hidden.
It took several more minutes for you to notice the panicked faces wandering around the dance floor, yet the gravity of the situation didn't quite register, your mind had been swallowed by lust and alcohol. Lipsticked lips sloppily met Aemond’s warm cheek and you hurriedly dragged him by the hand over to a group where his sister had been standing. The music rumbled on, though you leaned into Helaena’s shoulder, whispering into her ear. “Hel, what's going on?”
Helaena shrugged, clearly too lost in her drink to comprehend the situation. “It's really weird, isn't it, to think this fuss is all because of you?”
You loved the bones of her, but she was scattered at the best of times, let alone when she had imbibed on her favourite beverages. Sometimes she simply made no sense and spoke words into the ether without any context at all. “I love you, Hel, but you make no sense sometimes..” you laughed, before returning to Aemond and snuggling into his waiting arms.
Gossip made its way around the room - unfounded words swirling in the mouths of drunk people like the ice clinking in their cups. Young men had been going missing in your neighbourhood the last few months, some turning up disfigured, some slashed and beaten beyond recognition. But all undeniably dead. It was enough to strike fear into the coldest of hearts, and Aemond hadn't left you out of his sight since. You found it strange, some names you’d even recognised, but they weren’t close friends, only people you’d encountered in passing. Friends of friends, faces you'd have recognised in social situations like tonight. A strange sense of foreboding settled in your gut, but the alcohol numbed any immediate reaction to the chatter, dulling your usually acute intuition.
Still, the atmosphere inside had changed, and despite something gnawing at your mind, a subtle warning sign that you pushed to the side, your immediate desires took control, and you pulled Aemond upstairs. To your chagrin, the bedrooms were already occupied, so you headed outside, perhaps the dark would shield you from prying eyes. It seemed Aemond had the same thought, his voice carrying above the din of some cheesy rock song, “Wanna play a game?” and he nodded in the direction of the back door, a smirk pulling at the corners of his lips.
Out in the dark with Aemond, despite the stinging chill in the air, you couldn’t keep your hands off him. The night provided adequate cover for your lewd activities, though at any moment someone could walk through the door and catch you in the act. Somehow, the danger made your boyfriend that much hotter, his perfectly sculpted body that much more irresistible. Only the stars were witnesses to your ravenous appetite, to the dip of your tongue into the warm caverns of Aemond’s mouth, exploring each other as if it were the first time. Those twinkling lights saw every grinding thrust of hips and wandering palm, searching for friction against a willing body.
The heat of his breath stung like frostbite, while the wind nipped at your cheek. Yet you only leaned into his warmth, you soaked up every ounce of affection this beautiful man bestowed upon you. You never imagined feeling so wanted, so seen. Aemond always made you feel like the only woman in his life, the only one he saw. His hands carved a path through skin, warm fingertips frantically grasping at flesh as if you’d soon disappear into the night, vanish like a puff of smoke beneath frenzied fingers.
He was always passionate, desperate to have you close, but in the biting darkness, he seemed more frenzied, less controlled than you’d seen him before, as if a fire burned within him that couldn’t be quenched. Or perhaps it was the whiskey. Either way, he was insatiable. His movements were messy, frantic. Plump lips captured yours in an impassioned embrace, your back braced against the pebbledashed wall of the house, the embers of the party slowly dying inside. Aemond’s fire roared brightly, the flames of passion swelling in his eyes.
You moved in tandem in a messy celebration of limbs and spit, neither one of you cognisant of your surroundings, both oblivious to the position of your feet as you danced in passionate unison. Your steps were clumsy as Aemond flung you from wall to wall, your back taking the brunt of his zealous maneuvers. He was a man possessed by desire, but there was something far darker driving his insatiable lust, something you’d very quickly be confronted with, face to face.
In a whirlwind of tangled limbs and blundering footsteps, you managed to lose your footing and your grip on your boyfriend's muscular frame somehow. You stumbled in the dark, losing your balance over something dense on the ground. Tumbling forwards without anything to grip onto, your knees immediately hit the damp earth, taking the brunt of the fall. They squelched into some wet mud, no doubt ruining your favourite dress, but other than that, only your pride was hurt. It was only when you stood up and inspected your hands under the dim flickering light over the back door that you realised it was more than mud; it was thick and sticky, coagulated into revolting globules.
Under the warm, fading light of a lone bulb, you saw your hands covered in a deep crimson substance, which you quickly recognised as blood - even under the influence of copious amounts of alcohol. It wasn’t an illusion, your mind wasn’t playing tricks. It dripped from your fingers into the earth below your feet, staining the ground as it fell. You cast your gaze towards the object that hindered your steps in the dark, and immediately noticed a pale hand dislodged from the mess of grass and sodden muck. Earth encrusted digits led your eyes towards a face, ghostly and drained of life, smothered and half-buried in the damp soil. Two vacant eyes stared into the night, their colour leeched from their place, a result of a throat slashed, and left to drain the contents of his body into the earth below. His body had been mercilessly butchered, cast aside into the mud, and left to rot under the watchful gaze of the moon. Left to the elements, as if nothing more than rubbish. Though you didn’t recognise his face, reality quickly set in.
A blood-curdling scream bubbled up from your lungs, spurting from two kiss-swollen lips, before being quickly silenced by a large hand. The sound didn’t even get the chance to echo into the night before the man you loved grabbed you and gripped your skin so hard it was sure to bruise. Aemond had wrapped himself around you again, one hand clasped around your mouth, the other holding your waist tight. “Shh,” he hissed in your ear, as if the shock would subside on command, as if you'd not just stumbled across a fucking dead body at a party. What was his name? His face looked familiar, but so pallid and pale, with his skin reflecting the bitter chill of death, you couldn't quite tell who it belonged to.
“Sshhhhh…I couldn’t just let his eyes defile you, I had to teach him a lesson...see” he teased, while sniffing at your neck. The hand around your mouth directed your gaze downwards once more, as if looking upon the icy cold flesh of a dead man once wasn’t enough. No, you were forced to look upon a man you scarcely knew, but who had the audacity to look in your direction just a minute too long for Aemond’s liking. You wriggled under his grasp, desperate to run away, to find an escape from his clutches. “That's insane, why? Why would you kill him for simply looking at me? You know I only have eyes for you, Aem, but this…this is nuts..”
“You belong to me,” he murmured, the words serving as both a promise and a sure threat. “And I do. not. share.” His voice rumbled against your skin, vibrating through your bones and settling deep within you. Those words, staccato against the cold night air, each consonant emphasised, would be imprinted in your psyche, committed to memory in flesh…if you survived the night that is. His eyes sparkled with something close to amusement. You’d never seen this side of your boyfriend before, a whole new person emerged from behind those eyes. One who relished in danger, who delighted in inflicting fear. He revelled in the terror he caused, drank in every drop of panic pouring from your face. It seemed a switch had flipped in Aemond, where once was Jekyll, now shone Hyde. He’d become the monster, the bump in the night. Where once lay affection, deep seated and genuine, his eyes now only reflected his delight in your terror. They were devoid of any true emotion, any connection you once shared, if you indeed ever did, was now replaced by sheer derision and ridicule.
“I will make sure you never forget who you belong to.”
Every word emphasised by sharp sibilance, every consonant harsh and unexpectedly aggressive. You loved Aemond’s voice once, only minutes earlier infact, each rumbling low note and how he could command with such minimal effort. Yet with one sentence, he managed to erase any trace of love, and instead instill fear; chilling you to the bone with words alone, whispered into the crisp night air. Despite the chill running through your veins, nipping at your skin and drawing goosebumps to the surface of your flesh at Aemond’s cold glare, and despite the corpse lying mere inches from your feet, that one line was enough to stir something within you.
The thought of Aemond taking you in the open air, claiming your body with cold steel pressed against your skin, although wicked and slightly deranged, forced a need you never knew you had to the forefront of your mind. Perhaps deep down, you always knew who he was, perhaps you liked his possessive nature, his forceful and domineering personality. As reserved and well tempered as he was, it always lingered just beneath the surface, waiting to rear its head. Something in his voice let you know he meant it, let you know that you weren’t getting out of this house without him utterly claiming you, flesh and bone.
The rest of the world melted away as he pulled you closer, constricting his arms around your chest like a python. The party slipped into the darkness, clouded by dizziness and fear. All you could hear was the sound of your breath, as it was squeezed from your lungs, right before Aemond released his grip and allowed you to draw air once more. It was all a game, your life a frivolity. Even still, you couldn’t help but let arousal wash over you. Arousal mixed with fear proved to be an intoxicating combination, a drug you had never experienced before.
Seeing that glimmer, that faint light in your eyes as he laid claim to your body, Aemond was emboldened to push onwards, to find his pleasure in a body willing, pliable, and waiting in his grip. Yet he needed to know just how far he could push, just how much he could take from you before you’d recoil in disgust. He needed to know just how far he could push you before you’d break. Delving one hand slowly into his jacket pocket, Aemond withdrew a knife, its handle settling into the curve of his deft hand. Even in the dying light, its blade danced and glittered, shining menacingly against the blackness. Your eyes widened, yet you didn’t move, didn’t dare breathe against the shining silver he drew to your pale flesh.
With a sharp knife to the throat, the steel pressing against your delicate flesh, you trembled beneath its pointed blade. Aemond tested your mettle, pressing it hard enough to break the skin and draw a minuscule drop of blood to the blade. A hiss escaped your lips, swallowed quickly by Aemond’s plump mouth. No sooner had you made a sound, he wrapped his pouting lips around yours, taking his pleasure from your pain. He’d never given you cause to be afraid before, but now, with hardened steel slicing at your throat, and a sparkle you’d never seen before gracing his natural eye, Aemond looked every bit the villain. “I never took you for a sadist…but you seem to be enjoying this a little too much..”
“There's a lot you don't know about me, darling.” he whispered, a menacing smirk creasing the pale skin of his perfectly chiselled face. Despite the hairs at the back of your neck standing on edge, and your nervous system all of a sudden plunged into a state of fight or flight, you couldn’t help but succumb to the wiles of this perfectly handsome man. Even with his flaws and his newfound savagery, your body ached to feel him, to feel his warmth and that deliciously familiar sting as he ravaged your body.
The driving bassline of ‘Psycho Killer’ thumped through the brick walls, a fitting soundtrack for Aemond’s mindless ravaging of your helpless frame. There was nothing you could do to stop him in this moment, nothing you could do to escape…but if you were truthful with yourself, you really didn’t want to. Even with fear licking at the edges, your nerves pulsing in time with the groovy bassline thundering through the concrete walls, you abandoned all reasonable judgement in favour of potential pleasure. You lapped up his undivided attention, his utterly deranged attempts at securing your affections. And no matter how much your mind sought to escape his greedy clutches, how desperately a rational part of you wanted to flee, another part of you craved Aemond’s touch, no matter the circumstances, no matter how grim your surroundings may have been. Your body instinctively knew how crazy he was for you, how deeply he craved the comfort of your flesh, and how he’d kill to keep you all to himself. A part of you loved it; a voice that sounded when his hands roamed your body, all controlling and all enveloping. And now it was that part of you that drove you further into his embrace, that relinquished control of your flesh to his greedy hands. As you closed your eyes and shut the world out, you could only feel his slender fingers worshipping your body, every touch a prayer to your depraved soul. They traced a path through your skin, gripping at every inch as if his hands could strip it from your bones. It wasn’t long before you felt the evidence of his appetite pulsing against you, a thick bulge caressing your abdomen, searching for friction and warmth, searching for its target.
In a flurry of raw passion and craze-fuelled lust, Aemond’s hands flew to your head, grasping your hair at the root and tugging at it until your scalp throbbed; an undeniable stinging sensation that forced you to do its bidding. He pushed you down, your knees once more hitting the blood sodden earth. Once again, your eyes fell on the dead body lying only inches from you, yet Aemond forced your eyes upwards, tugging at your hair until he had your undivided attention.
It was obvious what he wanted, and he knew just how to make you squirm while getting it. Before long, his cock had sprung free of its tight denim prison and hung heavy before your face.
You could never quite grasp how well endowed he was for a petite man. It seemed so disproportionate to his body, yet you never once complained, except for the moments in that initial intrusion of course. The crisp night air nipped at the delicate skin. It was this cold air that only intensified the pleasure when your lips wrapped around his shaft, when the warmth of your mouth enveloped his cock, drawing him into your throat as far as you were physically able. His hips immediately chased a rhythm which mirrored the music from the other side of the wall, pistoning relentlessly, pounding your throat, causing you to gag and choke around him. There was no time to tease, no time to accommodate his size in your throat. Yet he didn’t let you move. His fingers flexed at your scalp, coaxing your mouth deeper still. The pain prickled, a sharp stinging sensation, yet it was dulled by the force of his merciless thrusts. His hips kept up an unforgiving pace, chasing a release that all too quickly approached.
Before long, your throat was painted by his unending supply of semen, as unrelenting and demanding as the tempo of his hips against your jaw. You greedily swallowed each and every drop, milking his cock with hollowed cheeks. He was stunned at your veracious appetite for his cum, the haze of orgasm washing heavily over his tired eyes, yet you kept up your enthusiastic pursuits. Even after release, Aemond stayed rock hard. His solid phallus throbbed in your mouth, veins pulsating against the muscle of your tongue even as he pulled out and let it rest on the tip, the protruding vasculature quivering against the warmth of your lips. The thought of ruining your cunt as one of his victims lay alongside you had him ready almost immediately, every inch of his body thrumming at the prospect. To see the woman he craved and the man he so furiously butchered laying side by side became part of the fantasy, part of the game.
The fear present in your eyes, mixed with a shameful desire for what he had to offer only spurred his arousal, the war raging in your mind between sheer terror and a desire for absolute pleasure evident in tear-stained eyelids. Your mascara had run down your cheeks, painting your face as it fell. Aemond admired his work, yet he was only getting started. His desire to ruin you, to take exactly what he wanted from your pretty cunt and have you fall apart around him was titillating.
For months, he watched you play the part of the dutiful girlfriend, yet you entertained lustful stares from random men. Holding their leering gazes across a room. It was a shame, but he simply had to punish you, to mark you as his own. If you didn't submit, if you wouldn't behave…well..Killing you was never part of the plan, but his blade was thirsty, and brats must be shown the error of their ways. Perhaps he'd show some mercy if you were good.
His hands remained interwoven with your scalp, fingers tugging at the roots tightly to keep you in line. The sting provided a sharp reminder that your boyfriend had in fact killed a man, who laid face down in the dirt only inches from your feet. Yet you couldn’t help the heat of arousal building with every tug. As Aemond dragged you from your knees to your feet, pulling you tight to his chest before spinning you around and pinning you against the wall, the coil in your core grew increasingly tight. He didn’t even have to fuck you to make you a quivering mess beneath him. Any trace of fear left seemed to leak down your leg with evidence of your arousal. Your face grazed the pebbledash finish on the side of the house, but it wasn’t long before he forcefully arched your back, pulling your head backwards by the hair and pressing your cunt against his tumescent cock. He didn’t even need to undress you; he had easy access once your panties were pushed aside. Aemond loved it when you wore such short dresses; he fantasised about moments like this. Your underwear was sodden, you didn’t even need to be touched to be ready for Aemond’s intrusion into your body. “Hm,” he snickered, that knowing smirk plastered firmly onto his chiselled face. It was amusement, laced with derision and mocking, something completely foreign to your ears from a man you only knew as loving, though truthfully, you had clearly ignored many aspects of his personality, perhaps you saw it and ignored it in favour of his more amorous qualities. Desire can cloud judgement, and you’d definitely misjudged Aemond.
He took full advantage of the ample lubrication. Nudging the folds of your cunt with his spongey pink tip, he tilted his hips and found the right angle so that he could easily plough into you with devastating effect. In one swift motion, Aemond speared your cunt with his impressively thick cock. Another ear-splitting scream left your lips, this time caused by the force of being impaled by your boyfriend's egregiously large penis rather than a corpse scaring the life out of you. Usually, he gave you time to adjust, inched his way in, and let your walls stretch to accommodate his size, but tonight he saw fit to punish you, to brutally defile your body as he saw fit. Perhaps it was retribution for letting your eyes linger on another longer than appropriate, perhaps this was bubbling within him for a long time. He didn’t stifle your screams this time, he let them ring out for everyone to hear.
Time passed in a blur, your body no more than a vessel for containing Aemond’s rage. You were pinned against the wall by his veined forearms, blood pumping through his body with the exertion. You could do little to adjust to his onslaught, your body didn’t have time to get used to the feeling. His sharp hips pistoned against the plump curve of your arse, the sound of skin slapping echoing out into the hollow night. You knew you’d be bruised, your skin would bear the mottled remnants of his anger for days, stained with multicoloured blotches. You let your mind wander, settling into the thick fog of pain and numbness. It’d be over in just a minute, with the pace Aemond had set; he was sure to come undone quite quickly. There was no restraining raw, animalistic desire and his was on full display. Eventually, the pain of his forceful penetration dulled, the sharp sting muted, and all too soon you felt the familiar coil settle in your core. You knew there’d be no relief, yet you allowed yourself to hope, to picture the sweet release that could come, if he was merciful.
