i'm mavi, an argentinian bi nerd woman who studies translation. i'm a big marvel, harry potter and got/hotd enthusiast. i also love stranger things, succession, star wars, shameless.
i'm not a professional fanfic writer, i try to write whenever i'm inspired (which happens once in a blue moon, unfortunately) and if i have time (i work and study so yikes), which is why i'm not taking any requests, at least for the time being :(
i write mostly for the characters i have an obsession with, and lucky for you aemondwives and ewanation — it's been a whole year and a few months that i've been obsessed with ewan mitchell!
as i said before, i write for the characters i have an obsession with, so here's my work. to access my writing, you can click here
aemond targaryen
'my tears ricochet' — one shot
summary: after breaking your heart, aemond is haunted by you. pure angst
'baby said' — one shot
summary: after a couple of drinks and stolen glances, you decide to walk up to the blonde man in the bar. smut, modern!aemond
part 1 — part 2
michael gavey
'cherry bomb' — series (ongoing)
summary: you wake up with a pounding headache and find a note next to you signed by none other than michael gavey. smut
part 1 — part 2
eddie munson
'right were you left me' — one shot
summary: two years later, you can't move on from eddie's death. angst
summary: snooping around in the stables late at night won’t go without repercussions.
word count: 4.2k
warnings: 18+ NSFW. dark content! fem reader. dub-con. brat taming, spanking. pussy slapping. spitting. humping. use of pet names. BDSM. fingering. degradation. edging. no aftercare. inappropriate use of horse tack, seriously you’ve been warned.
please read warnings before reading. if you think this content will upset you do not read further!
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The cold gravel nips and bites at your soft heels as you creep out the back door, the door clicking shut behind you, the quiet latch sounding thunderous in the quiet of the twilight.
In the same moment a rather biting gust of wind hits you, flurrying underneath your nightgown rather mockingly, seeping it’s way into your very bones.
The ragged shawl around your shoulders doing little to keep the chill at bay, the moor itself seems to be ridiculing you each step you take- the heat of your home, your warmed bed still in your grasp yet here you are.
Your stomach feels in knots, churning the heavy pit you feel each step you take, worsening each step into the night- feeling more like you are stepping to execution rather than the familiar fields you frolicked as a girl.
The stables come into view and you swither in your steps, feet digging into the ground as shame builds and works its way up your neck, so sickening that you have clench your eyes shut and pinch your forearms till it marks your wind whipped skin. A feeble attempt at best to to get the wicked thoughts from your head.
Just some proof is all, an inkling that even one part of what Cathy saw rings true, then you can go, back where it’s warm, where you can wake your wretched sister and tell Nelly all about her filthy lies. The satisfaction warms your chest enough to quicken your steps. Thats why. It will be to prove her wrong. That’s why you’ve ventured in the cold, her stupid childish stories. Lying to ones own sister like this. What does she take you for.
You’re women grown but just the sort of thing she’d lie about to tease you, just like when you were girls. So vulgar and far fetched, just something she conjured up to redden your cheeks and scandalise your affections for such an innocent man.
A working man.
Joseph. Our Joseph.
and Zillah?
Whips and chains and horse tackle?
The thought has you huffing with an incredulous smirk as you shove the door open to the darkened stables.
The stable door creaks echoingly loud and you stupidly attempt to shush it as you tiptoe inside. The intrusion has the horses startled - their hooves scuffling against the gates, nickering disapprovingly amongst themselves. A lantern has been left burning, practically near snuffed by the tack wall. Bingo
Padding across the hay littered ground, bare feet scuffing along the hardened cement till you reach the horse tackling, it’s strewn along the wall, hung perfectly but no coherent organisation that you could decipher. In the low light you kneel on the dirty ground to inspect the each part of roughened leather bridles, working left to right along the wall, your knees aching and likely covered in filth when you stand.
Once checked over you carelessly drop them, letting them reverberate back against the hollow stable walls, rattling the chains with a shrill booming shudder till there is just one left to inspect.
Shivering you pick it up, narrowing your eyes to hold the cheekpiece up to the dimming light again, eyes lazily scanning, feeling foolish for leaving the warmth of your bed for this, thinking of the scolding that you’ll give your sister on the morrow and-
Hold on.
There it is.
Bite marks. Distinct and human.
Your stomach lurches uncomfortably.
Surely not. You wipe your dirtied hands on your white nightgown, a scattering of dust and filth marking the lace carelessly as you move closer to the lamp, leaning as close as you can, not wanting to believe what you see.
Then- the wind changes. The stable door flying open with the gust- snuffing out the lamp and completely enveloping you in a shroud of darkness, leaving you isolated with just the pull of worry and something else still churning in your abdomen.
You drop the bridle- the chains ricocheting against the rest with a loud clang. The sound thrumming for a second as your eyes adjust to the darkness. You feel for the wall closest to your left, using it to guide your way back to where the door is, squinting in the dark for the familiar arch. It comes into view but not down to the skill of your own eyesight, it is a light that appears, getting closer along with the sound of humming, out of tune and oh so familiar.
Joseph bustles his way inside, heavy boots thumping across to where the horses rest, blissfully unaware of your trembling presence hidden in the dark corner. He hangs his lantern and looks over the horses with a furrowed brow, the light reflecting over his angled features so it’s all you can see in the room.