This wasn’t reminiscent of any other time you’d fucked, any other time he used your body for his pleasure. There was no love present here, no affection, only crude carnal desire. Raw, unfiltered, tainted with ego and testosterone. Pure adrenaline coursed through his system, driving each callous thrust. There was no hint of gentility in his movements, no trace of the man you’d once made love to. This monster chased his own high, using your flesh as he saw fit. Your skin would bear the evidence; it’d remind you of this night even when the memory dulled. Even when the haze of potential pleasure clouded your recall of his brutality. Mottled bruising would stain the surface, remind you of the sudden appearance of this alter ego, this second self Aemond had long hidden. A bloodthirsty creature that lingered underneath the surface, and reared its head when jealousy spilled over. Considering the alternative, being used as no more than a fleshlight was a preferable outcome. Considering the violence you’d seen at his hand, the body that day in the dirt as a result of his rage, being used for his sexual release was the least egregious path.
Yet, even though your mind knew all this was wrong, that you were upset and betrayed, that you wanted the gentle man you loved back, you couldn’t deny the physical response your body had to being so roughly handled. You couldn’t deny the burning between your legs, the ever tightening coil as his cock ravaged your cunt. And though your mind had slightly more trouble overcoming the whole jealous rage-murder-thing, your body seemed more than capable of withstanding each revenge fuelled thrust, each slap of skin and bone against your delicate flesh. Even the sound of his pale skin smacking against yours drew goosebumps to the surface and sent a fresh shiver through your bones. You knew you’d fall apart around him soon. The question was, would he find his high before your banks burst around him?
Aemond certainly wasn’t shy about making noise, letting his guttural grunts ring out into the night. He didn’t care who heard, he didn’t care who witnessed the punishment he inflicted upon you for casting your eyes towards another. He watched your body swallow his cock, over and over, as his hips kept up their punitive pace. Somehow, the sight of his cock disappearing into your body, sheathed within such warmth, it pulled emotion from him that he never knew he had. He didn’t think he was capable of forgiveness, of being anything but cold and vengeful. Yet this seemed like a fitting punishment for you, taking his length over and over, taking him so deeply into your body that he felt the very essence of you coming apart around him. The moonlight danced on your juices, which coated his cock from tip to base. It was mesmerising, hypnotising, evidence of your arousal and devotion, even under such gruelling circumstances. Aemond felt the familiar flutter of your walls around his shaft, the telltale sign that you were on the precipice of release. Yet you held yourself together, you held your peak back. And he would drag you there, he’d show you just how merciful a violent man could be, with the evidence of his passion staring at them from the cold ground.
Aemond’s change of heart was sudden and rather shocking. Instead of verbalising his ideas, instead of communicating, he halted his brutal assault all at once, pulling his pants up around shaking knees and leaving you empty, without warning or any thought for your building pleasure.
You just stood, in a state of shock and right on the edge of release, desperate for relief, when it stood tantalisingly close. He hadn’t finished, he didn't even wipe himself off, he just…stopped. And before you could comprehend why, Aemond’s hand found the nape of your neck. His grip was tight, consuming, his touch like tongues of flame against the contrasting chill of the night air, yet he didn’t grab tight enough to cause you pain. Just to bend you to his will, to let you know that you belonged to him, and him alone.
He pulled you into the warmth of the house once without a word, ignoring the sheen of sweat on your brow, and the red hot flush that burned beneath your skin from his efforts. As you walked through sticky swathes of drunken people, you kept your eyes trained on the beer stained floor, hoping that nobody would notice your disheveled state. The crowd were too engrossed in their bottles to notice, but you were certain everyone had heard your lurid activities outside, even above the din of the playlist that blasted through crackling speakers in the living room. Approaching the one person you knew would miss your presence, you said a quiet goodbye to Helaena before disappearing through the sea of inebriated bodies, into the ink-black night with Aemond guiding your way. His hands gripped your spine like a vice, directing every step, controlling the depth and pace of every breath you took. Yet there was something oddly freeing about it. Something strangely comforting about removing your autonomy and giving complete control to this unhinged human.
He controlled your every move, even when his hands weren’t on your body. You felt his red hot stare lingering as he rounded the bonnet, making his way to the driver door.
The dark leather creaked as he sank into the plush seat, the material shifting under his weight, accommodating and molding to his shape as he settled into it. It gave way to him like clay, fitting to his svelte yet strangely dense and muscular form. He didn't reach for the radio, didn't force small talk where it wasn't needed. From the minute the key turned in the ignition, Aemond had you right where he wanted you; unsatisfied and on the edge of reason. He left you empty and confused, waiting on tenterhooks for his next move.
As he steered into the night, with only the glow of the headlights shining against the tarmac, his hand moved to rest on your thigh, long fingers digging into the soft flesh, leaving crescent shapes in their wake. He may as well have branded you, his touch felt like flames nipping at your skin. Not once did that hand leave your thigh, not once did he lift his fingers from their resting place.
Each squeeze made your breath hitch in your chest, each time getting a little tighter, pinching the skin just a little more. You knew there was a chance those marks would be permanent, scars to remind you exactly who you belonged to, like a tattoo carved into flesh.
Passing streetlights illuminated the smirk permanently painted onto his face. The pale glow from the outside glinted off of his prosthetic eye, catching the sapphire hue and somehow making Aemond look even more menacing. Each flickering bulb formed a rhythm; you found yourself tapping your fingers to the beat of each one as it whizzed by. Perhaps it was a way to distract from the sting of nails digging into your thigh muscle, perhaps it was a coping mechanism - a way to make sense of all that had happened tonight, and all that was sure to come in the early hours of morning. Despite the pleasure you were denied, and the lingering ache within you from Aemond's onslaught, you couldn't help but recall the horrors you had seen also.
You’d left that man lying face down in the dirt. Would he be found by some other drunken soul, stumbling over his chilled corpse as they sparked up a cigarette? Wound someone find out who had led him to his inevitable death?
The torturous silence stretched into the night, the only sound underneath that metal roof were the mingled hushed tones of your combined breaths.
No door could contain Aemond's fervour, no barrier of wood could keep him from his plans. As soon as his feet crossed the threshold, he pulled you down the hall, pulling you into the bathroom hastily. He didn't verbalise his carefully crafted plans, he never once let you know where his mind was going, you simply followed wordlessly, accepting your fate as it came.
You certainly didn't expect plump lips to meet your own in an unusually passionate embrace, before backing you into the shower, still fully clothed. You didn't question it, but your eyes clearly communicated your confusion, ad Aemond answered with a familiar cheeky grin.
His hand reached behind you, releasing the water from its chamber. It was hot, like fire in liquid form. Like dragon fire, tongues of flame licked at the surface of your skin. Aemond didn't seem to notice, it didn't seem to faze him, and immediately crowded around you, backing you against the glass wall. He had less grip under the running water, his hands couldn’t get purchase on your skin. Clawing hands slipped under the flow of running water, yet that didn't hinder his frenzied actions.
He crowded you against the glass, held your body tightly with one hand, while the other wandered to the slick column of your throat. Nimble fingers wrapped around delicate skin, pressing slightly on either side. Just enough to remind you of his power, just enough to keep you malleable under his touch.
He’d already punished you that night, taken his anger and malice out thoroughly on your pliant cunt. So instead of abusing his power and alienating the one good thing he had, he decided to incentivise good behaviour. To show you he could be the devoted man you thought he was, as well as the one you found tonight. To keep you truly under his thumb, he needed to be merciful as well as vengeful. Besides, it was fun to watch you fall apart under his touch, to watch your eyes roll back in your head as his body brought you immense pleasure. Dropping to his knees, Aemond hooked one of your thighs over his shoulder as you braced yourself against the glass, eyes widening with each surprising development. You could scarcely believe the vision before you, it was a shocking u-turn, a swift pivot back to the passionate, tender man you called yours only hours earlier, though that sharp edge remained. The man you thought you knew so well was not lost, merely buried beneath the thin veil of a monster. You just let it happen, not daring to question his intentions, not daring to interrupt.
A hot tongue darted from his jaw, catching the falling water on its rough surface before plunging to its purpose. His jutting chin nuzzled between your legs, his pointed nose angled slightly upwards to stimulate your sensitive clit. Aemond knew what he was doing, he always did, but this night he set about devouring you with renewed purpose and surprising enthusiasm. One dazzlingly blue eye peered up at you from between your folds. He seemed to know just where to apply pressure, how to stimulate the most sensitive spots that would make you melt into his mouth. He was still the man who devoured you at every turn, who took pleasure in pleasuring you. But this time seemed different, this time he seemed determined to watch you come undone, to assert dominance in the most unlikely of positions. Every breath, every sweet exclamation and high pitched whine only fed his ego further. You were truly and devastatingly under his thumb, and you knew it. With one swipe of his tongue, you’d fallen into his trap. There was no escaping it now.
So instead of fighting the pleasure that welled deep within, that wrung tighter with each lapping sweep of his textured tongue you gave yourself over to it. You resigned yourself to the duality of his wanton violence, to his murderous tendencies and slightly insane possessive nature, with the man that knelt before you, the one you'd fallen for. You even allowed yourself to enjoy it, to lose yourself in it and lap up each and every ounce of tainted love Aemond deemed fit to give.
Even over the patter of running water, your exclamations of ecstasy echoed between the thick glass panes keeping you aloft. Your knees had long buckled beneath your tired frame, you were only kept upright by Aemond's strong shoulders and one solid sheet of glass behind your back.
It wasn't long before you found the pleasure you were earlier denied in a warm supping tongue, ravaging your cunt as if it’d never taste your flesh again. As if your skin contained the sweetest of nectar, a delicacy Aemond sought out most fervently.
It was merely minutes before you were spilling into the open caverns of his mouth, your body succumbing to his expert ministrations, seceding its battle with guilt and fear to an overwhelming blanket of ecstasy. Aemond sucked every drop from your dripping cunt, licked and sucked your swollen clit long past the point of release, until he had you writhing around his head, begging for relief from the almost painful overstimulation. It was only then, as your pleading rang in his ears, that Aemond finally relinquished his efforts, and made his way back up your body, to share his reward with your waiting mouth. You could taste yourself on his tongue, in his searing kiss. He claimed every inch of you, everything you had was his.
And now, as he gave you everything you wanted, you were more than willing to succumb to his every whim.
Though when the haze of pleasure wore off, when the coil in your gut had been let loose and you could think clearly, your mind reeled, remembering every gory detail the night held.
You were truly stuck, wedged firmly under his thumb, and Aemond knew exactly how to keep you pliant and willing, he knew exactly how much your body yearned for his hands, how you couldn’t possibly resist the call of his body, even when your mind fought to escape.
The next morning, knuckles rapped on sagging wood that could tell a multitude of stories. Glazed eyes opened the door to reveal local police, investigating a missing person's report.
The man without a name, the corpse in the cold, who everyone assumed had Irish goodbyed, never made it home. Yet another young man in recent weeks who never graced their own front doors again, who disappeared without a trace. His body had been discovered tossed onto the side of a blackened road, far from anyone who loved him, or even knew his name. His roommates called it in, knowing he was supposed to walk home that night. They knew he'd never stay out, never leave his cat unattended without saying anything. It was out of character for him to stay out without so much as a text, or posting about his night. They knew something was very wrong when he didn’t grace their flat by 4am, and they raised the alarm.
Two level headed cops interviewed every hungover face in that living room, every person that stayed and slept where they stood. As expected, memories were foggy, clouded by alcohol and recreational drugs, now wreaking havoc on tired bodies. Yet despite hazy recollections of that night, Aemond’s name came up a few times for having disappeared throughout the night. Sore heads and cloudy memories all pointed to Aemond as acting suspiciously, though nobody outrightly suspected him of being a killer. A few names graced tired lips, a few people who had left early, some who had a reputation for trouble, some who were known to disappear without saying anything. Yet it was Aemond that drew attention, it was him that stuck in the clouded minds of everyone who attended that night.
It wasn’t long before trouble graced your doorstep, the hollow sound of knuckles knocking at your door stirring you from sleep, and bringing you out into the hallway. You were groggy, moving slowly, but you heard someone at the door. Aemond was already up, and had answered the front door clad in nothing but his boxers. To some it might have been seen as pure laziness, you knew better. You knew that the sight of his sculpted body would throw off whoever was on the other side of that door, knocking at an ungodly hour as a migraine rattled through your brain. You could barely hear what they were saying from your perch atop the stairs, but you did hear several questions being asked, and so out of curiosity, you wandered to the landing to get a better view. It was the police. Shit.
Every morose detail came flooding back to you, in grotesque clarity. The blood, his face under the pale moonlight, the wound that spanned the breadth of his neck. The violence and brutality of it all. You’d honestly forgotten most of it, the vivid details were diluted by alcohol and knocked loose by Aemond’s bipolar behaviour afterwards. But seeing two officers in uniform grace your apartment door brought it all back, including the overwhelming sense of horror. It was all you could do to run to the bathroom and rid yourself of the guilt before someone spotted you.
After you’d expelled your guilt into the porcelain bowl, washing your face with cold water and tidying yourself up to the best of your ability, you decided to join Aemond downstairs. It was better than hiding. You only caught part of the conversation, and even as you descended the stairs, you heard pointed voices echoing in condescending tones.
“You’re not in any trouble,” one of them said kindly, ‘the good cop,’ Aemond thought distastefully, though he didn’t for one second let his face reflect his true thoughts. “Right now we’re just following some lines of inquiry and your name has come up a lot.”
Another, more stern voice chimed in quickly after. “Seems enough people were concerned about your disappearing acts on the night in question that they thought it worthwhile mentioning.”
“Am I under arrest, officers?” he sighed, almost bored at their probing line of questioning. You cringed at his blatant display of ego, you knew that this alter Aemond was different, somewhat maniacal but you never thought what would happen when he was confronted with true authority. Even still, you made your way over to them and stood by his side, giving a polite nod to the officers.
“Well that depends son, you have anyone else that can account for your whereabouts on the night, anybody who can solidly swear they were with you the entire time?”
Silence. He looked to the side, throwing his eyes in your direction, slightly confused, but also betrayed by your hesitance.
Aemond deflated, he thought of the fear in your eyes when you'd discovered the true depths of his depravity last night, the look of betrayal when he’d pressed the metal of his blade to your skin and watched the trickle of blood there. Somehow he expected obedience.
“I will make sure you never forget who you belong to,” he’d said at the time and he’d hoped his actions last night were enough to enforce upon you that no matter what happened now: no cuffs, bars or barbed-wired fences would ever change the fact that he had killed and would kill again to remind you of this fact.
“That’s what I thought..” the tougher cop smirked after a few moments of uneasy, weighted silence, “Aemond Targaryen you are under-”
Realising the opportunity before you, seeing your chance at escape from this dire situation of your own making, you kept your mouth firmly shut. You never anticipated just how viscerally your body would react to the jingling of handcuffs though, the cold metal struck a chord within you, pulling something along the lines of guilt and sending a feeling akin to pity bubbling to the surface. Your resolution to stay silent broke in a matter of seconds, your steel will crumbling before you could stop yourself.
Just as he was about to be placed in cuffs, his eyes locked with yours once more and disappointment turned to rage in an instant. There was no pleading to be found there, just a look, a look that made your stomach clench and the words were wrenched from you before you even had time to think. One glance from dazzlingly blue eyes was all it took for the words to come tumbling from your lips. "He was with me all night” you blurted and the cop stopped mid arrest-speech. You regretted it as soon as you heard the words form in the air before you, but it was too late. He cocked an eyebrow and smirked at you in a way that made you feel small and far too bare. You had given Aemond a way out, an escape from a fate he truly deserved.
“All night you say?” he asked, tone mocking and you were nodding wide-eyed and heart racing.
“And you would be willing to swear that before a judge now would you sweetheart?”
Something about his mocking tone, or his condescending use of the word sweetheart had you bridling and you stuck your chin out stubbornly.
“I’ll swear it to anyone you want me to, he never left my sight all night. I can even go into the details of what exactly we were doing when we ‘disappeared’ each time if you’d like.”
‘That’s my girl’, Aemond thought as the police officer was forced to unclasp the bracelets from his narrow wrists and he grinned knowing that he had you exactly where he wanted you. You’d had your chance to escape him, and now he knew resolutely that you were lovestruck, even in the face of everything you’d seen and he had you undeniably stuck, under his thumb.
With an alibi now firmly in place they had no choice but to take your statements and be on their way, any hope they had of pinning it on Aemond dissipated with your sworn statement and their demeanour toward him completely changed.
Aemond himself had switched into charming mode, you’d seen it a thousand times before, you had yourself been victim to it, but it still scared you how easily he slipped into it and how capable he was of making people believe him and bend to his will.
“Whoever the killer’s after, I'm glad they have you guys to protect them” Aemond uttered to the retreating police, flashing a fake smile their way before turning his back.
“City’s finest…” he whispered under his breath, as they walked in the opposite direction, leaving you to a fate of your own making. As he pushed past you, once more entering the cosy apartment, Aemond whispered a final sentence that made your blood run cold at the utterance.
“You can't run from who you are baby ..none of us can”
Taglist: (no pressure) @volklana @thenameswinter99 @suntizme @zaldritzosrose @dreamilypurplepillar
CW: MINORS DNI, afab reader, canon-typical incest, secret relationship/affair (Aemond is betrothed but sleeping with Reader), oral (male receiving), teasing, semi-public intimacy.
Words: 3902
"You are of marrying age, Aemond," Alicent snapped, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration.
Aemond sat on the opposite side of the table. The council room had been turned into a family meeting room - for the sole purpose of finding him a politically advantageous wife. He knew it would come, Aegon and Helaena had already been paraded out and spouses had been found when they had been his age.
"Whether you wish it or not, we must do what benefits the family."
This point had been pressed on to him for weeks, if not months. Reminding him of his duty. How the Crown needed connections everywhere it could. Helaena was settled in Dorne, Aegon had a Lannister for a wife. Now it was Aemond's turn.
"We all must, Aemond. Aegon and Helaena did what was necessary. Plans have already been made for your sister to do so as well."
His sister. A couple of years his junior and the one person he was the closest to. The idea of taking anyone but her, however, as a wife…it made him ill.
"Whatever you say, Mother."
Preparations were already set in motion. Aemond had reluctantly chosen his future wife. While she seemed pleasant enough, none of this was what he wanted. But as his mother would constantly remind him, what he wanted was not necessarily what he would get.
How much she knew about what he wanted, or should he say who, remained to be seen.
"Is a new tunic really necessary, Mother?" Aemond sighed, but the glare he received from Alicent told him compliance was not up for question.
He stood on the small plinth, while the tailor took the necessary measurements. It all felt like far too much unnecessary touching for his liking. He remained silent unless spoken to and even then his answers were short and snipped.
What felt like an eternity was likely only an hour or so, but finally he was at least freed from the tailor's grasp. His mother had rolls of fabric out on a nearby table, but it seemed like Alicent had no interest in his opinions there.
He wandered over to the fireplace and simply stared into the flames.
Helaena and Aegon already had politically advantageous marriages, why was it so important that he must too? And for his sister. They were the second son and daughter, not nearly as coveted as the elder children, surely?
If he had his own way, they would have betrothed and married by the ways of Old Valyria years ago. He was half sure his sister felt much the same. What they engaged in behind closed doors should have been enough of an indication there.
Aemond only huffed noncommittally as his mother prattled on about his new clothes as she and the tailor finally left his room. The second that door closed behind them, he felt his shoulders slump as though he was exhausted.
So when the door knocked, he couldn't help but snap.
"What is it!"
There was no answer, just another knock. Aemond growled under his breath, storming over and wrenching the door open. But who stood on the other side, was not who he expected.
"I just saw Mother, I assume she is who has got you so frustrated?"
Aemond's eye softened when he looked at you. His sweet, gentle sister. Though the mischief in your eyes now was anything but sweet and gentle. Without even asking, you strode past him and wandered over to the remnants of fabric left on the table.
"It is just a dinner, and Mother has you playing dress up?"
He still didn't answer, but he knew you well enough to know you didn't need his confirmation. The look on his face and his tight posture was clue enough.
Alicent had planned a dinner. An 'opportunity for the Aemond's new wife to get to know the family', she had said. But Aemond saw it as nothing more than an annoyance. Little did he know, you saw an opportunity for yourself within it.
You heard your brother huff behind you, angrily rolling the fabric up and throwing it out of his sight.
"Whatever it is you have planned, sister…"
But you held a finger to his lips and mirrored the motion on your own. Almost instinctively, he relaxed under your soft touch.
"I have nothing planned, brother," you smiled, letting the same finger trail a line down his chin before pulling away.
"But I will make sure this farce is enjoyable for us both."
The Keep was a bustle of activity that evening. Alicent had ordered all of her children to not only dress for the occasion but to behave themselves as well. You could only roll your eyes as her words echoed in your head. Your maid helping you into your gown for the evening.
"Are you sure this dress is appropriate, princess?" she asked, and you simply shrugged.
"If Mother wishes me to attend this nonsense affair, then I shall do so at my own comfort and leisure."
The dress wasn't wildly far from your usual choices, but it was not one of your mother's favourites. A little too low at the shoulders, showing off the gentle slope of your upper torso. Trimmed with a pale lace that you would always argue added more coverage than it did distraction.
As for comfort and leisure, those were the last things on your mind. Your focus was Aemond.
You knew your mother had little clue of what really went on between you and Aemond. Or if she did, she lived in purposeful obliviousness. And if that was the case…
Did she really think you would allow him to take another to his bed? Even as a wife.
You entered the hall, already hearing the low chatter of your family on the other side of the door. As well as a voice you realised you would have to grow used to hearing.
Your soon to be sister by law.
That high pitched giggle already grating on your ears. Yes, you were likely biased against her, but you didn't care. Aemond had always been yours. And a betrothal was going to do nothing to change that, if you had your way.
You felt his singular gaze on you the moment you crossed the threshold. That ice blue eye following you from the doorway to your seat. Across from his as it always was, and that position had never been more perfect than it was right now.
"Brother," you smiled, before turning your gaze to his lady betrothed, "and my lady, a pleasure."
Aemond's eye narrowed. He knew that tone. The almost painfully sweet lilt to your voice, that smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. He had been right, you had plans for this dinner. Whether they benefited him in anyway, would remain to be seen.
"Princess, you look lovely," the young lady replied, inclining her head in respect.
"Thank you, my lady."
You glanced at Aemond, knowing he was watching every single move and expression you made, listening to every change in your inflection and tone. You met his intense stare and did nothing more than raise a brow.
This was going to be fun.
Plates of food were soon laid out across the table, your eyes immediately scanning the table for some very particular delicacies.
Aemond, like any man, had his favourite body parts on a lover. That lover in question, being you. And his most favourite as of now? Your lips.
You had once asked him why and his answer had been as detailed as you probably should have expected. Your mind wandered to those very words as you filled your plate with all the foods you needed.
"There are so many things that your lips can do, sweet sister," he mused, tracing a thumb over your lower lip.
"They can kiss wherever they wish, they can whisper your darkest wants and needs…"
His reasoning had seemed so obvious. But to hear such things from your usually stoic brother was what had taken your breath away.
And those words were what inspired your mischievious intentions for this dinner.
Two plates were set before you. One laden with savoury foods, a mixture of meats, cheeses and some breads - family dinners had most recently become a spread of savoury to dessert. The other was slowly being piled with sweet treats. Sticky, honey covered fruits, jammy pastries and soft cakes. If you could forgo cutlery and eat with your fingers, you chose it.
Would it be ladylike? Absolutely not. But that wasn't your concern tonight. You needed your dearest brother to see what he was going to miss after marrying another, and you would do whatever it took to achieve that goal.
The room was filled with chatter, even Aemond's betrothed was turned to talk to your elder sister Helaena. But the prince's eye remained firmly on you, you didn't even need to look to know he was watching every move you made.
You started with your savoury plate. Eating with your fingers where you could, plucking small chunks of meat and cheese and taking your time as every morsel passed your lips. Over and over again.
Aemond's eye followed every movement of your hand, up and down as you slowly cleared the food from your first plate. His own forgotten as he stared, but your voice of all things broke him out of his reverie.
"Are you not eating, brother?" you asked sweetly, thumb pressed against your lips as you sucked away some wayward juice from your last bite.
You saw the muscles in his jaw twitch, as he reluctantly tore his gaze from you and began to eat. His knife and fork scraping against his plate in his barely concealed frustration. You could already imagine the thoughts in his head, cursing your existence, cursing his weakness.
A smirk threatened to break on your lips, you had not expected this to be so easy. You had barely even got started.
But you chose to give him a reprieve, your attention pulled by your mother. Expectedly chastising you for eating as you did, but her whispered words drifted through your ears like smoke. Image was everything to Queen Alicent and you were part of that image, especially with a potential new family member seated across from you.
"Could you at least use your fork, child," your mother whispered hissed, not even looking in your direction so as not to draw attention.
Aemond was now drawn into conversation with his betrothed, your own frustration leaking through as you gripped the handle of your fork. You finished your plate, taking your own turn to almost glare into the side of Aemond's head as he talked to his future lady wife.
Servants brought in more food, even while your dessert plate remained untouched. You needed to step up your game, really push the envelope and draw his attention back to you.
Though your fruit plate was already washed with a light sheen of honey, your eyes fell on the small honey bowl just set in front of Aemond and his betrothed.
"Lēkia , would you be so kind as to pass me the honey bowl?"
Your soft voice broke his attention mid sentence. No matter where he was, what he was doing, Aemond had always been able to sense your presence and would always find himself unable to ignore it.
In silence, he lifted the bowl, holding your gaze as he handed it across the table. Your fingers brushing his as you took it, his brow twitching ever so slightly at the still damp warmth from where your lips had touched your fingertips.
You had his attention back again. Perfect.
The bowl stayed held in one hand, as you took the wooden honey dipper and all but soaked your pile of berries in the golden liquid. Ignoring your mother's words, you began to pick at each piece with your fingers. Slowly sliding each glisteningly sticky berry between your lips.
All under Aemond's watchful eye.
Almost second by second, you could see his usually ice blue darken. The pale blue almost eclipsed in black. You avoided holding his gaze as long as you could. Savouring every sweet treat that passed your lips. Daring even to let out a few contented hums as you ate.
Aemond, however, was doing everything he could to remain silent. To not drag you away from the table and demand you put your mouth to other uses. His face revealed nothing, but inside he was almost burning with desire.
You kept going until even your fingers were slick with honey and the berry juices. It was beyond sinful, and Aemond was barely holding on to whatever threads of control he had left. All he had to do, was hope no one noticed. Especially his betrothed.
But he knew you knew exactly what you were doing.
The night wore on, and it felt like an eternity for Aemond. Watching your savour every sticky morsel. Seeing the syrupy sheen on your lips and fingers was driving him almost insane. He had known you could be a tease, he had experienced as such on multiple occasions, but never like this. Out in public, with more than just his eye on you.
His own plate was empty, the rest of the family now away from the table and spread across the room in little pockets of conversation. So Aemond took his chance.
Long strides took him around the table, his hands on the back of your chair as he leaned down to whisper.
"You are playing a dangerous game, sister."
You didn't even turn, the only sound leaving you being the soft smack of your lips against your fingers as you cleaned away the remnants of your meal from the tips. You heard the creak of the wood as his hands tightened on your chair.
You had him right where you wanted him.
A few more seconds passed before you deigned to answer him.
"I am simply enjoying my food, brother," you whispered back, leaning back just enough to look up at him as he stood over you from behind.
"If that bothers you, then I fear that is a problem for you to handle yourself."
You were sure you heard him growl under his breath. Even a man like Aemond, usually a pillar of control, could only hold on for so long. But you continued before he even had chance to respond.
"And it is truly such a problem, may I suggest you cross the room and concern yourself with your wife to be?"
Aemond's fingers dug into the texture of the wood, gripping the chair so hard he almost tipped it backwards. It wasn't just your words that agitated him, but the calm way you spoke. As though you hadn't just made your dinner a sordid display aimed to stoke the flames within him.
You held his gaze, raising a brow when he seemed unable to find an answer. Only a low grunt of frustration left him as he turned on his heel and did exactly as you said.
But you knew he wasn't finished with you.
You could hear familiar footsteps behind you as you walked down the hallway to your chambers. The dinner was long finished, but you had chosen to take the longer way back, just in case a certain brother wished to follow you.
You rounded yet another corner, purposefully slowing your steps as you heard Aemond gain ground on you. As the footsteps were loud enough to be directly behind you, when you could smell the leather and smoke that always seemed to cling to him, you slowed to a stop.
"Are you following me, brother?"
A hand on your arm was your answer. Dragging you towards one of the many darkened alcoves. Not a single word left him as he caged you against the cold, stone wall. There was barely an inch between you, his breath warm against your cheek as he leaned down to run the sharp edge of his nose against your neck.
"Do not play innocent now," he hissed, lips brushing against your skin.
How long could you keep this game up, he wondered. Was this coming from a place of love or lust? Either way, it didn't matter much. You were under his skin and he had every intention of satisfying the desires that you had awakened.
"I have played nothing at all. Again, if it bothered you that is your own issue."
Gods, you were frustrating. He knew you inside and out, both literally and emotionally. Aemond knew every little tell, every fleeting expression that told the truth within. Yet you were beyond stubborn.
His hand was planted just above your head, his lean frame crowding your space. Aemond's free hand reached up, his thumb brushing against your lower lip. Holding it down until your mouth fell open enough for the tip of his thumb to feel the edge of your teeth.
He could still feel the faint stickiness from the honey on your lips, the temptation to kiss you, to taste it for himself was almost too much to bear.
"You are infuriating, hāedar."
You couldn't hold back your smile now. The edges of your teeth sliding against his thumb as your façade finally broke. The tip of your tongue slipping between them, barely touching his skin before retreating.
"Yet…you tolerate me," the words were muffled as he tugged on your lip, pressing the plump flesh against your chin.
Aemond hummed low, finally releasing your lip only to grip your chin and tilt your face up to look at him. His smirk now mirroring yours. You were the bane of his life, yet the idea of not being around you was not something he could bear thinking of.
You could see the mischief in his eye now. A look that only ever seemed to be directed at you.
"I believe you should make it up to me, putting on a show like that when I could do nothing but watch…"
His voice was so low. Barely a rumble as he leaned down, his forehead pressed against yours. His words almost vibrating through you. If his weakness was your lips, yours was his voice. And he knew your weaknesses as well as you knew his.
"I wished only to remind you what you would lose, now you are to be a husband."
There it was. Aemond chuckled, his grip on your chin loosening as his hand slid down your body. Jealousy was not something he expected from you, but he found himself quite enjoying it. Not that anyone could ever replace you in his life.
His tall form pressed itself fully against you, letting you feel every plane of lean muscle and the insistent twitch of his cock cushioned by the fabric of your gown. He wouldn't say it, but you were the one thing that would come above duty. His sweet, little sister.
Your hands tugged at his tunic, as though you were trying to close any distance left between you. Pulling at the belt that kept the leather together, knowing just the way you could 'make it up to him'.
Aemond surrendered to you almost immediately, letting you tug at his clothes as he leaned back against the opposite wall.
"I am not jealous," you purred, shifting your dress so you could comfortably lower yourself to kneeling.
"Jealousy would mean I feel threatened."
The cool air bit at his skin as you pulled down his dark breeches at an almost glacial pace. You were clawing back your control and Aemond was happy to let you.
"How can I be threatened when I know you belong to me?"
Any answer fell silent on Aemond's tongue as your soft lips encircled the head of his cock. Not taking him fully, but giving him a taste of what was to come. His teeth tugged at his lip, stifling the groan that threatened to spill from him. His hand moving to tangle in your hair, slipping between the intricate braids in an attempt to keep you close.
Such an innocent face that hid such an insatiable minx, you were surely to be the death of him. And you knew it.
Your lips curled into a smile as you took him in deeper. Your tongue flat against the underside of his cock as you slowly took as much as could. His head fell back against the wall as his swollen head ghosted the back of your throat.
You could hear him curse under his breath, a tangled mix of Valyrian and common tongue coming out in breathy groans. The pace you took was slow, savouring every ridge and vein on his skin, relishing the salty droplets that already spilled on your tongue.
So much better than any honeyed fruit you could consume.
Aemond dared to look down, watching as your lips moved against his length. Feeling the sticky pull of your honey stained lips with every movement. It was almost too much to bear. His fingers tightened in your hair, silently begging for you to move faster.
As much as you wished to keep teasing him, seeing him so lost to pleasure already sent sparks of need through your veins. Desire pooling between your thighs at just the idea of him spending himself down your waiting throat.
You let Aemond set the pace. His hips beginning to move to meet your mouth, the muscles in his stomach tense as he used every ounce of his restraint not to piston his hips faster and faster.
The sounds were beyond sinful. The wet slide of your mouth and tongue over his skin, his laboured pants as he tried to hold on just a little longer. But as you hollowed your cheeks, your hand circling his base and matching the pace of your mouth.
Aemond knew he wouldn't last much longer. His eye squeezed tight as he felt his release biting at the base of his spine. He wanted to savour the feeling of you, but with every pass of your tongue his control was waning.
"Fuck…" he muttered under his breath, almost curling to lean over you as his release began to race through him.
But he wanted to see you. To watch you swallow every last drop, and it was like you could read his mind. Your hand moved at the same pace as your mouth had as you pulled back, his own soon joining yours as you let your tongue roll out in waiting.
Aemond was half sure he had died and gone to the heavens, his mind hazy as he furiously pumped his fist until he spilled with a rough growl. Every drop caught on your tongue, the pearly essence clinging to your lips just like your honeyed fruits.