“That you making all that racket in here eh?” he tuts, sucking the air through his teeth disapprovingly.
“Just a bit a’ wind that’s all. you know that.”
He scoffs, petting the horses with a gentle kind hand before picking up the lantern to head out again, taking a singular step forward toward before he locks eyes with you.
Your heart is in your throat and you can scarcely exhale, your eyes so wide that you feel the cold wind nipping and drying them, completely frozen to the spot.
The teeth.
The reigns.
Zillah.
The whip.
The sounds.
All the things Cathy told you hammering in your skull, mocking you right now as you look at him where he stands a foot away.
He is still completely dressed in his work gear, strange despite the hour and it makes you wonder for a half second if he ever sleeps, how does he find the time with all this? Your head is spinning in fear and shame, eyeing the door like you are ready to bolt.
He edges forward keeping his voice a low slow timbre when he speaks, careful not to spook you like he’d approach a frightened mare.
“Miss Earnshaw?”
When he draws closer, you instinctively step back, your back hitting the wooden support beam behind you.
When you do not respond, he speaks again, “Was that you making all that noise in here?”
He looks amused, brows furrowed but eyes full of mirth despite his gentle concern. Drawing his gaze downwards, taking in your nightdress. Your filthy nightdress.
“M’ sorry Joseph I could not rest, I was just taking a walk to tire me that’s all. Came in to see the horses.”
You mumble hurriedly under your breath, sweetening your voice for him like you always do when you want something, big eyes blinking up at him.
Your breath fogs in the cold air, your own lies visible in the air of the dark stable.
He regards you for a moment, gauging the truth of it. Even in the low light, your features are drawn and pale, clearly distressed.
“Restless?" he repeats, his voice crackling gently. “And you didn’t think so put on a pair of proper shoes before your little walk?"
His tone is gently reprimanding—like a disapproving adult to a child.
"You're shivering," he states matter-of-factly, gaze flicking to your bare feet and to the the damp shawl wrapped tightly around you.
“and I don’t believe you Miss Earnshaw.”
His sneering tone surprises you, despite being scarcely a year younger than him he has always spoken to you with gentle respect, the tone befitting your relationship, nothing more.
But he isn’t working now and the accusation puts fire in your belly, enraging you to be disregarded and caught in your own lies. It stumps you to silence.
He can see your shifting eyes, your attempt to think of a way out, the way you won't hold his gaze. It only reinforces his belief that something is deeply amiss.
His expression doesn't falter, still gentle but unyielding. In a voice laced with quiet authority, he coos,
“No lying now Miss. Why are you in here?”
There is a finality in it that brooks no further argument. His tone ragged and disapproving.
He steps closer but stops just shy of the tack wall, forcing you to shrink against it even more.
This he regards with a barely there smug smirk, his stance relaxed yet dominating in the small space. He is deceptively lazy, an act of calculated patience likely chosen to bait you into enlightening him with the truth.
Your blood boils, straightening your back and balancing on the balls of your scuffed feet in a feeble attempt in trying to assert him, shuffling closer to him in the murk, ignoring the heat pooling in your abdomen under his smug holier-than-thou gaze.
Fists clenching on the dirtied fabric of your nightgown, you sneer.
“It’s none of your concern what I do. You forget yourself and are being inappropriate Joseph. I’m no liar. you wait till I tell Fath-“
He cuts you off with a stern look before you can finish your snarky attempt to rebuff him. His brows drawn and mouth turned to a frown- unfamiliar and biting on his usually kind face.
“Oh? Inappropriate?”
He repeats the word as though tasting it, a dark eyebrow lifting faintly as he looks you up and down. A ghost of amusement flickers through his expression. You're trying to reassert authority, remind him that you're a young lady of status compared to him. It's an attempt to gain leverage and it falls flat instantaneously.
He tilts his head slightly, one side of his mouth curving up to a crooked smile, faint yet fond in it’s condescension.
"You seem to have wandered out into the open moor at night in little more than your shift. I'm not sure what is appropriate holds any sway over either of us at the moment.”
He points out towards the open stable door- towards your home as it sits in the fog.
"And just what will you tell your father then? That I caught you out here half-naked? Perhaps hiding a lover….hm?”
He peers behind you in the shadow of the stable just to irk you further, as if really checking for some fiend to be hiding in the hay with you.
Your body burns from the tips of your toes to the flush of your cheeks with pure scandalised horror, outraged you spin on your heel and stomp out into the night air.
He doesn’t follow right away. Lets you go. An amused huff parting his mouth as he watches you distance from the stable. Not for long though, slow and deliberate, he steps after you, letting the heavy barn door creak shut behind him.
The lantern light faraway and darkness shrouding him as he moves deeper into the shadows, unfazed by your little tantrum.
His steps are quiet, catching up with you with ease while you catch your breath in the doorway of the kitchen you had left swinging open before.
From behind, his voice comes low and even,
“I won’t tell your father a word. Not if you tell me the truth girl.”
He steps closer, you hear the scuffle of his mucky boots.
“Now. Miss Earnshaw.”
His stern voice sends a shiver through you that has little to do with the cold wind. A familiar ache in the pit of your abdomen overcomes you so suddenly you fear if you turn around it will be written all over your face.
A sharp retort wells up as you turn but it dies under his piercing gaze.
This close, it's almost impossible to look away, his eyes an enchanting blue, glimmering in the moonlight, if those eyes weren’t gazing at you with such disapproval you’d be likely to stand there frozen in the sapphire depths all night.
His stance, though not oppressive, dominates the moor- even in the open field you feel just as you did when he cornered you in the stable, like an animal, ready to bite and scratch your way out.
But you don’t. You find yourself explaining, however irritated and sheepish you sound.
“Cathy told me some story.. she saw you and Zillah in there..doin’.. things.”
You nod towards the barn half heartedly, unable to meet his eyes.
He catches it immediately, interest peaked.
“Hey! Fweet!” he whistles like he would to a disobedient mare, tipping your chin up with his leather clad hand to meet his furrowed eyeline.
His touch doesn’t linger but you feel it’s authority even as it’s gone- the whistle straightened your back immediately- frustratingly so that he could work you just like one of his animals.
“Look at me when you’re talking eh? Manners..What’s that Cathy sayin’ about me then eh?”
The corner of his mouth tightens slightly, surprise mingled with wariness. Peering into every micro-expression you give him, his eyes flickering with something, a smug kind of cockiness as he awaits your response. He studies you, the defiant tilt of your chin, the set of your jaw.
It's as though your resolve only spurs his questions, his interest piqued by your defiance.
His eyes sparkle as they hold yours.
"What things were we doing?”
His tone is gentler now- like it was when he found you in the darkness. Cooing and leading you into this temporary sense of ease.
It excites you, the way he could manipulate your feelings.
Your words. Your attitude. It equally terrified and aroused you.
“You were- um. Playing with the tack.”
You fail to suppress a smirk as the words leave your mouth. Your voice wavering on a half laugh. You couldn't help it, it felt so serious before in your own head but verbalising it to him felt childish. The words fizzle out of your mouth with that coy smile.
But when you look up once again to meet his gaze he’s not impressed.
“Oh? S’funny is it?”
He crowds you- his breath warming your weather battered cheeks.
His scent filling your lungs, the smoky scent of hay and dirt mixed with the sweat and grime from his long days work. It should repulse you. It should make you sick but you hang onto his every word- wide eyed eyes stinging, afraid to blink even as the wind pricks at them.
“You found it so funny you wanted to come out and see for yourself? Dressed like a fucking..whore. What? to laugh?”
He nips at you. Lazing over his words because he knows he has you right in his clutches anyway, his curses slow and dripping with (false?) contempt.
It’s as if someone has poured ice into your veins.
All leverage you thought you had of the situation out the door. Or more appropriately out into the biting cold of the moor. He’s not as dense as you were hoping.
You have to clench your thighs hard under your skirt, the pulsing between your legs crying for the barest pressure as he scolds you.
He’s right of course. You were hoping you’d find him out here. Part of you hoped Cathy hadn’t lied. That Joseph wasn’t the pious working man everyone thought he was. Not only did you hit the bingo you’ve summoned your very own wicked & perverted dreams into fruition.
You stare at him unable to work up a single syllable, clearly surprised by his outburst but waiting patiently for what? more? This seems to irk him further.
He grabs your wrist. Hard. Yanking you forward, trailing you back into the darkened stables while you can only follow dizzily.
Eyes trained on his broadened strong back. Your steps are clumsy in your desperation, your depraved mind already trailing off to your sweetened memories of how this view differs in the height of summer, as he is throwing hay bales across the barn…bare- his sweat and muscle rippling in the heat.
He manhandles you into the centre of the tack wall once again, scowling once he realises he still hasn’t shocked you into a response.
Your eyes just as dreamily unfocused as before. Looking at him with that same expectant half smirking look- he’s not happy.
"Stay there." he spits, stalking off behind you to fetch the tack- returning with the same bite imprinted bridle you found before.
When he turns back to you- running the leather through his fingers he regards you greedily- your pert nipples through your nightgown, your oh-so-soft thighs on display.
You feel sick with your impatience but still unwilling to stoop so low to beg for his affections.
Yet.
He broaches into your space now, while you stand obediently- exactly how he told you to- cold feet shifting on the solid ground. The whistle of the wind rattling through the stable is the only noise you can hear- the only thing you can try to focus on besides him.
“Chilly? Poor thing.” he murmurs, nosing around you- observing you with clinical precision in the murk.
His voice has that soft coo to it again- he’s so hot and cold that you don’t quite know where you stand- the way he’s fiddling with the tack like it’s a threat yet talking so softly. So sweetly.
“Yeah..s’cold Joseph. What are you doing?” you mumble at last, eyeing the door like you’d be discovered- by who- Nelly? Cathy?
You haven’t done anything to be ashamed of but the arousal burning in your belly makes you feel dirty all the same.
“What am I doing?” He laughs like the answer is obvious.
“This is what you wanted isn’t it?” He leans down to your level- close enough to feel his warmth- for you to see the sprinkling of chest hair peeking through his neckline, the curve of his angled mouth as he leans closer.