With a final, low moan of your name he let his hand slow. The other stroking through the now tangled mess of your hair as you swallowed everything you could. Your chest heaved with the exertion as you stood, helping Aemond as he shakily fastened his clothes.
His lips immediately found yours. But the kiss was filled with love rather than lust now. A silent promise.
Pairing: Michael Gavey x f!reader
Warnings: Explicit sexual content.
Word count: ~1.5k
Summary: Michael's girlfriend has a unique proposition for how to overcome the issue of his glasses fogging up when they're intimate. For the Kinktober prompt "blindfolds".
Author's note: No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.
“Oi, give those back!” Michael protested as she grasped the temples of his glasses, snatching them off his face. “I want to be able to see you.”
She tutted as he took them back. He placed them back upon the bridge of his nose and glared up at her as she shifted into focus once more, no longer a blur.
“They steam up, so you can’t see me anyway,” she retorted softly, ruffling a hand through his tousled hair as she sat astride him, “you might as well take them off.”
He hummed in acknowledgement, his thumbs rubbing absentminded circles upon her naked thighs. He supposed she had a point – in the six months they had been seeing each other, whenever things turned hot and heavy, his vision was usually the first thing to go as the lenses of his spectacles fogged with condensation. Still, smogged up vision was better than nothing, especially now when she had him sitting up against the wall on his single bed, both of them stripped to their underwear as she straddled him. He’d frost and pebble the glass of the lenses if it meant keeping her like this forever.
“Minimal vision is better than everything being a blur,” he uttered, leaning up to capture her lips with his own, eager to continue what they had started, and remove what little was left covering them both.
“Is it?” she asked, cocking her head with a smirk as she planted her palm against his chest, pushing him back before he could kiss her. Michael huffed impatiently. “What if we took away your sight entirely?”
“What do you mean?” he asked, narrowing his eyes in suspicion, feeling apprehension creep like gentle fingers upon the hairs at the nape of his neck.
He watched with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation as she leaned across him, pulling open the top drawer of the bedside cabinet and rifling through it. Her fingers pushed aside condom wrappers, old batteries and half empty packets of chewing gum until they settled upon the tie. She pulled it free and held it taught in both her hands before him, an excited grin upon her face. It was bright red, checkered with green diamonds – ugly and made of cheap polyester; an unwanted Christmas gift from his grandmother.
“You can wear that to your graduation,” she’d said proudly, and Michael had smiled tightly, knowing he’d be doing no such thing, and not just because it was against Oxford University’s strict uniform policy. He had stuffed it into the draw when he’d gotten back from Christmas break and forgotten all about it – until now.
“Let me blindfold you,” she suggested, her eyes twinkling with excitement as she grinned down at him.
“Absolutely not,” he scoffed, shaking his head, “we only started sleeping together a few months ago, I don’t think I’m quite ready for any of that S&M stuff yet.”
She laughed, the sound soft, almost melodic as she threw her head back. His gaze followed the delicate curve of her neck, the movement causing her to shake atop him, It rapidly stirred his desire back to life once more, his throat running dry as he gripped her firmly by the hips.
“I’m not going to whip you or tie you up,” she said with an amused smile, “I just think it would be fun for you to focus on the sensation of touch, instead of being so hung up on what you can see. If you don’t like it, we can stop as soon as you say so. What do you reckon?”
Michael couldn’t deny her anything, not when she looked at him like that. He was powerless to resist her. He swallowed thickly, looking between the tie and her face before finally conceding. “Alright then.”
With his glasses removed and the tie knotted snugly around his head, obscuring his vision, Michael was only aware of the faint glow of the light of the lamp that filtered in above and below the fabric. The lack of sight made his heart thump in his chest, his pulse racing in nervous anticipation. He was utterly at her mercy, and almost embarrassed by how much it turned him on.
When her lips brushed his, each kiss was heightened, more intimate. He focused on the lewd, wet sounds that the saliva in their mouths made, and the way her breath intermingled with his. When she tugged his bottom lip between her teeth briefly before letting it go again, his cock twitched in his boxers, the sharp sting of her nip travelling like an electric current all the way through his body.
“How’s that?” she whispered to him.
“It–it’s good,” he murmured, his fingers tightening in the duvet cover either side of him. “But tell me what you’re doing, it’s better for me if I know what to expect.”
“And I won’t come in my pants like a loser if you don’t keep taking me by surprise,” he neglected to add.
“I’m going to kiss your neck,” her breath fanned against his flesh, and instinctively he found himself tilting his head to give her better access.
His lips parted as she placed open mouthed kisses against his pulse point, dragging the tip of her nose against his Adam's apple. He didn’t need to see to know there was a damp patch of arousal forming on the front of his boxers.
“You smell so fucking good, do you know that?” she purred.
Of course he did; though she’d never said it aloud, since he had started wearing the aftershave she’d bought for him, her face found its way to the crook of his neck every time they were intimate. Hearing her actually say the words, however, felt like every nerve ending in his body was ablaze, making him groan appreciatively.
“Fuck!” the word spilled effortlessly from his lips as she trailed her mouth down his body, creating a damp path from his clavicle all the way to the smattering of hair that stopped just beneath his navel. The moisture of her saliva felt like liquid fire when he couldn’t see her crawling her way down his body, and he found himself coiled tight like a spring, practically shaking with the effort not to wrench the blindfold away and watch her. It was torture not being able to see her, somehow too much and not enough at the same time. His hands twitched reflexively and he curled his fingers tighter into the bedspread, stilling himself. He exhaled shakily as her fingers splayed across the waistband of his boxer shorts, and felt the mattress dip as she settled her weight between his thighs. He was desperate to ask her what she was doing, about to speak when–
“Do you want me to suck your cock?”
The question was almost his undoing. He exhaled shakily, his back instinctively bowing off the bed. He was certain he’d come the moment she took him into her mouth, but there was no way he would say no to a question like that.
“Y–yes, yes, god yes!”
She giggled softly, curling her fingers into his underwear, and he whined involuntarily as she tugged them down, exposing the sensitive head of his cock to the cool air of the room. His erection pulled forward slightly as she pulled his boxers all the way down, before springing back with a soft thump against his lower abdomen, making his hips jerk.
He panted heavily as she grasped the base of him, his heart lurching wildly behind his ribs. Time seemed to stretch across aeons as he waited for her mouth to descend upon him, and when he finally felt the soft warmth of lips envelope the tip of him, the sound that tore from his throat was inhuman – a strangled cry that he was unaware he was even capable of making. The bob of her head as she took the length of him in and out of the warm cavern of her mouth was excruciating, it was exquisite torture to feel her hand pump the base of his shaft in time with her movements.
She had gone down on him before, and Michael had been transfixed with the way her pretty lips formed a near perfect ‘O’ around his girth, and had been short of breath at her big doe eyes staring up at him. Now, he had only sensation to go on, and was certain his heart would give out entirely each time he felt himself knock the back of her throat, coupled with the subtle convulsion of her gagging. The sounds were obscene, wet and sloppy, and entirely more filthy than he ever remembered it being.
When he came it bordered on being painful, his stomach muscles bunched up tightly as his spine pulled rigid, almost sitting up with the force with which his body tried to curl in on itself as his toes clenched and unclenched repeatedly. There was white hot pleasure in his lower spine, a pulsating ache in the depths of him that drew his balls up tight as he felt the movement of her tongue while she swallowed everything he pumped out.
He collapsed back against the pillow, panting heavily, and she released him, placing his softening cock gently against his thigh. Pulling the tie free of his eyes, the shape of her between his thighs was a hazy blur, but he didn’t need his glasses to know she was smiling up at him – the beautiful shape of her grin was etched into his mind forever, the most welcome sight of all.
You dropped your backpack and bow against the creaking wooden floorboards with a heavy grunt, making the shadows lurking in the corners of the old, dilapidated house jump for a moment. The noise echoed between the cracked walls and the dirty window panes, then quickly faded, replaced by the slow, methodical rustle of papers that you spread out on the rotten table with trembling, filthy hands.
With a pastel marker, you drew a large X near the small cluster of houses where you had been, a few hours’ walk from your base. The empty streets, broken rooftops, and overgrown gardens offered no clues. No trace of Spike or Isla there either. Only silence, dust, and signs of the infected.
You slid into the chair with a sigh that carried all the exhaustion of weeks of solitary marches. Burning eyes scanned the surface of the map you had snatched from the abandoned shop—a prize taken at a high cost. Three fast infected, hidden behind the counter, had almost turned your stroke of luck into a tragedy, but once again, you had survived.
For weeks now, you had wandered without encountering a single living soul. Only wildlife—predators and prey invisible among the decrepit buildings—had allowed your starving body to survive.
You found yourself thinking, almost with a bitter smile, that if you ever crossed that final threshold into the beyond, you would thank your father. He had been the one to teach you how to read the signs of nature, how to navigate, how to endure. Without him, now you would be just another shadow among the ruins.
A drop of sweat slid down your temple, lightly stinging your skin, and you wiped it away before it could reach your dry lips. The smell of dampness and rotting wood filled the air, while a sense of urgency pushed you to think of the rainwater barrel you had filled the day before. It would be better to use it before the water became stagnant and murky.
Outside, the sky was beginning to turn a dark orange. The sun was quickly sinking behind the green hills, and soon darkness would swallow everything. Going out now would be madness, with twilight turning every corner into a potential hiding place for anything or anyone still roaming nearby.
You grabbed your bow and quiver and slowly climbed the stairs to the upper floor. Each step protested under your weight, releasing puffs of dust and a creak that bounced off the cracked walls. The house was full of holes in the floors and ceiling, gifts of time and weather, but at least you had a roof over your head. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to snatch a few hours of rest each night. Half an eye open, always vigilant, always ready to react to the slightest noise, but better than nothing.
Your clothes fell in a small pile at the foot of the barrel. They would have to take a bath later, just as you had done with those still hanging on the line on the terrace, exposed to the pale sun and light breeze that slowly dried them.
You slipped in one foot, then the other, using your arms to lift yourself enough to submerge your entire body. The icy water sent a shiver through you, making you flinch, but by now it was a sensation you knew all too well. Every immersion was a small challenge to survival: the cold water sharpened your senses, washed the fatigue from your aching joints, forcing you to focus on the present, your breath, your heartbeat.
You lowered yourself slowly until you sank, letting the cold bite at your head, penetrating your hair and the grime built up on your scalp. When you were satisfied, you emerged quickly, taking a deep breath. The water gurgled around you, sliding along your tense muscles, carrying everything away.
You grabbed the hard bar of soap you had brought from the island, letting it slip between your wet fingers. It was worn at the edges, with small cracks that told of days of use, but still fragrant, with a dry, slightly sweet smell that brought memories back. Years ago, you had given Isla an entire pack of soaps, in different shapes and colors, as a little treasure to keep. When you asked her about the gift, Isla never remembered what you were talking about; she would laugh and shake her head, confused, and you would smile bitterly.
But when you passed that bar of soap under her nose, something changed. Her eyes lit up, as if an invisible thread pulled her back to reality. She would thank you with a tired but genuine smile, and you would see her use it carefully, often on herself and on Spike, leaving behind a faint scent that lingered on you every time you met them. It was a small gesture of normalcy, a trace of affection in a world that had almost erased it.
Now, immersed in the barrel, you clutched the soap in your hands and began rubbing it slowly over your body and through your hair. The white foam formed gradually, sliding over your skin like a fragile caress, mingling with the icy water. Every movement was methodical, almost ritualistic: you scrubbed your arms, neck, back, until you felt the sensation of cleanliness under fingers numbed by the cold.
With a deep breath, you lowered yourself further, fully submerging, and ran your hands through your hair to wash out the foam.
You stayed submerged for a few moments, your body suspended in the cold water, eyes closed, surrounded by a darkness that was not threatening but strangely comforting. In that moment, however brief, you felt human again, alive again, even though the pressure of the water made it hard to breathe.
Then you suddenly resurfaced, your body still trembling from the cold, and you slowly lifted yourself over the edge of the barrel. Water dripped down your sides, sliding across the cracked floor as you tried to find your balance. With an automatic gesture, you grabbed the worn, faded towel resting on the shelf in the middle of the hallway and began blotting your skin, wiping away the excess water.
The cold air scratched at you, but you preferred it to the feeling of dirt and sweat that had often plagued you for days on end.
You were about to grab your clothes and start washing them when a dull noise from the floor below made you freeze. Your heart leapt suddenly into your throat, and for a moment, the whole world shrank to that sound. A creaking floor, a falling object—or… something alive? There was no time to reason.
Your instinct took over. In a flash, your hands seized the bow and quiver, and before you even realized it, an arrow was already nocked. The movement was automatic, a trained reflex: muscles tense, breathing controlled, eyes scanning the shadows. The arrow pointed toward the stairs leading down.
A shiver of adrenaline ran down your spine as your lungs sought oxygen and your fingers maintained the perfect tension on the bow.
The noises continued below, and your bare feet moved silently across the parquet, granting you temporary invisibility.
When you reached the first steps, the wall vanished, and the scene opened before you.
Someone, dressed in a dark jumpsuit, was kneeling on the floor, rummaging through your backpack with casual curiosity, tossing aside the traps you had painstakingly created. Every piece of metal, every rope, every small gear fell with a dull thud, and your heart tightened with a mix of anger and fear.
The front door of the house was half-closed, swaying slightly in a breeze. Passing it cautiously, your eyes saw no one beyond it, nor outside: it was empty.
With slow but precise movements, you drew the bowstring back until you felt perfect tension between your fingers. The arrow, dark and pointed, immediately found its mark: the blonde head of the kneeling person illuminated by the dim moonlight filtering through the broken glass.
“Don’t move, or I’ll put an arrow in your head,” you hissed, your voice steady and sharp, infused with a determination that left no room for doubt. Silence followed your words, heavy and dense, as you watched the thief’s back straighten suddenly and stiffen.
“Turn… slowly,” you ordered, voice low and firm, as you observed the thief raise their arms in surrender. Their feet lifted slightly off the ground, and that’s when you noticed how tall they were, much taller than you had imagined. “That’s it…” you murmured, trying to maintain control as every fiber of your body remained taut.
The thief turned slowly, and the youthful face of a boy hit you square in the stomach, a sudden blow that was not physical but left you breathless. He couldn’t have been more than twenty. His eyes—blue, or maybe green, you couldn’t tell at first—lowered slowly, scanning your naked body with curiosity, and a faint, amused smirk appeared on his lips.
For a moment, your grip on the bow wavered. Your muscles tensed abruptly under the cold air that had entered the room, every hair on your skin rising, your heart racing as if it wanted to leap from your chest. Before you could turn or react, you felt the cold, metallic tip of a knife pressed firmly against your throat.
The contact was precise, threatening, and the smell of metal filled your nostrils, mingling with the scent of dust and rotting wood.
“Lower yer weapon,” he said in a low, slow voice, each word charged with an ambiguous savor, as if he were enjoying every second of your discomfort. “I wouldn’t want to leave a nasty mark on this bonnie neck, missy.” The faint smile curling his lips was almost imperceptible, but enough to make you understand he wasn’t joking.
The bow in your hands suddenly felt heavy, and the cold of the room penetrated deeper. Every breath of the young blonde kneeling before you seemed held, while the malice of the third person filled the air.
Every fiber of your body screamed to react, but your mind was clear. The knife on your skin left no margin for error. Slowly, you lowered the bow a few centimeters, then let it drop to the floor, eyes fixed on the boy in front of you who finally lowered his arms and let out a sigh of relief.
“Damn, Shite, where have you been?! This bitch almost blew my brains out…”
A cold hand planted itself on your side, knuckles against your ribs, and the fingers—short, dirt-stained—dug into your flesh like hooks. They squeezed without warning, pulling you sharply toward the soft fabric covering the boy’s figure. For a moment, you lost your balance: your feet shuffled back a couple of steps, trying to find grip on the uneven floor, moving away from the only thing giving you power at that moment—the bow.
“Ye’re still breathing, right? Then stop whinin' and take the bow,” the boy behind you, Shite, growled, pressing the blade just slightly against your throat to remind you not to move a muscle.
The blonde huffed, limped forward toward you, and picked up the bow and arrow; when he stood, he was suddenly just a breath away from your face. Up close, you could finally see the details: an inverted cross, carved like an eternal mark on his forehead, and the unnatural line along his hair betraying a poorly fitted wig.
“Is there anyone else with you?” he asked, poking your stomach with the tip of your own arrow as if it were a scepter.
“No,” you replied, eyes narrowed to slits, chin high despite your less-than-dignified state.
“Good.” A glint caught your eye: the blonde had drawn a knife from his hoodie. He raised it slowly, measuring the movement as if marking a point on a map. The tip lowered toward the spot where your arrow had just grazed, and you felt your breath shorten, as if someone had pressed on your chest. “Shall we teach her a lesson first?”
You tried a step back, but Shite—iron hands and a cruel grin—held you firmly. The blonde’s blade rested against your stomach; a thin line of blood began to form, dark little beads clinging to the metal before dripping drop by drop. The cold of the blade, the metallic taste in the air, the dull burn: everything concentrated in a raw instant.
Then a voice slid into the room, breaking the tension like an iron bar shattering glass.
“What are you doing?”
Shite barely turned, just enough for you to follow the trajectory of his gaze. His eyes fixed on a figure you knew well: two sky-colored eyes studied you as if reading the insides of your pockets.
Spike.
The young man entered with a dirty face, expression choked with astonishment—and upon hearing your name, Shite’s blade on your neck tilted, lowering a few millimeters. For a heartbeat, it seemed the world had opened a crack.
You seized that moment with the precision you had learned to cultivate: you twisted the boy’s wrist, jerking it upward in a sharp movement, and sank your teeth into the back of his hand with all your strength. The metallic taste of blood filled your mouth; the boy’s knuckles stiffened, a strangled growl escaped his throat. The blade slipped from his hand as he struggled to free himself from your bite.
The knife was yours now as you felt the body behind you recoil. For a moment, the world shrank to the shiny knife in your hand and the ragged breathing of the one in front of you. You pulled back your arm to bring the blade toward the blonde, intent on killing, when he dropped the knife and, hands raised, pointed your own bow at you.
“Stop!” Spike stepped forward, voice tense but carrying something more than fear—it was anxiety, protection. He positioned himself between you and the blonde, eyes shifting from you to the boy, hands half-raised to signal that this was not the way. From the swing of hostility, a fragile truce emerged, a pause that could shatter in a second.
Shite slumped onto the first step, his left hand bleeding in his lap. His gaze mirrored that of the other blonde: angry, betrayed, wounded. They looked at you with resentment and the same sense of ownership, as if everything were owed to them.
Your naked body was thrown hard against the floor, the impact rattling through your ribs and sending a sharp cry from your throat. You slid until your cheek almost brushed the toe of a filthy sneaker. The stench of sweat and damp rubber filled your nostrils, making your stomach twist.
The pain was already unbearable. Your feet, raw and torn from being forced over jagged rocks, left streaks of blood across the floor. You didn’t even attempt to push yourself upright with them; every touch of weight would’ve been agony. Instead, you clawed at the floor with trembling hands, dragging your body inch by inch until you could raise yourself onto your elbows.
It was then you felt it — a touch. Familiar, trembling, hesitant. Spike’s hand against your back.
Your breath hitched, the briefest thread of relief piercing the haze of pain. You turned your head just enough to catch his wide, scared eyes. For his sake, you forced the smallest nod with your chin, a silent acknowledgment: I’m still here. Don’t lose yourself.
“What’s that mean?”
The voice was harsh, grating, dripping with amusement. It yanked your attention away from Spike, toward the figure seated just ahead of you.
Lounging like a king in his ruined throne, he sat sprawled in an armchair that had seen better years, its fabric torn and stained, its stuffing poking through. His legs were spread wide, planted firmly, ownership dripping from the posture alone.
The man wore a purple tracksuit with a numerous gold chains around the neck that caught the dim light. On his head — absurd yet terrifying in its certainty — rested a tiara. Not plastic. Real. Gilded. Jewels glinting faintly against the shadowed room.
Long blond hair framed his face, curling wild on his shoulders, giving him a feral kind of regality. His sharp jaw twitched as he smirked, eyes narrowing on you with something halfway between curiosity and hunger.
“Well?” he asked again, tilting his head like a predator pretending at patience when nobody answered him. His voice had softened, but the edge in it remained razor-sharp.
Spike was still holding your arms, his small hands tense but stronger than you remembered. You turned just enough to meet his eyes and were surprised: there wasn’t just fear in them, but anger. A young, pure anger that left no room for hesitation.
He glared at Shite with a venomous look, then at the other boy—Fox, or so you had understood his name was. He stared at him as if he could tear the skin from his body with his gaze alone. Then he lifted his chin and looked toward the adult man looming over you.
“She’s my friend. I don’t want her to be hurt.”
His words cut through the air like the knife you’d had at your throat just minutes ago, sharp and clear, and for a moment there was silence. The other boys turned toward him as well, some with surprised expressions, others almost amused by the audacity of this kid daring to speak that way in front of what was almost certainly their leader.
You felt his grip on your arms tighten, almost painfully, as if to emphasize that he meant every word. And you stood there, holding your breath, wondering when he had changed. Spike had always been bold, with that spark that made him different from the others, but this strength he was showing you now… this fierce confidence… you had never seen it fully before.
You tore your gaze away from him, too young to carry so much weight, and turned it back to the man.
His pale eyes pierced you. He studied you silently, unhurried, with a calmness that carried something cruel. His gaze drifted over your naked body, lingering shamelessly on your chest—a heartbeat too long, a moment more than necessary. You felt your skin burn under that invisible weight. Then his eyes returned to your face, and he gave the faintest, unsettling smile.
His right hand, adorned with heavy rings, moved slowly. He reached toward one side of the armchair and grabbed something: a worn but still warm fleece blanket, perhaps recently used.
He took it and, without a word, threw it decisively over your shoulders. The fabric enveloped you instantly, covering your nudity, like an unexpected gift—or a silent command.
“Aye, Spike. Ye know it. Yer mates are me mates too.”
The tension in Spike’s hands eased slightly, as if that approval had, for a moment, softened his anger. But you sensed that something was still off.
Finally, the man slowly rose from the armchair. His presence was imposing, and the candlelight made his rings glint like claws. Yet his face remained calm, even gentle, as he knelt and adjusted the blanket slipping from your shoulder with two fingers.
“I’m Jimmy Crystal.”
His voice flowed through the room like worn velvet, imbued with confidence. Then, with a half-smile, he added, “But ye can call me Jimmy.”
He extended his hand, the right adorned with heavy rings glittering. His fingers were long, slender, but strong; the rough skin on his knuckles spoke of fights fought.
For a moment, you froze, uncertain. Every instinct screamed not to trust, not to grant even that minimal gesture. Yet… there was something in his gaze that told you he knew your hesitation and was savoring it.
His hand hovered between you, steady, patient, as if certain that, in the end, you would be the one to yield.
And he was right: patience won you over. With a slow, almost reluctant motion, you raised your hand and placed it in his.
The contact surprised you. His skin was warm—incredibly warm—as if fire ran beneath it. Strangely comforting, like the icy water in the barrel in the house you had occupied and would never return to.
“Nice to meet you,” you murmured, enunciating your name more softly than expected. It was a formality, a mechanical courtesy dictated by your upbringing, but when his lips curved into a satisfied smile, you understood he had gotten exactly what he wanted: your acknowledgment.
“There,” he said quietly, releasing your hand only after a few seconds too many. “Now we’re mates.”
Mates. The word didn’t sound like an invitation but like a declaration. A fait accompli.
Jimmy’s blue eyes slowly drifted toward the floor. For a moment, his face lost that self-satisfied smile, replaced by a quick grimace, almost of disgust, when he noticed the small scarlet drops scattered under your wounded feet.
“Mm.” His tongue ran over his protruding canine, as if tasting the idea. Then he looked up at Spike, with the icy calm of someone accustomed to giving orders and seeing them executed.
“Take her to yer room, lad,” he finally said. His voice was low, but carried a tone that admitted no reply. “She needs to be looked after.”
You stared at him, surprised, unsure whether he was genuinely concerned or playing a role. And for a moment—just for a moment—he seemed almost sincere.
Jimmy snapped his fingers sharply, a gesture elegant in its theatricality. The sound bounced off the walls of the silent room like a conductor’s signal.
“Jimmima. Ink.” His tone was honeyed, but in reality left no choice. “Give her a hand.”
From behind the sofa emerged two female figures you hadn’t noticed. Both wore blonde wigs, and their extravagant, two-tone outfits made them seem as if they’d stepped out of a twisted carnival. Yet their eyes were hard, obedient, without hesitation.
Without a word, they bent over you. You felt their hands slide under your arms, warm and firm, and your exhausted body had no strength to resist. They lifted you up, forcing you to walk unsteadily as they supported you on both sides. The smell of their synthetic clothes filled your nostrils—stifling, almost nauseating.
As they dragged you across the room, you noticed other footsteps behind you. Two, maybe three boys from the group followed at a distance, ready to intervene. A silent escort that made your blood run cold: this wasn’t help, it was surveillance.
Then, behind you, Fox and Shite moved, and Shite tried to step forward, extending an arm as if offering to carry you himself.
They didn’t make it.
A sharp, cutting whistle exploded from Jimmy Crystal’s mouth. That was enough.
“No.” His voice rang harsher, less playful. “Not you two.”
The two froze like dogs halted by their master. No one protested. No one dared take a step further. They exchanged only a brief look, frustration and fear mingled, before stepping back.
Then the doors to the room closed behind you.
The silence in the room was thick, broken only by the distant crackle of a fire and the hum of the wind filtering through the uneven boards. The pungent smell of makeshift disinfectant filled your nostrils, a mix of alcohol and macerated herbs that stung as soon as it touched your skin.
You had slipped into a pair of old pants and a sweatshirt they had found for you, discarding the underwear that seemed used and unwashed.
Spike was crouched in front of you, sitting on a low stool. He had retrieved an old cloth and a chipped glass bottle, filled from who-knows-where. His hands, dirty and calloused, moved slowly but steadily, gripping your foot firmly as he wiped the soaked cloth over your wounds.
You gritted your teeth, holding back a whimper as the liquid burned. The boy looked up, his clear eyes illuminated only by a flickering candle on the nightstand.
“I know it hurts,” he murmured, “but we have to clean them well. We can’t risk infections in here.”
You nodded softly, watching him anxiously. You wanted to ask the fateful question, but you were terrified of the answer. You bit your lip.
It only took one look from Spike for him to understand your inner conflict.
He remained silent for a few minutes, working carefully. Then, without warning, he spoke.
“She didn’t suffer, y'know… after we escaped from the island…” His voice was hoarse, low, almost hesitant. “We met a man. A doctor. Dr. Kelson.”
His tone shifted as he said the name: a mix of respect and bitterness.
He continued disinfecting you, but his hand trembled slightly.
“It seemed almost like a miracle. Someone who still knew how to heal people… who hadn’t forgotten how. For a while, we believed he could fix everything.”
You felt tears sting the corners of your eyes.
Spike drew a deep breath. “But mom… mom wasn’t well. He understood immediately. She pretended to be better than she was. I could see it. She said nothing; she didn’t want to worry me.”
He paused, holding your foot tightly in his hands, as if he needed something to anchor himself.
“Kelson ran some tests… as much as he could, with the means he had. He said it was a tumor. Advanced. There was nothing to be done.”
The silence that followed was heavy, filled only by the quickened beat of your heart. You wanted to say something, but your voice died on your lips.
Then Spike looked at you again. And in his eyes, there was no anger, no tears: only a dull pain, a wound that would never close.
“She didn’t want to keep suffering. She didn’t want to become… a burden.” The boy shook his head slowly. “And Kelson… Kelson chose to help her. To take away her pain. He gave her… a peaceful death.”
You placed a hand on his arm, and he didn’t move. He accepted your comfort.
“I’m so sorry, Spike…” you managed to say with difficulty, as the image of Isla waving from the veranda of her home slowly faded from your memory, leaving only an empty house behind.
You were about to pull the boy against your chest to comfort him when the door opened, and Jimmy Crystal entered as if the room belonged to him. Spike spun around, ready to say something, but Jimmy only raised a hand, the smile on his lips tight, filled with that false calm you had come to recognize.
“Lad,” he said, his voice flat, mellifluous. “Go fetch another kit. And some scran. Our guest needs energy.”
Spike hesitated for a moment, his gaze shifting from you to him. You wanted to tell him to stay, but Jimmy left no room for discussion: he nodded to him, and Spike lowered his eyes. He left the room with quick, nervous steps, closing the door behind him.
The silence that followed made you shiver. Now you were alone.
The blonde man advanced slowly, the soles of his shoes sliding across the floor. He crouched in front of you, mirroring the position Spike had held moments before, and took your foot in his hands without asking, with a confident, almost intimate gesture. But you jerked back sharply, your heart hammering in your chest.
“I can do it myself.”
Your voice was sharp, decisive. You ripped the soaked cloth from his hands, gripping it tightly. And without waiting for his reaction, you began tending your wounds alone. The burn of the alcohol made you grit your teeth, but you preferred that pain to his hands on you.
Jimmy watched you, one eyebrow slightly raised. Then he smiled, showing his worn teeth, and leaned calmly against the back of the chair beside you, as if your refusal hadn’t affected him in the slightest.
“I’m sorry ma lads left ye like this…” he said, his voice low, almost sweet. “They can be real beasts sometimes.”
You didn’t answer. The cloth moved quickly over your ankles, smeared with dried blood, your fingers clenched until your knuckles turned white.
Jimmy didn’t seem bothered by your silence. He kept watching you, his blue eyes gleaming in the flickering light. “Hope ye understand. This world… it’s made them fierce.”
You paused, raising your gaze to him. Hostility churned in your throat, stronger than fear.
“This world, you say?” you asked flatly, sarcastic. That world was fucked, sure, but you knew what a man with a big ego and the desire to elevate himself to God could do.
For a moment, you thought you’d hit a nerve. But Jimmy… laughed. Softly, low and warm, almost surprised. He ran a hand through his long blonde hair, adjusting the tiara as if it were a natural part of him.
The smile he gave you was almost paternal, yet it sent shivers down your spine. “You’re sharp, I like that.”
Yet it wasn’t enough. You couldn’t afford to guess at his game. You had to see how much space he would allow you, how real his apparent mildness was.
So you decided to expose yourself. A blunt, bold statement that would collapse any mask if his calm was merely a fragile act.
“I’m taking Spike with me. We’re going home.”
The silence that followed was almost tangible, thick as smoke.
For a moment, Jimmy’s eyes gave nothing away. He remained motionless, leaning against the chair, his gaze fixed on your face with the air of an impartial judge. You felt as if you could hear the ticking of a nonexistent clock, every second stretched to infinity.
Then his jaw tensed slightly.
“Home?” he repeated, savoring the word as if it were foreign. “And where is that home, hen? Cause from what I can see…” he gestured with his hand toward the emptiness beyond the walls, “…out there, there’s nothing left.”
You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. Spike hadn’t told him about home. About yours island. He had been clever, careful, and foresighted. He didn’t trust these people; they hadn’t manipulated him like you thought.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His voice dropped, menacing. “Right?”
You didn’t lower your gaze. You couldn’t. You wouldn’t show fear, or he’d know. “Home is wherever he is with me,” you whispered, tense but firm. “I was late for his mother, but not for him.”
You considered half-truths the safest approach when lying skillfully, and Jimmy seemed to drink it in; his torso relaxed, and even the lines on his forehead smoothed. He believed you, or at least a little.
“Good, then I’ll make sure ye feel comfortable here… enough to call it home.” His smile widened, but it wasn’t warmer.
Jimmy reached out toward your face, making you tilt your head slightly back, but didn’t touch you. Instead, he shifted and lowered his hand, brushing your sweatshirt-covered shoulder, pressing lightly. It could have been a comforting gesture… if done by someone you knew well.
“If ye stay with us, if ye learn to trust…” he tilted his head, the chains at his neck jingling “…we can make sure Spike's alright. That ye're alright. And this place…” he gestured lightly toward the ceiling “…becomes yer new refuge. We’re the only grown-ups here. Let’s work together.”
You swallowed. Your throat dry as sand.
“Aye?” Jimmy pressed, his voice low but firm, as if he wanted to wrest confirmation from you not just with words but with your very skin. His fingers, still resting on your shoulder, squeezed lightly. Not hard, not painful, but enough to let you know he wasn’t joking.
“Aye.”
The word escaped in a breath. You weren’t sure you wanted to say it, but found no other way out.
The reaction was immediate. His hand slid away abruptly, as if the contact had suddenly become useless.
It was at that moment the door opened.
Spike appeared in the doorway, his hair tousled, his face still tense with worry. He held a steaming bowl in his arms, the aroma of hot broth immediately filling the room, mingling with the acrid smell of disinfectant. In his other hand, he held a small box of sterile gauze, taken from who-knows-which survivor cabinet.
“I found these,” he said quickly, a bit out of breath as if he had run. His gaze fell first on you, then on Jimmy, and you noticed the shadow of suspicion pass through his eyes.
Meanwhile, Jimmy didn’t flinch. He showed neither annoyance nor surprise at the interruption. He settled more comfortably in the chair next to you, elbows resting on his knees, and greeted Spike with a smile as sweet as honey.
“Good lad.”
The healing of your feet was slower than expected. Despite the clean bandages, the hot broth, and Spike’s care, the wounds burned every time you tried to put your heels on the floor. So you stayed in the room for almost three days, confined to that corner of the large house that reeked of mold and wood smoke.
To prevent your muscles from stiffening, you spent most of the time moving your legs stretched out on the bed, lifting them slightly, then bending them, or raising your arms above your head and crossing them like a slow exercise. You didn’t want to let weakness creep inside you. Not there. Not with them around.