And closer.
His nose grazing yours now.
The breath leaves your lungs in a flurry of excitement- standing on your toes to meet his mouth when he suddenly pulls back with a cruel laugh.
“Kisses? Tut Tut. No I don’t quite think so Miss Earnshaw.”
With a sudden Thwack he slaps the meat of your thigh with the tough leather bridle making you gasp in indignant disbelief.
“Joseph!” you squeal, biting your cheek to suppress the pleased smile that creeps on your face, the sting of the smack setting your blood aflame- your pearl fluttering and pulsing immediately.
He repeats the action in the exact same spot with a self satisfied grin, making you cry out again.
“You want me to stop?” he teases- gently rubbing his warm hand over the nipping reddened skin. His words have you dumbfounded and quiet again.
“Tell me what you want then hm? Tell me how inappropriate I am. Where’s that attitude gone from earlier?”
He sounds disappointed and if it weren’t for that smile on his face you’d believe it.
“Don’t know...”
You gulp, looking back down at the curve of his mouth with hazy- poorly disguised need.
Another Thwack- higher up this time, the pained sound that escapes your mouth sounding closer to a whorish whine.
This seems to amuse him enough for his teeth to peek out when he smiles cruelly. His canines sharp, reflecting prominently in the lamplight. How you wish you could feel the scrape of them on your tongue. Your neck. Your thigh..
“I think you do know baby. I think if I felt under that filthy dress of yours you’d be fucking soaked. Sound about right?”
Caught.
You’re too caught up and needy to keep lying and you nod instantaneously. The pet name doing nothing to help ease your want for him.
“Oh such a good girl. Finally being honest. Give me your hands Baby. Keep being good and listen.”
Doing as you are told he takes your outstretched hands and fastens them into the bridle at the wrists, barely moment of realisation passes through you before he hooks you onto the ceiling beam with expert precision, effectively holding you in the spot.
“Och’t so pretty!”
He rubs his hands together to heat them before cupping your cheeks and pressing a kiss to your gaped surprised mouth. The kiss is achingly slow and wet- intentionally teasing, straining your raised arms in desperation to wrap around him, keep him close. The chains rattle when you instinctively try and he pulls back immediately.
He circles you a couple times before slowly lifting the hem of your skirts- grazing his warm hands over your arse, now bared for him. He doesn’t comment on your lack of underclothes but you can hear the hitch in his breathing from behind you.
His hands so so fucking close to where you need him.
“Joseph..”
You whine, desperate for attention, desperate for anything he will give you.
And what you get is a hard smack right on your arse.
Another to follow for good measure.
“Be patient.”
He sucks the air through his teeth when you moan. Angling his strong arm around your middle to hold you steady before sliding his other hand through your backside and down towards your aching wetness. He feels his way through your folds with precision- soaking his hand with what he finds.
His hips press against your arse at the angle and you can feel the unmistakable pressure of his hardness through his breeches. It has you throbbing right where he can feel, pulsing right on his fingers as little whimpers leave your mouth in your vulnerable desperation. Completely at his mercy.
He seems to take pity on you, circling his fingers on your pearl with the pressure you’ve been needing. Shushing you gently and talking you through the sharp pleasure.
“There she is. Take what I give you. Good girl- oh good girl.” his voice is a near rasp now. Circling his own hips so slightly onto you to relieve his own pressure.
Instinctively you buck your hips, a girlish whine escaping your mouth as you work yourself through the pressure of his fingers and back to press onto his aching cock.
Bad decision.
He pulls his hand away just to spank you directly onto your aching cunt and you wail in frustration.
“Don’t be greedy!”
He snaps. letting you go completely for a moment- your arms rattling above your head- the wind seeping between your legs and cooling your heat.
He grabs your chin, forcing his wet fingers into your mouth- fucking them into your throat- the tang of your own arousal coating your tongue and there’s not much you can do but take it. Gladly.
Once he’s satisfied he releases them from your mouth with a questioning look.
“You gonna listen this time?”
“Mhmmm!”
The immediate way you agree seems to charm him and he returns his hand between your legs- front facing this time so he can watch the needy expressions on your face.
His hand strokes and rocks between your legs, coaxing your pleasure from you slowly, building you back up to that tight pressure he had you feeling moments ago. His long lithe middle finger slipping further down and filling you sudden and unexpectedly- his ring finger soon joining.
The sensation of being filled while the heel of his palm rocks against your sensitive pearl is almost too much, your bottom lip is red raw from biting back all your needy moans but you don’t waste your energy on feeling ashamed anymore.
Needy little uh..uh..uh’s are slipping from your slacked jaw, accompanying the wet sounds of your own slick arousal as he fills you.
“Look at me baby? Keep that pretty mouth open.” he smirks- giving you a moment before spitting straight into your mouth- the wetness dripping down your chin despite your attempts to swallow it down. Your lips glossy with it in your efforts.
“Messy girl..” he laughs taking his free hand to palm and rub against his aching cock shamelessly over his clothes as he fingers into you.
Your eyes follow the movement greedily and the desperation to be filled- properly filled by him comes over you feral and more than you can take.
“Please Joseph..”