Spike was your only support. He came often, bringing you water, food, or just his voice. He told you trivial stories, fragments from when he was still on the island, or memories of Isla that he tried to reconstruct to remember her. He spoke of the things he did for Jimmy Crystal and his boys, but always in a low voice, as if the whole house had ears.
The thing that comforted you most was a simple detail: Jimmy Crystal hadn’t shown himself. Neither with his gentle, false smile, nor with the hands that knew how to creep where you didn’t want them. A truce that kept you on edge, certainly, but still a truce.
It was on the afternoon of the fourth day that the monotony changed. You were leafing through an old book Spike had retrieved for you from a looted library — a worn novel, with pages stained by moisture and edges eaten away by time. It didn’t matter that it was incomplete or hard to read: it was a connection to the world before, to normalcy, and that was enough.
The door opened quietly, without knocking. You looked up and found a small, hesitant figure, walking almost timidly.
It was one of Jimmy Crystal’s girls. The one with slightly darker skin that Spike had told you was called Jimmy Ink, the label the boss had stitched onto her.
“Spike told us you’re a teacher,” she said, her voice steady but with a trace of uncertainty. “That you can read and write.”
You straightened on the bed, surprised by that tone, which had none of the cockiness of the other boys.
“That’s correct,” you answered softly.
Ink bit her lip. She looked at you without really looking at you, her eyes hidden beneath that ridiculous wig. Then, with a breath that seemed to cost her, she murmured:
“W… would you teach me?”
The question struck you right in the chest. You hadn’t expected it. In a world where survival was reduced to blades, blood, and fire, someone asking to learn to read and write was an almost impossible echo, a fragile memory of what you had lost.
And yet that request took you straight back to your students on the island. To the children who followed you with wide eyes, to their hands gripping pencils too tightly, to the smiles when they managed to read the first sentence on their own.
Your heart softened, despite the mistrust that still lingered toward anyone bearing Jimmy’s name.
“All right,” you finally said, raising a finger in front of your face. “But on one condition.”
The girl stiffened immediately. Her thin shoulders lifted, and you sensed panic in the silent moments that followed. Perhaps she feared a bribe, a price to pay like those she had probably been accustomed to from Jimmy Crystal.
You couldn’t help smiling. A small, almost amused smile.
“When you’re in here, you have to take off that hideous blonde wig.”
There was a suspended moment of silence. Then Ink made a strangled sound that could have been half a laugh or a stifled sob. Slowly, she brought her hands to her head and lifted the wig. The hair that came out was dark, badly cut, but real.
She was a different person. A young girl, far too young for the hardness the world had imposed on her.
She looked at you, uncertain, as if expecting you to make fun of her. But you simply nodded.
“This is better.”
Ink took a deep breath, and it almost seemed as if she had been relieved of an invisible weight. She sat on the chair next to your bed, hands tightly clasped on her knees.
“We’ll start from here. One letter at the time. It won’t be easy, but you’ll manage,” you told her, turning the book toward her.
Something that resembled gratitude flickered in her eyes. Fragile, hidden beneath years of fear and submission, but genuine.
In that moment, you realized that perhaps, amidst Jimmy Crystal’s cruelty and his boys’ brutality, there was still a crack. A gap. A place to plant a different kind of seed.
And for the first time in days, you felt that the room was no longer a cell.
Your sessions were short since Jimmy often called the kids away, but repeated several times throughout the day, so her progress was remarkable.
At first, it was only Ink.
She came every day, sitting with her body hunched on the chair next to your bed. Her embarrassment was palpable, but the effort she put in was genuine. Every time she traced a crooked letter with the dull pencil, she bit her lip and looked at you as if to ask forgiveness. You smiled at her, and that simple gesture encouraged her more than a thousand words could.
Then, slowly, the others began to arrive.
First was Jimmy Jimmy, the boy with endless chatter. He had peeked around the door during a lesson, chuckling to himself, and the next day he had sat of his own accord next to Ink, declaring that “he had nothing better to do anyway.”
Immediately after came Jimmima, the tall, thin girl with two blonde braids and an always-evading gaze. She didn’t speak much but paid attention, occasionally asking precise, surprising questions, as if she harbored a secret hunger for knowledge.
With three students, the room was already beginning to feel too small.
When you finally managed to move with less pain and place your feet on the floor without flinching, you decided to transfer the lessons to the main living room. It was a larger space, with tall windows and a long wooden table scratched by time and sharp weapons. The kids settled there, some sitting, some lying down, some perched on the edge with legs dangling. You were in the center, with books and papers that Spike helped you gather.
That’s when two more joined: Snake and Jones. Snake came one day just to cause trouble but stayed because he discovered that writing swear words in the notebook was more fun than he had expected. Jones, on the other hand, had a serious, somber air, and seemed to treasure every word as if it were precious.
The biggest surprise came when Shite and Fox stepped forward. They did so with a challenging air, as if the idea of attending your lessons was ridiculous, but they didn’t want to be left out.
“It’s not like our mates have much gray matter,” Shite muttered. “If they do it, then so do we.”
Fox just crossed his arms and nodded, as if the decision were inevitable.
So you found yourself with a class of eight students. Eight young people who until recently had only been tools in Jimmy Crystal’s hands, and who now, around the table, were becoming kids again. You found yourself laughing when one teased another about how they had written a word, or when Snake turned every exercise into a battle of insults on paper. It wasn’t your old school, it wasn’t your former students, but it was something dangerously close.
One afternoon, while the kids were engaged in group work — Ink and Jimmima trying to write an entire sentence, Shite deliberately misreading aloud to make Fox laugh — you noticed that Jimmy Crystal had approached.
He lowered himself slowly onto a chair next to yours, so close that the scent of his aftershave reached your nose. He rested an arm on the back of your chair, a gesture casual only in appearance.
“I could start callin' ye Wendy,” he said softly, with a smile that almost seemed like a confidant’s.
You raised an eyebrow, keeping your tone neutral. “Uh?”
Jimmy nodded toward the kids, scattered around the table, arguing over who had written a word better. “Look at how ye’ve lined them up. My lost boys. They don’t even seem like the same ones I used to have smashin' heads around.” He leaned slightly closer, his breath brushing your ear. “Isn’t that what Wendy did?”
A small smile escaped you, despite staying on guard. “It’s just school, Jimmy. A little discipline and lots of patience.”
“Aye, exactly,” he retorted with a spark in his eyes. “I’ve ne'er been good with patience. Ne'er had the right touch… but ye do. Ye speak to them an' they listen. Just like their mama.”
You stiffened at the word. Your fingers clenched on the edge of the table, but you managed to keep an ironic tone: “Does that make you Peter Pan?”
Jimmy laughed softly, low, as if he liked the comparison. “Why not? I’ve been a good da' to these bairns, haven’t I? Didn't I deserve a wee bit o' recognition from ye as well?”
You huffed amused at his pout, but your amusement didn’t seem to satisfy him.
His calloused fingers slipped into your hair, moving it gently aside, until they uncovered the side of your neck. That’s when you felt it: his warm breath brushing against your bare skin.
Too close.
Too intimate.
Heat rushed from your neck to your face, and before he could say anything, you sprang to your feet. The chair scraped back, and you immediately moved toward the kids, pretending to check their notebooks.
“All right, let’s see now,” you said in a voice louder than necessary, as if to overpower your racing heartbeat.
The kids laughed among themselves at one of Snake’s mistakes, and you forced yourself to laugh with them, dissipating the tense atmosphere from a moment before. But you still felt Jimmy’s gaze on you, steady, calm, as if he had seen too much.
When you had almost fully regained your strength, the thought of staying idle became unbearable. You couldn’t keep relying on Jimmy Crystal’s kindness or Spike’s courage. If you truly wanted to bring the boy back with you, you needed a plan—and above all, resources.
That morning, taking advantage of the group’s absence—Spike included, out with the other Jimmies on one of their mysterious expeditions—you decided to take action.
The house was silent, broken only by the creak of the wind sneaking through poorly sealed windows. You moved quickly from room to room, opening drawers, pushing furniture, checking every corner. The loot was disappointing: a few dented cans of beans, a couple of kitchen knives with chipped blades, nothing that could really change the game. There were no proper weapons, no useful supplies, no maps or documents that could reveal anything about the group’s strategy.
But when you closed the last drawer, your gaze inevitably fell beyond the window.
Beyond the small hill overlooking the clearing, the church.
You realized that in recent days, Jimmy had visited it several times, always alone, with that slow, theatrical gait that seemed a mix between a procession and a parade. None of the others dared follow him inside. It was clear that this place, once sacred, held a special meaning for him. And if it hid anything—supplies, weapons, medicine—it was surely there.
The opportunity was perfect.
With your heart beating a little too fast, you slipped out the house door and walked along the dirt path. Every step sounded like a risk, and you kept looking back, ready to turn around if anyone appeared. But the hill remained empty, the afternoon silence broken only occasionally by a crow cawing in the distance.
The church door loomed before you like an ancient guardian: dark oak, massive, with a cross carved that time had almost erased. It took strength to push it, and when it finally gave way, a low groan echoed through the nave.
Inside, the air was heavy—damp, thick with dust and mold. There were none of the neat Orthodox icons you would have expected, no mystical serenity. Only disorder, ruin, and sinister traces.
The shattered glass was scattered across the floor, piled mostly near the wooden pews. Walking cautiously, you noticed it creaked beneath your steps, releasing a sound that made you clench your jaw for fear someone might hear.
Then, the stains.
Along the nave floor, there were clear dark marks, faded but unmistakable: blood. Not a single drop, but congealed pools, dragged marks, as if someone had been severely wounded or worse, slaughtered.
A shiver ran down your spine. It almost seemed as if the building itself was breathing, soaked in past screams and unnatural silence.
You advanced slowly, hands at your sides, every muscle tensed. The crucifix hanging above the altar stared down at you, blackened by the smoke of old candles and tilted to one side, as if even Christ had grown weary of remaining there.
Your hands trembled slightly as you opened one of the altar’s old drawers. The wood creaked, soaked with the scent of dead incense and mold, but inside there were only cobwebs and a couple of long-burnt candles. Another drawer, and another, with the same stubborn hope that something useful had been hidden there. Anything that could help you on the journey back.
You bent down, biting the inside of your cheek, and pulled hard on the lowest drawer, which resisted.
“Ye won’t find anything in there.”
The voice behind you froze your blood.
You jumped, heart in your throat, and spun around.
Jimmy Crystal was standing in the shadow of the entrance, hands buried in the pockets of his shiny plum-colored tracksuit, his messy blond tuft falling over his eyes. He was smiling—not with overt malice, but with that subtle, almost amused curve that made everything seem like a game whose ending he already knew.
“Scaredy cat, are we?” he asked sardonically, tilting his head slightly.
You didn’t answer immediately. You tried to control your breathing, to not show him how your body was still trembling from the sudden adrenaline rush. You stood up slowly, smoothing your dust-covered clothes.
“What are you doing here?” you finally managed to say, trying to mask your tension with hostility.
Jimmy took a few steps forward, his shoes crunching on the broken glass. “I could ask ye the same, lassie. But I’d say the answer’s plain as day.” His gaze flicked to the open drawer, then back to you, sharp and blue.
Your instinct screamed at you to deny it, but you knew it would be useless. So you crossed your arms over your chest and murmured, “I wasn’t doing anything.”
Jimmy shrugged. “Mmhh… liar. Ye’re not even good at it. An' I respect that.” He stopped in front of a pew and let himself drop onto it, hands still in his pockets. “But believe me: if ye were hopin' to find some hidden treasure, ye’ll be disappointed. The survivors who passed through here years ago looted everythin'. An' what’s left…” He gestured vaguely at the mess on the floor, “…is just debris.”
You sized each other up in silence until Jimmy tapped the empty space beside him.
“Sit with me.”
You frowned.
He watched you patiently. There was no anger in his eyes, no overt threat—and that was exactly what made it harder to resist his invitation. You knew that sitting beside him meant giving him something, but standing in front of this man, with your heart still pounding, was like showing him your cracks.
“Come on, hen,” he murmured with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I dinnae want to hurt ye. Just a wee chat. Here, in church… if this isn’t the right place, then what is?”
His ironic tone made you clench your jaw. You didn’t want to give in, but your feet—still tender, still sore—complained under your weight. In the end, you let yourself carefully drop onto the pew, a step away from him. Not too close, not too far.
Jimmy tilted his head slightly, satisfied, and remained silent for a moment. The distant sound of a crow broke the unreal pause, and then he finally spoke.
“Y'know, my father died right here.”
The sentence struck you by surprise. You turned your face toward him, but he was staring straight ahead, at the altar and the faded statue of Christ.
“Well, more precisely there,” he continued, raising a hand to indicate. “At the foot of that cross.”
A shiver ran down your spine. You followed the direction of his finger: the worn wood, the dirty marble beneath the Redeemer’s figure. There were no bones or remains, but the very idea made your stomach tighten. He was infected.
Jimmy leaned slightly forward, fingers intertwined on his knees, as if speaking more to himself than to you. “He was gaspin'. Sayin' it was God’s will. That that infection… that shite out there…” He gestured vaguely toward the windows, “…was the final test. The apocalypse, ye get it? The fulfillment o' prophecy. And he, as a faithful servant, let himsel' die. No fight. No fear.”
He shook his head, with a grin that was neither smile nor scorn, but a twisted mix of both. “He said God was callin' him. That it would be an honor. And I watched him… watched him choose to choke on his own blood rather than flee with me.”
You swallowed, hands clasped in your lap to hide the trembling. “And you?”
Jimmy finally looked at you, his blue eyes gleaming in the dim light. “I wasn’t in it. I didn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe it. 'Cause his faith would have killed me along with him. So…” He lowered his voice, almost a whisper, “…I went down into the crypt. I waited. An' I heard everythin'. Every prayer, every muffled scream. Every gasp till silence, then again into monstrous hisses.”
A heavy silence settled between you, harsher than any scream. You felt breathless. You didn’t know if the story was entirely true or twisted to push you in some direction, but the way he told it—the icy calm, the clarity of detail—made you believe at least part of it.
Jimmy leaned back, arms stretched along the pew’s backrest. “That was me first lesson, sweetheart. God saves no one. Faith saves no one. We save ourselves. With our hands, our heads, our strength.”
You realized you were holding your breath and forced yourself to relax, inhaling slowly. “And your kids? Do they believe it too?”
Jimmy’s smile curved again, ambiguous. “Me lads believe in me.”
The answer made you shiver, and you realized it was the most terrifying truth of all.
You stayed silent for a moment, but things weren’t the same anymore. You had come too close to the heart of that man, to something he should never have shown you. And yet he had. Why?
Perhaps to win you over. Perhaps to bind you to him with the invisible chain of trust.
Jimmy lowered his tone, almost intimate. “And now ye’re here. Riflin' through ma drawers, lookin' at me like ye’re searchin' for the monster under the bed. But tell me… did ye find it?”
The question pierced you more than you wanted to admit. It forced you to meet his gaze again, intense and bright like a fire that never goes out.
You didn’t answer. You just pressed your lips together and shook your head slightly.
He nodded softly, rising to his feet. The sound of his steps echoed as he approached the altar, passing the spot he had indicated earlier. “Do not worry,” he said lightly, turning just toward you. “I don’t want to be yer God. I just want ye to understand: here, in this world, ye either choose to live… or ye choose to die. And I don’t let anyone I can save die.”
He paused, the smile returning to curve his lips. “Even ye.”
The last words clung to you like tar—sweet and threatening all at once.
A few evenings later, you were all sitting in the common living room, lit only by the flickering light of the fireplace and a couple of battery-powered lamps casting a pale glow on the walls. The smell of dinner—soup reheated in a pot with pieces of vegetables and some wild roots—still hung in the air, along with the laughter of the kids that hadn’t yet died down.
Spike sat next to you, chin resting on the now-empty bowl, and for a moment, you could almost pretend it was a normal post-dinner scene: the kids joking around, the crackle of the fire, the echo of silly quips bouncing through the room.
Then Snake pulled something from behind his back: a wig of messy, straw-blond hair, clearly worn. “Hey, Spike!” he shouted, tossing it across the table. “Now that you’re one of us, you need one too.”
A chorus of laughter followed. Fox whistled, Jimmima clapped her hands like a child at Christmas, and Jones laughed until he cried.
Next to you, Jimmy Crystal grinned.
Spike froze for just a moment, then grabbed the wig and tilted it onto his head. His eyes lit up, and a huge smile spread across his face—sincere, genuine, childlike. That image hit your chest harder than anything else. Spike, whom you hadn’t seen smile like that since… you couldn’t even remember how long after his mother had fallen ill.
Your heart warmed, but immediately your stomach tightened. Because you knew, with the same cruel clarity, that you might never convince him to come home with you. Here, there was warmth, acceptance, a group that treated him like a brother. A refuge, however twisted. You were the voice reminding him of the island’s pain and losses. Jimmy, instead, was the promise of something new.
The thought hurt so much that you looked away, staring at your clasped hands.
When you raised your eyes again, the kids were already hugging him, laughing, dragging him off the bench. Spike protested halfway, laughing too, until the whole group pushed him toward the door, shouting something about a game to play outside.
“Spike—” you called, your voice barely cracking.
But he didn’t have time to turn around. Someone was already tugging at him, the door closing behind him amid a burst of shouts.
The silence that followed fell on you like a boulder. You found yourself with your hand still raised mid-air, ridiculous in its helplessness.
Then, suddenly, the weight of Jimmy’s hands slid onto your shoulders. You hadn’t even noticed he had stayed there. With a calm, almost natural gesture, he guided you back onto the chair facing the fireplace.
“Let him have his fun,” he murmured, his low voice brushing against the back of your neck.
You tried to argue, but the words dissolved in your throat as his fingers began pressing on your shoulders, slow, measured. It was a firm touch, not intrusive. His fingertips glided along the tension you had accumulated, and before you knew it, you caught yourself stifling a sigh.
“There we go,” he said, as if he had won a small battle.
You focused on the warmth of the fire brushing your face, trying to ignore how his touch was creeping past the barriers you had erected. It wasn’t fair. You didn’t want to let go. But the muscles in your neck, stiff for days, were beginning to loosen under his pressure.
“Spike is safe,” Jimmy continued, thumbs moving along the base of your neck. “Safer here than he’s ever been. D'ye see how they look at him? He’s already a brother to them. One o' the family.”
You closed your eyes for a moment. It was true, and you hated having to admit it. Seeing him laugh like that… it broke you and warmed you at the same time.
Jimmy lowered his voice near your ear. “And ye’re too hard on him.”
A shiver ran down your spine. You opened your eyes, staring at the flames writhing in the fireplace grate. You searched for an answer that wouldn’t make you weak. “I don’t trust you. Any of you.”
You sensed rather than saw the smile curling his lips behind you. His fingers paused for a moment, then resumed the deeper massage. “I know, bonnie. Ye’re so stubborn after all. But look at him an' tell me he's no better off here.”
You bit the inside of your cheek, unable to reply. Because you had seen it. Because Jimmy was telling the truth, and that made it painful.
He seemed to understand. His hands slowly slid down your shoulder blades, pressing firmly, making you relax against your chest almost against your will.
“Ye’re always tense,” he said softly. “Always ready to fight. But here, at least for one night, ye can let someone else tak' care o' the rest.”
His words, whispered like a promise, made you close your eyes again. For a moment, you allowed yourself to breathe without fear, to be enveloped by the warmth of the fire and the pressure of his hands.
It was a luxury you hadn’t granted yourself in too long. And that’s exactly what scared you most.
His hands continued working on your shoulders, slow, steady, as if they had all the time in the world. Each precise pressure forced a breath you tried to hold back but inevitably let out.
Jimmy leaned slightly, his breath brushing your ear.
“Better, innit? I knew it.”
You didn’t respond, staring at the flames. You told yourself it was just fatigue, that your muscles needed relief, that it wasn’t him giving you comfort, but the gesture itself. And yet… the way his voice slid low and velvety made your whole body hum.
“Y'see, I’m not always the bad guy ye think.” His fingers moved along your back, slowly down toward your hips. “Everyone needs someone to take their hand sometimes. Even ye.”
Your body stiffened for a moment, and he noticed. He chuckled softly, a gentle laugh, as if teasing you without malice.
“Ye deserve it. Ye can feel good. Do not have to just survive.”
The words hit a raw nerve. How many days had you felt like nothing more than a machine enduring, gritting your teeth? Perhaps too many. Perhaps even while you were safe in Lindisfarne.
“Jimmy…” you started, but your voice came out more broken than expected.
“Shhh,” he interrupted, a finger brushing past the barrier of your hoodie, barely touching your bare skin, making you shiver. “No need to say anythin'. Enjoy the moment. It’s time for someone to take care o' ye.”
He leaned sideways enough to look at your face. The firelight caught his eyes with blue and orange reflections, making him look younger, almost handsome. The sculpted jaw, golden hair falling softly at his temples, the confidence with which he occupied space: he was the kind of man who had learned to seduce with presence alone. There were no men like that on the island…
He traced two fingers along your jaw, up to your cheek. A feather-light touch, forcing you to focus entirely on him.
“There,” he murmured, eyes fixed on yours. “Finally. Ye have no idea how beautiful ye are when stop growlin' at me.”
Your brow furrowed. You wanted to snap back, push him away, remind him he had no right to speak that way. And yet, you remained silent, trapped in that magnetic gaze.
Jimmy smiled slightly, not the confident smirk he wore with the kids, but something more intimate.
“Dinna fash yersel' about Spike. He’s happy out there, dinna ye hear? His laughter reaches a' the way here.” His thumb brushed the corner of your lips, playing at the joint but without forcing you. “And ye… ye are alone, tormentin' yoursel'. What’s the point?”
You tried to look away, but he tilted his head and closed the distance, forcing you to stay. His voice lowered further, a whisper vibrating between you.
“I can give ye the pleasure ye’re lookin' for.”
Your heart started racing.
“No—” you began, but he stopped just shy of your lips, without kissing you. The anticipation was worse than the act itself.
“Ye don’t trust me, I know.” His smile widened, but remained gentle. “But ye didn’t get up yet. Ye didn’t push me away.”
You realized in a panic that he was right. You hadn’t reacted. Your body, tired, hungry for warmth, was giving ground.
Jimmy knew. He always knew. He pressed his forehead against yours, closing his eyes as if he were the one seeking comfort. The gesture disarmed you more than his words. “Let me be the one to remind ye how good it feels.”
You felt his warm breath on your mouth, your heartbeat racing uncontrollably. Instinct screamed at you to get up, to run, yet a part of you was nailed there, in that suspended moment, both drawn and scared.
Your fingers gripped the armrests of the chair. The silence of the room, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the distant sound of the kids’ laughter, became deafening.
Your throat went dry. You could say no. You could stop him.
Your lips parted, ready to form words—a refusal, an excuse, anything to buy some space—but Jimmy didn’t grant you even that breath. His mouth crashed onto yours with brutal force, his tongue invading immediately, pushing deep before you could resist. The kiss wasn’t a request; it was an assault. Wet, dirty, total.
His fingers clamped around your jaw, forcing your mouth open wider, while his other hand gripped your waist in a steel hold. In an instant he turned you fully toward him, erasing any chance of pulling back. His body was a wall pressed against yours, his heat smothering, and the relentless push of his tongue twisting and tangling with yours dragged an uncontrolled moan from your throat.
The sound slipped out like a betrayal, and Jimmy swallowed it whole, driving even deeper. His mouth dominated yours, the sharp taste of the wine he’d been drinking flooding your tongue, mixing with your ragged breaths. When he shifted you onto his lap, straddling him, your body gave in almost without realizing it, and the pulse of his erection against the thin fabric between you made your heart skip violently.
His lips curved into a smirk against yours, smug, like he already knew he had you in the palm of his hand. He kissed you again, slower now, filthier, biting at the corner of your lips, sucking your bottom lip until a broken whimper slipped out that made him growl with satisfaction.
His hands slid down your back with calculated slowness, as though memorizing every line of your body, until they stopped at your ass. He grabbed you with both hands, squeezing hard, shaping you to his palms as he dragged you tighter against him. A low grunt rumbled in his chest as his fingers dug into the soft flesh, and he leaned back just enough to drink in the sight of your flushed cheeks.
“Fuckin’ sweet…”
You huffed into his mouth, the sound more of a growl than a breath, and Jimmy’s eyes gleamed with sheer amusement at your rebellious bite.
“Shut up,” you hissed, your voice low and sharp.
You pushed off him, your legs trembling slightly from pent-up arousal, and in one swift move you stripped off your hoodie, letting it drop to the floor without caring where it landed. Your pants followed just as quickly, shoved down in a frantic motion that left your thighs and heat bare against the warm air of the room.
Jimmy’s blue eyes devoured you, hungry, but you didn’t give him a chance to comment. After all, it wasn’t the first time he’d seen you naked.
You dropped back onto him with the same fierce decision, your thighs clamping around his hips as you shoved him down against the couch. Your hand pressed flat against his chest, right above his heart, anchoring yourself.
His breathing deepened, vibrating beneath your palm, but he didn’t resist. On the contrary—his eyes sparkled with a silent challenge, and the smile stretching across his lips was that of a predator letting its prey think it had seized control.
“It’s always the quiet ones that five ye a surprise,” Jimmy drawled, amused, though his voice cracked around a groan that betrayed just how much you affected him.
Your fingers tangled roughly around the heavy gold chains hanging from his neck, cold metal biting against your sweaty knuckles. You yanked them hard, dragging him forward until his nose nearly brushed yours, and Jimmy’s blue eyes burned into you like live coals.
“I said shut up.”
You crashed your mouth against his, teeth clashing, tongue claiming. He groaned into you, the sound sharp, sending molten heat straight between your legs.
His hands shot to your hips, rough, strong, trying to guide you, to wrest the control back into his own. But you didn’t let him. In a swift motion, you grabbed his wrists and slammed them against the couch cushion, pinning him. The muscles under his hoodie tensed, but still he didn’t fight you. Instead, his gaze glittered with dark approval.
You moved with deliberate force, driven by something fierce—you didn’t just want to ride him, you wanted to dominate him, prove you weren’t a toy in his hands.
Jimmy gasped, tilting his head back, unable to hold back the guttural groan that tore from him.
“Where the fuck have ye been hiding all this time, missu…”
You shifted, grinding your clit harder against his thick length. The fabric of his pants was sturdy, but not enough to dull the friction: the solid ridge of his cock rubbed against you, sparking fire through your core. The pressure made your breath hitch, a soft moan tearing from your lips as your thighs trembled.
You didn’t stop. You couldn’t. You let the rhythm take you, dragging yourself over him with steady, deliberate motions. Each stroke of friction made your stomach clench, each grind fed the ache between your legs. And while you chased your own pleasure, you watched his composure fracture piece by piece.
Jimmy—the man who always held control—was panting beneath you. The veins stood out along his throat, his chest rising in sharp, ragged breaths, and the ever-present cocky grin bent into a grimace of unguarded pleasure. He tried to free his wrists, but you held them tighter, and the guttural sound he made was half-growl, half-plea.
Your clit throbbed with each drag, each stroke pushing you closer, and the desperate noise that spilled from your lips filled the air.
Then Jimmy struck, sudden as a snake. He lunged forward and sank his teeth into your neck, biting hard enough to make you jolt with a strangled cry. It wasn’t a kiss, it was a claim, a demand for the attention you’d been denying him.
His hot breath seared your skin, then softened into a wet stroke as his tongue traced the mark. He licked slow, deliberate circles over the sting, and you realized with a shudder that his eyes weren’t fixed on you—they were aimed lower.
You followed his gaze and burned scarlet when you saw the dark patch spreading over his pants, right over the thick, straining bulge of his cock.
Jimmy chuckled, a low, filthy sound that made your teeth clench. “Fuck, love…” he murmured, his voice dripping smugness. “Ye’re soaked. Playin' hard to get and now look at ye…” His tongue flicked your skin again, deceptively tender, while his words sharpened like blades. “Drooling over me cock like a desperate little slut.”
Your blood boiled. For a heartbeat you let his mouth ravage your neck, but the fury surged through you like a storm.
Your grip snapped from his wrists to his blond hair, yanking hard. Jimmy snarled, the sound guttural, animal, vibrating in his chest as his head was forced back. His blue eyes flared with heat, not anger—arousal. He was enjoying your rebellion.
You dragged his face close, your breath ragged, lips trembling with both rage and desire. “Say that again,” you spat, your voice hard as steel, “and I’ll ride your cock until I come on my own, and leave you with blue balls.”
His chest rumbled with a low, gravelly laugh, his tongue sweeping slowly across his reddened lower lip. “Feisty little thin', aren’t ya.”
But he didn’t resist when your free hand slid down to the knot of his pants. In fact—he spread his legs just slightly, his chest trembling with the weight of his ragged breath, as if he wanted to give you all the space you needed just to enjoy the show.
Your fingers, trembling with impatience, tugged the fabric down until he was freed. His cock sprang out, thick, hard, swollen at the tip. It stole your breath, and instinct made you clutch his blond hair even tighter in your fist.
“Go on,” he murmured, his voice hoarse as he watched your eyes locked on his cock. “It’s all yers.”
You didn’t answer him with words. You lifted yourself just enough, then sank back down slowly, feeling his cock glide between your wet folds until it pressed against your entrance.
The first push of his cock made you gasp—sharp, desperate. He was too big, too thick, your body straining around him as he forced his way in. You didn’t want to drag it out. You didn’t want him to touch you softly and prepare you. You didn’t want that intimacy from him.
The stretch was unbearable and intoxicating all at once, your cunt fluttering helplessly around the sheer girth splitting you open.
He groaned low, his head thrown back, while his hands finally left your hips to climb to your chest. He grabbed your full breasts, kneading them with calloused fingers, groping hungrily and teasing your nipples until they hardened under his touch.
“Christ…” he panted, as you sank deeper, the tip forcing its way inside, spreading you wider. “So fuckin' tight… knew ye’d be tight as a goddamn virgin.”
A choked moan tore from your throat as you slowly swallowed him down, inch by inch, until you felt full, stretched to the limit. Jimmy bent forward, his mouth latching onto one nipple, sucking hard before biting, leaving a sting of pain that made you cry out louder.
His tongue circled over your nipple as you began to move, riding him with slow but deliberate thrusts. Every time you sank down, his hands grabbed your ass, squeezing and forcing you lower, harder.
It took forever, every second an ache of pleasure and pain, until finally your ass met his thighs and he was buried deep, splitting you open. You whimpered at the overwhelming fullness, your cunt fluttering helplessly around him.
Jimmy’s teeth ground together, his jaw clenched so tight you thought it might snap. “God almighty… little hole tryin’ to strangle me.”
The pace quickened, your moans rising sharper, and Jimmy leaned forward again, biting your other nipple, leaving red marks that burned as you moaned his name.
Then his right hand slipped from your breast, trailing down your sweaty stomach to the spot between your bodies, where his cock stretched you open. He didn’t reach for your clit with his fingers but with his knuckles, rubbing them in rough, circular strokes against the swollen, sensitive bud, forcing louder cries from your throat.
His knuckles ground against you mercilessly, in perfect rhythm with your desperate thrusts. The sensation was raw, almost too much, and you found yourself clawing his shoulders, then yanking at his hair, screaming into his mouth.
Jimmy laughed into your broken moan, kissing you filthily, shoving his tongue down your throat while he kept punishing your clit with that brutal touch. Every snap of his hips sent your body jolting, every grind against your slick folds dragged you closer to the edge.
“C’mon, lass…Cream all over ma cock, I wanna feel it—fuckin’ drench me.”
Your body gave out with a strangled cry, the orgasm exploding low and wild, waves of uncontrollable pleasure tearing through you. You collapsed against him, trembling, your pussy clenching hard around his cock, milking him mercilessly.
Jimmy groaned loud, his forehead pressed to your sweaty chest, while his hands kept dragging you up and down, making you ride him even as your body shook with aftershocks. “Yes—fuck yes—that’s ma good mama…”
He let you ride him a little longer, enough for your trembling thighs to betray your exhaustion. Then, with a growl rumbling in his throat, he grabbed you beneath the thighs. Effortlessly, he lifted you from his lap, his cock slipping out of you and making you whimper at the sudden emptiness.
“No, love,” he whispered against your neck as you clung to him with arms and legs. “You’re not done with me yet.”
Your fingers dug into his shoulders as he carried you toward the couch. He set you down on the armrest, forcing you to perch on the cushioned wood. Your hands clutched at the pillows behind you as he guided you to lean back, legs spread wide to welcome him.
His cock pressed against you again immediately. With one sharp thrust of his hips, Jimmy drove back inside, spearing into your still-hot, wet cunt. The impact ripped a strangled scream from your throat, your head slamming back against the cushions as he overwhelmed you.
“Sss-hit,” he groaned, his hips pounding into you. “Fuckin’ perfect, takin’ it all.”
Each thrust was harder, faster than the last. His hands gripped your thighs, holding them open as he fucked you mercilessly, his heavy body crashing between your legs like a storm. The couch groaned beneath you, the armrest shaking with every slam of his hips.
You bit your lip, but the moans spilled free anyway, uncontrollable, mixing with his guttural grunts and the wet slap of your bodies colliding. Jimmy’s hand darted down between you again, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing with the same brutal pressure that had already broken you once, forcing you to flinch at the overstimulation.
“Yeah, give me another one. Ye can give me another one.”
His words—filthy but laced with command—pushed you past resistance. Pleasure surged again, fast and vicious, as he kept driving without pause. Your hands clawed the cushions, nearly tearing them, as your body bent under his relentless thrusts.
Jimmy bent over you, his lips crashing onto yours in a filthy, wet kiss, his tongue forcing its way in as he fucked you without mercy. His grip on you was bruising, iron-tight, promising marks that would linger.
“Show me how good I fuck ye, mama.”