You whine looking at it desperately, you can practically feel it already- every ridge and vein as he’d notch his way inside you- filling you up. Making him feel so good. You’re so close, vision blurring as you beg.
The pleasure drunk look on his face twists.
He takes his hand away completely and you squeal- the sound echoing through the barn- probably out in the fields too. Being dropped from such pleasure when it had just began to peak makes your cunt clench rhythmically into itself- aching.
“Bad girl.” he huffs.
He cups your jaw- the wet scent of your arousal mocking you now so close to your face.
“Greedy girls get nothing.”
He unbuckles your wrists from the restrains leaving you stood sheepish, thighs trembling, eyes burning in frustration and shock.
“No no no wait please I’m sorry!”
In a moment of desperation you clutch his shirt in your sweaty palms. Lip quivering.
Heartbroken he thinks. To not get your own way for once.
Spoilt thing.
He almost feels bad. Giving you a slow kiss on your pouting lips before turning his back and walking out. Leaving you standing at the tack wall right where he found you.
—
authors note: well! here it is, i’ve had this in my drafts for a bit but i decided to just commit. please let me know what you think! (unless its mean lol) bye friends!
summary: when you wander out into the fog to clear your head, joseph offers you far more than simple solace
pairing: joseph x reader
warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni), no use of y/n, afab reader, power imbalance, dom/sub dynamics, consensual bdsm, spanking, belt use, impact play, light choking, breathplay, possessiveness, marking (biting), praise kink, degradation undertones, crying during sex, piv sex, fingering, unsafe sex, dirty talk, aftercare, let me know if i missed anything!
word count: 5.4k
a/n: this hit me like a bolt of lightning girlies
likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!
🦋masterlist
Barn work is never truly finished for the night.
A lantern burns low near the tack wall, its flame bending each time wind slips through the seams of the old boards. The horses shift restlessly in their stalls, warm breath fogging the cool air. Leather creaks and hay rustles softly under-hoof. The whole place smells of damp earth and oil and animal heat.
Joseph moves through it without hurry.
His coat hangs over a beam, sleeves rolled up neatly to the elbow as he runs a cloth along a bridle that has already been cleaned once tonight. There’s no real need for it, but there is comfort in repetition—in checking what does not strictly require checking.
Order is easier to manage than the thoughts that tend to wander when the house goes quiet.
Then, the wind changes.
At first, he pays it little mind. The house has been unsettled since Mr. Earnshaw arrived back from the pub some time ago—doors opening sharply, a raised voice carrying faintly across the yard before dissolving back into the dark. Of course, none of it is his place to question.
Then, he hears it again: a sound beneath the wind. Not the horses, nor the hinges, but something uneven, breaking on an inhale.
He stills, cloth pausing between his fingers. His head tilts, listening the way he does when a mare grows restless in her stall. The sound comes again, softer and unmistakably human.
Setting the bridle down with deliberate care, his brows furrow as he crosses toward the barn doors, one left slightly ajar.
Fog has crept across the threshold, pale and low to the ground, swallowing the yard whole. The house beyond is only a darker shape against the darker sky.
For a moment, he sees nothing. Then, just as he’s about to turn and go back inside, movement resolves from the mist.
You.
You wander without direction, hair unpinned and loose about your shoulders, a thin chemise clinging damp at the hem. A shawl is wrapped tight around you as though it might keep more than the cold at bay, and your feet are bare against the cool, wet grass, though you hardly seem to notice.
His jaw tightens and he steps out into the fog, lantern light spilling into the yard behind him.
“Lass!”
Your head turns at once, a sharp gasp spilling from your lips as you start at the sudden sound. Hardly a second later, you’re moving, the prospect of relief carrying you through the dark, damp air. There’s no hesitation in your hurried steps as you cross the yard, closing the distance between the two of you as though nothing in the world could’ve kept you back.
He barely has time to brace before you reach him.
His hands come up instinctively, catching you at the waist as you press into him. The shawl slips between you as your fingers fist into his shirt, breath breaking against his chest while the warmth of him seeps into you.
He feels the tremor in you, the cold in your skin.
His gaze flicks once toward the house—dark windows, the suggestion of movement where there may be none, though he doesn’t wish to chance it.
Without a word, his hand shifts from your waist to your back and he turns you, guiding you firmly toward the barn doors. He moves quickly now, one arm tight around you, shielding your face against his shoulder as he steers you across the threshold.
The door is pulled mostly closed behind you, muting the yard and the house beyond. Lantern light swells warmer around you both.
Only then does he lean back enough to see your face.
Tear tracks glisten faintly. Your breathing is uneven, lashes wet against flushed skin. His thumb brushes beneath your eye, rough from work but careful.
“What’s happened?”
For a moment, you cannot speak at all, shivering still while the heat of the barn warms you. Your breaths are uneven and shallow as you press your cheek against his chest, as though lifting your head might undo you.
“Mr. Earnshaw came home drunk,” you manage at last, voice low and unsteady. “I woke when I heard a crash, h-he’d knocked over a decanter in the hall… I thought it best to see to it before morning.”