Your body shattered once more, a violent orgasm ripping through you with a muffled scream against his mouth. Your walls convulsed around his cock, squeezing him in relentless waves that made him groan louder.
Jimmy didn’t stop. With a guttural snarl, he drove harder, deeper, his thrusts frenzied, desperate, until his breath broke raggedly. He clutched your thighs, yanking you against him with one final slam, burying himself to the hilt as his cock pulsed, spilling hot and heavy inside you.
“Fuck—” he gasped, his body trembling as he pressed deep, grinding into you.
When his heartbeat steadied, he lowered his head, his breath ghosting against the damp skin of your forehead. His lips pressed softly to your temple—a tender gesture that clashed violently with how brutally he’d just fucked you.
“Mmmh,” he murmured, voice rough, frayed with pleasure and exhaustion. “Ye’re full of surprises, darlin'.”
He lingered a moment, his mouth brushing your skin, before pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. His blue gaze was piercing, sharp enough to send chills down your spine despite the heat of your tangled bodies.
Then, with a calmness that felt almost rehearsed, he dropped a line that froze your blood.
“I’m curious to know what kind of men Lindisfarne breeds.”
summary: somewhere in the countryside, 1943. somehow, the not knowing is so much worse.
warnings: war
notes: this could be a standalone if that's how you want to live your truth, but check out the hour of lead (i) and the letting go (ii) for all of the juicy context.
poem mentioned: La Figlia che Piange (T.S. Eliot, 1917)
After the fourth day with no news of Paddy's whereabouts, Y/N manages a good thirty minutes of fractured sleep.
The team had been somewhere in the mountains when an explosion was heard. No one has seen Paddy since - nor Reg, nor the resistance fighters.
This is all the information she has.
She is not an optimist. More of a realist, she'd argue, but pessimist isn't too far off, either. After all, ambiguity is a medic’s greatest enemy: it's exhausting, nauseating, bordline torturous contemplating all of the possibilities. In the gaps between a few minutes of tortured rest, her delusional mind almost wishes there were a body to examine.
At leas then, she'd know.
This not knowing won't let her fall asleep. Won't let her dream. Won't let her escape into her own mind for a few hours and away from the agonizing reality she's found herself trapped in.
For some reason, she's laying in Paddy's bed.
It's not nearly as cozy as her own. His is a rickety cot halfway to collapsing, all done up in threadbare bedsheets. It offers no reprieve from the cold of the altitude, nor from the dull ache in her spine.
But, crucially, it smells of him.
Not cologne.
No, his scent is liquor, smoke, sweat, and a bit of something herbal - like a bright alpine flower rubbed into his pulse points and brought to life by the heat of his blood. More than anything, though, it’s familiar. She's come to anticipate its presence because it means that Paddy is behind her, ready to jump in, ready to take action, ready to follow her any command.
And even when she doesn't need the backup, she still finds it grounding. A stand-in for safety. Even out here, even in the camp and at dinner and in the waves and on the trucks and late at night and first thing before the sun rises, the smell of him has become a balm.
So Y/N lays very still and breathes very deep, thumbing through the book of T. S. Eliot she’d found on his bedside table. The rough paper is brittle, water-damaged, some of the ink leaking through to the preceding pages.
As she flips them, her eyes catch on a single passage of a longer poem underlined in graphite, scrawled desperately, shakily, as if the reader had been scribbling haphazardly in the backseat of a Jeep:
She turned away, but with the autumn weather
Compelled my imagination many days,
Many days and many hours:
Her hair over her arms and her arms full of flowers.
And how I wonder how they should have been together!
Her heart jumps a little before a sob wracks her body.
Maybe he’s thinking of her in these lines, maybe someone else - oh, but what does it matter? Maybe it’s not a person at all, maybe it’s a metaphor for something… and maybe if her mind wasn’t so muddled with grief and fear and exhaustion and liquor she’d be able to parse the stupid fucking poem.
In between sobs, a crazed giggle emerges: Paddy’s still somewhere in the mountains and she’s here, weeping in his bed like this is the first time a soldier has ever gone missing in action.
Regardless of what it means, right now, on this unending night, the poem is her lifeline, her last link to the man she has placed above all others for his unwavering devotion, roundabout wisdom, and surprising gentleness.
And so when she does fall asleep for the first time in days, it's with the book clutched tight to her chest.
And when she wakes with a start, not even an hour later, it’s Paddy’s hollow eyes that greet her.
It's a dark hallucination, at first. He’s unshaven, a swollen bruise blooming over one eye, flecks of dried blood falling from his cheekbone… but no, he’s breathing, ragged as those breaths are, and he is looking at her.
She peers up at him, awed and voiceless.
“Imagine my surprise,” he croaks, “when I'm finally able to chase a good night's sleep only t’find that the bed's already spoken for.”
He leans back on the edge of the cot with a relieved little groan, and she shoots out a hand to steady him. His skin is warm and flushed even through the heavy khaki button-down. He reeks of gunpowder and petrol. Through the stoniness of his expression, she can still manage to locate the softness in his weary blue eyes.
Y/N sits up, letting the book and topsheet fall.
Her eyes are red, watery, burning, but she looks up at him like God is real and attuned to every one of her prayers.
“You’re back.”
He nods.
“Aye.”
There is no sense of what to say next, of how to ask why she’s curled up in his sheets or how to explain that he has become her safety blanket.
“Reg and them?”
“Reg, yes. Them, no.”
“What happened?”
“Tomorrow.”
She nods.
“Let me have a look at you?”
“G’on.”
Y/N races a shaky hand over the swell of his bicep, up towards the base of his neck, digging into the taut flesh of his shoulders where the tension and anxiety live.
He sighs softly, almost a little moan.
“Hurts?”
He shakes his head.
“Injuries I should know about?”
Shakes his head again.
“Then I’ll get out of your way. Just, er, try to get some sleep.”
He's so close, now. When they speak, it's hardly more than a whisper. He looks at her with something heavy and indecipherable.
Something conclusive.
“Aye. S’long as you do, as well.”
But she can’t quite find it in herself to break the spell, to leave the tent and return to the dark night beyond. Not while Paddy is here, while he’s warm and alive and home.
So she wraps her arms around his neck and draws him close.
He stiffens, almost imperceptibly, for a single moment before surrendering to her will. His body melts into her own, allows itself to rest easy for the first time in days (weeks? months?) under the care of someone else. His hands wrap around her torso like a vice, pulling her ever-closer and pressing desperately into the aching muscles of her back with a tenderness that makes her heart throb.
Her head is buried in the crook of his neck. She breathes him in, unable to contain the new round of hot tears that seep into the cotton of his filthy, bloody collar.
“Please don’t die.” Her muffled voice is small, shaky.
“Only ‘cos you asked so nice.”
“Paddy.”
“I won’t.” His voice is gentle, lighter than it’s ever been. “S’long as you’re here waitin’, I won’t.”
The war, the "Dance of the Dragons," as they have come to call it, is over. And yet, you are not celebrating. You have just learned that your husband, Prince Aemond, spent the last months of the war with another woman in his bed. Not only that, but his mistress is pregnant. Just like you...
Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Sister-Wife!Reader
Warnings: all of the angst, pregnancy and related symptoms, infidelity, traumatic childbirth, child loss, Aemond is such and idiot I went a little insane writing this
ok but hear me out: bill fraser x fem!reader pls 😭 she’s with the SAS for some random reason, paddy’s like “fine whatever” and bill is just 🧍🏼♂️ sighing dramatically. they get stuck somewhere, she shoots someone to save them both, and he goes 😳😍 aka “marry me but i’d never admit it” 🙄💂♂️🫶
i’d be over the moon if you wrote anything about billy boy 💖
1:54am thoughts
"This is the desert, not a dance hall." (Bill Fraser x F!Reader)
Summary: When the SAS receives a reinforcement, Bill Fraser is very sceptical because it is a woman. She proves herself very quickly and leaves Bill very very confused with his feelings.
Warnings: very badly written fight scene, mentions of blood and killing
A/N: I read somewhere Bill Fraser might have been queer so I just want to state that I respect that! Ofc I do. This is just a fanfic. If it makes you uncomfortable, just don't read it. 🫶
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Jalo is a dusty, dark, cold place during the dusk. The sun is disappearing, taking its gold with itself, leaving the SAS camp to the stars, blood, and gunpowder. Some soldiers are finishing dinner, some building additions to the mass hall, others bringing tables so they could eat under the night sky.
Bill Fraser is leaning agaist a jeep, cigarette smoldering. They are expecting one reinforcement tonight. Stirling didn’t offer much information, and Paddy, in his careless nature, did not bother to ask. So Bill expects a lot of things, he just does not expect her.
Paddy appears at his side, his eyes following the jeep stopping in front of the gate to Jalo. A figure jumps off the vehicle, grabbing the rifle, and a duffel bag, saying something to Sadler who drove them all here.
Then he notices it. He almost chokes on his cigarette.
“Paddy…“ he starts, “is that a woman or am I hallucinating?”
The Irishman just chuckles. “Aye, you are very sharp.”
“Fucking hell,” Fraser mutters, “ this is the bloody desert, not a dance hall.”
His superior officer just grins, again. “Good thing she is not here to dance, then.”
Bill Fraser is lost for words. The scene unfolding before him is like something from a fantastic novel. Not only is the reinforcement a woman, but she greets Paddy like an old friend. The madman is smiling, genuinely smiling, something Bill has seen him do only with Eoin. It stirs something in him and he just knows it is anger, doubt, stress, and hunger – it has to be.
She is moving deliberately and with precision. It almost looks like she was born in and for the desert. He eyes her every move from the jeep to the centre of the camp and then to her tent, while Paddy accompanies her along the way, talking constantly. He watches her adjust the rifle on her shoulder, and then the gun at her hip – he shifts, shrugs, scratches his neck, ignoring the goosebumps. The night is coming, he says to himself, sure, it is the night, the exhaustion, the long days and nights, surely. But when she handles that rifle with the ease of a man twice her size, something in his chest goes tight.
<><>
She is seated next to Paddy from one side and to Stirling from the other, all the casual introduction already behind them. The only thing on the agenda for tonight is food and rum. Lots of rum.
Fraser is well aware of the seating arrangements, already feeling a pang of irritation towards Mayne and Stirling. Paddy is already refilling her mug, offering her a toothy grin. “Well? Best dinner you’ve had in months, eh?”
She nudges his shoulder. “You bet. Nothing beats sand with a bit of mystery meat. Is that caviar on top?”
The men snort, and Reg shouts from down the table, “Careful, missus, that’s the chef Mayne you’re insulting.”
She just laughs at the comment, winking at Seekings. “I’ve been insulting his ass since we were three years old, I think he’s learned to take it by now.”
That sentence is like a grenade thrown into a crowd, questions, inquaries and comments immediately follow, everyone desiring to know all the gory and embarassing details of their commanding officer’s childhood.
Except for him. He plays with his cigarette between his fingers before speaking up. “Don’t worry. He’s cooked worse. You’ll live – probably.”
She glances up at him, spoon still in her hands. She takes her time before answering, her eyes scanning his face, going down and back up. Bill shifts under her gaze, his ears turning a bit pink, probably too light a pink for anyone to notice.
“Comforting words from a soldier who looks like he’s already planning my very funeral,” she responds.
The soldiers laugh even louder this time, the alcohol doing its thing, many empty bottles lying around already.
Fraser’s lips twitch a little bit, amost as if he wants to smile at her sharp response but would not live to give her the satisfaction of doing so. “Well, you are new here, Y/L/N. I plan a lot of things.”
“Is that so? Maybe you should plan your funeral too. You know, so there’s no waste in anyone’s effort when the time comes.”
Stirling pats her on her back, approving of her quick nature. The men sniggering, nodding their heads at her in approvement.
Fraser just shakes his head, his lips twitching again, and a smile appears on his face for a split of second but she catches it.
“God help us all,” he mutters before getting up from the table to refill his mug.
She watches him go, amusement and a bit of something she quite doesn’t understand yet in her eyes.
“A bit jumpy, is he not?” she says just loud enough so only Paddy could hear her.
The soldier looks at Bill, then back at her, and grins. “That’s just his way of saying he likes ye.”
“Ah, I see. Good for me, then. Means I’ll get to enjoy it again tomorrow.”
<><>
The mission is supposed to be easy. Storm an airfield, destroy what you can, get back. Like always.
Expect the Italians are expecting the rougues to appear. And are prepared, very. So then, all of a sudden, even before Fraser manages to acknowldge that there is something off, everything goes to hell. Literally.
He hears it all before he sees it – someone opens fire to their right, then to their left, and immediately after come the bombs and grenades; they just aren’t meant for the enemy aircrafts but for them.
Bullets rip through the air. Shouts. He has dust in his every breath, taking a second to assess everything, to grasp the reality of the situation.
Little does he know, she is already moving. Y/N dropslow, rolling behind a fallen crate. Then behind a truck, another crate. She looks like a cat, barely visible, barely any sound accompanying her movements. He sees some shade in the corner of his eye, but has no time to pay any attention to it at all.
Shouting orders to regroup, the whole gang already knows what to do – iniciative followed by iniciative. The SAS are very skilled soldiers, and shots, but not superhuman; they are facing an almost three-fold advantage, no one could get out of that.
Maybe Paddy would be able to shoot and crawl his way out of this bloodshed, Fraser thought.
They are not giving up, the air high on gunpowder and gasoline and blood. The squad is already three men down. However, Fraser would have sworn that there are less bullets flying, the Italians falling a lot quicker compared to how little of them are there left. He already has his eye on another enemy soldier, aiming, almost pulling the trigger when someone takes the Italian down before him – not with a bullet but with a knife, and before he knows it, the shadow is gone with the wind.
He eyes another soldier crouching behind a crate, taking his aim, but the result is just the same – the Italian falls, the blood gushing out of his neck where a knife was thrusted seconds ago.
Then everything falls silent. Clouds of dust above their heads. The smell of blood and death ever-present.
The British soldiers are looking around at each other, in disbelief and gratitude that they were able to shoot their way out of this mess.
“Wait a second,” Pat Riley speaks up into the silence, turning his head from left to right, “where is Y/N?”
“She’s not here?” Johnny Cooper asks, fear clearly visible in his eyes.
Dave Kershaw grunts. “She must be here somehwere.”
None of them dare to say lying somewhere. Fraser feels like he is freezed to the ground, his eyes scanning the surroundings. He finds himself speechless, and deep down absolutely terrified.
The others are already walking around, looking, searching, in absolute silence.
Then a figure emerges through the dusty haze. All of them instinctively reach for their rifles, suspiciously awating.
It is her. Y/N Y/L/N.
Her hair is matted with sand, her clothes and arms, especially her arms, streaked with bright red blood that isn’t hers, rifle slung carelessly over her shoulder, and a knife in her hand. If hell would be a person, it would look like her.
The squad freezes. The only sound is the soft crunch of her boots in the sand.
None of them move, Riley’s mouth falls open, as if she is some ghost, coming back to haunt them all. And Fraser realises he would let her.
There is suddenly air in his lungs and he can finally breathe again, he feels a hundred pounds lighter, ready to face the ambush all over again. The ringing in his ears is not stopping, yet it subsides when he sees her, not really knowing what to do with his hands, or himself really, the relief confusing him.
“Well, that was fun,” she says into the silence, chuckling.
Y/N notices the way Johnny’s eyes trail her body up and down and she turns to him with a smile. “Don’t worry, you should see the other guys.”
That finally breaks the wall and the squad comes to greet her, grinning, patting her on the back. Their realisation that she just saved all of their lives hangs high above them all.
Fraser is still glued to his spot, watching the whole scene in front of him unfold. A smile slowly appears on his lips and before he can stop himself, or simply realize what he’s doing, Bill Fraser is smiling at Y/N Y/L/N, his eyes never leaving her.
He gives his group a few more moments before he calls them to their jeeps and to begin their journey back to Jalo. The soldiers begin to take off but she walks up to him, stopping only centimeters away from his body. Bill can smell the blood and gunpowder when she comes into his personal space.
“You look like you were worried about me,” she says loud enough only for him to hear, “how sweet.”
His eyes flicker to her mouth for only a split of a second. He swallows.
“I wasn’t worried,” he tries to respond but his own voice betrays him when it breaks at the end of the sentence.
She laughs and he suddenly can’t find a single word to throw back. He realizes that she’s belonged with them from the moment she jumped off that jeep with her rifle so casually hanging over her shoulder. She keeps his eye contact, the grin still on her face and he finally understands that she isn’t just one of them – she is better.
“Yeah, right,” she chuckles, “say that to your face. You’re blushing.”
Bill clears his throat, embarassingly trying to buy himself some time to think of a comeback. But he never gets to – his own men betray him with their hollering and whooping and shouting how the lovebirds should get to their jeeps otherwise they will leave them there.
She looks at him one more time, still smiling. “Next time don’t underestimate me and I might reward you after.”
With that she walks away from him and his pounding heart. Bill chuckles to himself, muttering “fucking hell” under his breath before he follows her; like he always would.