Your fingers tighten slightly in the linen of Joseph’s shirt, as though you expect him to vanish if you loosen them. “He did not… appreciate the assistance,” you continue, putting it mildly. Swallowing, you force yourself to lift your head enough to see his face. “He spoke as though I were—” you say quietly, shaking your head as though to clear it, “He said vulgar things, things no decent man ought to say.”
The words had felt wrong—ugly. You can’t bear to repeat them.
“I felt I couldn’t stay inside after that,” you finish, voice softer now. Your breath trembles again despite your best effort to steady it, “I wanted to get some air and… I suppose, I’d hoped you would be out here.”
His fingers tighten fractionally against your waist—brief but telling—before his hands lift to cradle your face instead. The calloused pads of his thumbs stroke beneath your eyes again, slower this time, wiping away the lingering dampness there. His gaze never wavers from yours, dark and intent in the low light.
“You came to the right place,” he murmurs. His voice stays low when he speaks next, steady as the flame in the lantern, though something in him shifts—turning sharp beneath the surface, “Good girl.”
Your breath catches in your throat before you can stop it—only barely, but enough to be heard in the still quiet of night. Heat rises unexpectedly beneath your skin from the weight of his approval, of how it seems to still something restless in you.
You hadn’t realized how badly you needed to hear it until now.
Without meaning to, you straighten slightly beneath his hands—chin lifting a fraction, shoulders drawing back—as though you might better deserve the praise if you stand steady enough to receive it.
One hand slips from your cheek to curl lightly around the base of your neck, fingers pressing just enough to feel the frantic pulse beneath your skin. His other hand drops to your waist again, guiding you another step deeper into the barn, toward an old workbench where the lantern light burns brightest.
“Let me look at you.”
It’s not a request. His hands skim down your arms, checking for marks. Every brush of his fingers against your skin speaks of quiet fury restrained, though his expression betrays none of it. Only when he’s satisfied do his hands still.
“Did he touch you?” His voice drops lower, rougher, though he doesn’t move away. Outside, the wind whistles through the cracks in the barn walls, but inside, the air feels thick—charged.
The cadence of his voice makes you pause for a second, the genuine concern there taking you by surprise for the briefest instant.
“No,” you say at last, steady despite the tremor that still lingers in your chest. His thumb traces the line of your jaw again and you lean into it before you can think better of it. “He came close enough that I could smell the drink on him,” you admit quietly. “He caught my wrist when I stepped back—but I pulled away.”
His jaw tightens at your description of the event and, without thinking to, his fingers skim down until he can rub slow circles against your wrist with his thumb, soothing where the other man had grabbed.
“Good,” he says, softer this time.
Then, he shifts, stepping back just enough to shrug out of his waistcoat. The fabric still carries the warmth of him when he drapes it over your shoulders, settling it carefully before tugging the edges closed at your throat. It’s heavier than your shawl had been and carries the faint scent of leather and smoke and the clean, sharp trace of oil from the tack room.
Like him.
You draw it closer without thinking, heart racing as his hands linger there, fingertips brushing the hollow beneath your jaw.
“You’ll stay here tonight.”
It’s not a suggestion. You like that—how he decides things so easily. There’s something relieving about it—not having to wonder when you’re with him.
His gaze flicks toward the loft where fresh hay is piled thick beneath spare blankets—where he’s spent many a night himself. When he looks back at you, his expression is unreadable in the lantern glow, but his voice lowers, roughens—
“And if he so much as looks at you wrong again, you come straight to me. Understood?” His fingers slide from your throat to tilt your chin up, forcing your eyes to meet his. His thumb presses just slightly against your bottom lip and suddenly the world feels very small. “Say it.”
“Yes,” you breathe at first, the word slipping out before you have a chance to steady it. It sounds so small in the space between you. Heat creeps up your neck a second later—not from embarrassment, exactly, but the realization that he won’t accept something unfinished. He never does. “I’ll come to you,” you say a bit more firmly, “I… I won’t try to manage it alone.”
The promise settles somewhere deep in your chest. You’ve spent so long anticipating moods, smoothing over tempers, keeping yourself small and unobtrusive—handling things quietly, enduring them all on your own.
With him, perhaps you won’t need to.
“Thank you,” you add, hands finding his shirt again—not clutching like before but merely resting there, feeling the solid line of him beneath the fabric.
The barn feels warmer now than it did moments ago, quieter.
The corner of his mouth lifts, just barely, at your words. It isn’t quite a smile, but something closer to approval—satisfaction. His thumb brushes once more against your lip before withdrawing, his hand instead settling against the side of your neck, fingers curling gently around the delicate curve of it.
“Good,” he murmurs again. This time, the word lingers, like a quiet benediction.
His touch lingers, too. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t rush to put distance between you. Instead, he stays close, his warmth bleeding into you through the borrowed waistcoat and your chemise, his breath steadying yours by sheer proximity.
After a moment, his free hand lifts, brushing a loose strand of hair back from your face. His fingers trace the shell of your ear before tucking the strand carefully behind it. The motion is absent, almost distracted—like he isn’t entirely aware he’s doing it at all.
“You should rest,” he says at last, voice low. His thumb strokes once along your cheekbone—then, reluctantly, he steps back, just enough to give you space to breathe.
You feel it, though—the absence of his warmth against you, the quiet where his fingertips had been resting on your skin. It feels like a test, almost, like he wants to know if you’ll follow after him.
His gaze flicks toward the loft, then back to you. “Unless,” he adds, quiet—knowing, “There’s something else you need?”
The offer hangs between you, unspoken but unmistakeable—his usual deference giving way to something far more intentional.
For a moment, you stay quiet—considering. The loft waits with the promise of warm woolen blankets and the safety of sleep. But the thought of lying there alone—with the dark, with your thoughts—makes something in your chest tighten.
And you’ve heard that tone before. You can remember the last time he’d used it, and what had come after—the way the hemp rope had felt tied neatly around your wrists, how he’d guided them upward before his hand had settled around your neck, fingers pressing in at the sides.
He’d been getting better at that, recently—knowing how tightly to hold you, when the pain was enough.
The world seems to narrow when he takes hold of you like that, down to the sound of your own breathing and the certainty of his hands. Everything gives way to instruction instead of chaos and structure in place of noise.
Your pulse quickens and you glance once toward the loft and then back to him.
The space between you feels larger than it should… So, you step forward, close enough that the distance he’d given you disappears and you can feel the warmth of his body again. Your hands lift and come to rest at his chest, just beneath his collarbones, fingertips pressing lightly.
“Joseph,” you say, voice softer now—stripped of any pretense. You search his face the way you had that first night, swallowing once. “I don’t want to think anymore,” you murmur, the confession barely a whisper. Your fingers tighten slightly against his shirt, “Please…?”
His hands lift and catch yours before you can pull them away; his grip is firm, anchoring, turning your palm upward against his own. His fingertips trace the delicate lines there, following the path of your veins, the faint calluses from scrubbing floors and hauling water.
He doesn’t speak, not yet.
Instead, he guides one of your hands downward, until your fingers brush the leather strap of his belt. The worn surface is warm from his body and familiar in texture, worn smooth where it’s been handled often, rougher at the edges.
You trace that difference with your thumb, cheeks heating. You’ve felt it before—in gentler moments, in stolen ones. You remember the way it feels when it’s drawn through your hands, how the metal of the buckle feels against your wrists or across the delicate column of your throat—how the sound of it moving through the air alone is enough to make your breath catch.
That’s what you fixate on—the first sharp snap of it through the air, the measured pause afterward, the sting. Your breaths quicken as you remember the way his hand would settle at the small of your back before the next stroke—steadying, claiming, reminding you to hold still.
Now, fingers close over yours, pressing them more firmly against it.
“Tell me what you’re asking for,” he murmurs, voice rough with restraint. There’s no teasing in it, no playful coaxing—only quiet command.
He already knows, but he wants to hear you say it—loves to hear you say it.
He won’t give it unless you do.
Your fingers tighten around the leather—not pulling at it, but acknowledging it. Acknowledging the want for that clean, burning clarity. There’s a beauty in the way each measured strike empties your head of everything but the present moment, the way his voice sounds when he tells you to breathe—to let go.
“I want you to be in control,” you say, more steadily now, “I want you to hold me still.” Your pulse jumps, heart thumping quickly in your chest, but you don’t look away. “I want… I want you to use it the way you have before.”
His exhale is slow, controlled, but his fingers tighten around yours where they grip his belt.
For a long moment, neither of you move while the weight of your words settles.
Then, with a deliberate slowness, he unbuckles it and pulls it free from the loops on his trousers, letting it slide through his fingers until it dangles between you—a silent promise.
His voice drops to something gentle, rough at the edges, “Turn around.”
He likes this part—those first few seconds after he really takes control. He loves to watch the way your lashes flutter, the way your shoulders loosen and fall just slightly.
Pulling his waistcoat from your shoulders, he hangs it over some nearby railing before his free hand slides down to your hip, guiding you gently but firmly—fingers pressing into the softness there as he turns you toward the workbench.
“Hands on the wood,” he says, close to your ear now, breath warming the side of your neck as he gathers his belt into a neat loop, holding it in one hand, “And don’t move them.” He stops then, waiting for you to obey, to see if you’ll hesitate or second-guess yourself, though he knows you won’t. You haven’t yet.
Already knowing what he wants, you move with practiced ease and bend forward until you can rest your palms against the smooth surface of the workbench before he’s even finished giving the order. He lets out a quiet, approving hum, watching as you lean down further, turning your head to press a cheek against the table.
“Yes, sir,” you say easily, voice breathy and soft but not yet the way it gets when he’s truly gotten you out of your own head—not when it goes all sweet and high-pitched, almost dreamlike.
One hand rests lightly at the base of your spine—steadying, possessive—as the other slowly gathers the silky material of your chemise, pulling it up and up and up, until your bare bum is exposed and the fabric is pooled at the small of your back.
Even though the two of you have done this a handful of times before, being exposed like this still makes you flush.
He can’t help but admire you like this—so trusting. Then, with one hand still resting against the base of your spine, he raises his belt, letting the weight of it hang in the air for a heartbeat just to hear the way you whine at what’s coming.
Then—
Crack.
“Ah!” The first strike lands firm across the backs of your thighs, sharp enough to sting, to steal your breath—but not hard enough to break the skin, not yet. The pain of it settles over you quickly, warming your skin and making you tremble.
“Count.”
You squirm a bit, shifting your weight from foot to foot, but you remain poised exactly how he wants you—hands on the bench, bent over.
“One,” you finally whisper, stuttered and soft.
“Good girl,” he mutters lowly. His fingers drag lightly over your heated skin, tracing the stripe left behind before lifting the belt again.
Crack.
This time, it lands just above the first, overlapping slightly—enough to make your breath hitch sharply. His hand stays firm at your back, keeping you steady when you jolt. Your back arches for a second before you relax, exhaling shakily while your fingers dig harder into the workbench’s surface.
“Again,” he orders, expectant.
“Two,” you whimper, head down, whining as he gently pets you for a moment to let you catch your breath.
“So sweet,” he whispers, thumb rubbing slow circles against your spine, soothing you even as he lifts the belt once more, “So obedient.”
Tonight isn’t about punishment; it’s about making sure you feel nothing but him.
Crack.
The third strike comes sharper, more deliberate—enough to pull a keening sound from your throat, to make your knees buckle slightly as the sting mellows into a pleasant heat.
But he’s there, catching you before you can falter.
“Easy,” he says quietly, grip tightening at your hip, “Stay with me.”
His thumb brushes your tender skin, assessing, before he leans down and presses a single, fleeting kiss to the slope of your shoulder.
“Three,” you whine after a moment, leaning more heavily against his side. Your breath catches in your lungs and you sniffle, eyes watering. This is nothing new, it’s happened each time before, always seeming to come with the release that the pain brings. “Please, more,” you whisper, swallowing thickly.
He presses another kiss to your shoulder, then the nape of your neck. His breath ghosts warm against your skin, steady despite the pulse you can feel hammering beneath his ribs where his chest presses against your back.
“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs, voice laced with approval. His fingers skim lower, tracing the fresh welts, testing the heat of them. “So pretty when you take it.”
He lifts the belt again.
Crack.
This one lands higher still, right where your bum curves so beautifully, sharp enough to make your vision blur for a second, to pull a choked sob from your throat as the pang of it prickles over your skin like thousands of tiny needles.
But his hand is already there, soothing the sting before it can fully settle, his touch firm and grounding.
“Count,” he reminds you when you falter, your mind pleasantly clouded.
“F-Four,” you finally grit obediently, sniffling as another sob claws itself from your chest.
His fingers tighten at your hip, pulling you back just slightly against him to remind you he’s there. Swallowing thickly, you whimper as tears leak from the corners of your eyes, wetting the wood of the bench beneath your cheek.
Crack.
The fifth and final strike comes slower, more carefully—less about the pain now than the rhythm of it, the certainty. He gives you a minute, silently admiring the way your body pushes against his, the way your breath catches in your throat.
“Five,” you whisper dutifully and he hums at how dazed your voice is, all docile and sweet just how he likes it.
His free hand slides up your spine until his fingers can gently tangle in your hair, smoothing through the soft strands. He tilts your head back just enough to meet his gaze, pride settling in his chest when it takes you a second to focus on him.
“Look at me,” he orders. And when you do—when your tear-bright eyes finally focus on his—he exhales sharply and brushes his thumb over a stray tear. “Good girl,” he says again, quiet—almost reverent.
Then, without warning, he drops the belt entirely and instead, slides his hands around your waist before turning you firmly toward him, relishing the way you gasp. His mouth crashes against yours—hungry, claiming—as he lifts you easily onto the workbench and settles between your thighs.
The hard wood makes the welts on your bum smart and you whine, the noise muffled against him. He kisses you at a near frenzied pace, like he couldn’t hold back any longer. It’s messy, all teeth and tongue, but it’s exactly what you need.
His hands slide up your thighs, gripping just tight enough to leave bruises—enough that you’ll feel them tomorrow and remember. He doesn’t stop kissing you, not even as he shifts you toward him, pulling you to the edge of the work table.
“Perfect,” he whispers against your lips, pulling back just far enough to speak. His voice is wrecked, low with want, “Look at you.”
He doesn’t give you time to reply before his mouth is on yours yet again, insistent. His fingers thread through your hair to hold you steady while he kisses you deeper, harder. The streaks on your backside ache against the wood but the pain is distant now, secondary to the way his body presses against yours, to the way his teeth catch your lip just shy of cruel.
His kisses are hardly ever gentle, but you don’t want them to be. The roughness of them is settling, grounding you in the moment and keeping your thoughts only on him.
When he finally pulls away, it’s only to strip off his shirt, tossing it aside before pulling you somehow closer. His bare chest is warm against yours, his heartbeat erratic beneath your palms. You don’t fare any better, panting against him as if you’ve been sprinting.
“You’re mine,” he growls against your throat, biting down just once—marking. “All night. Understood?” He soothes the sting with his tongue before pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. His pupils are blown wide, his lips parted, chest rising and falling with each unsteady breath.
“Yes,” you breathe, nodding eagerly at his words while you hold him tightly, nails digging into his shoulderblades, “I understand, m’yours.”
Groaning, he presses his forehead against yours, the blue of his eyes nearly eclipsed by black.
“What is it you’re after?”
“You,” you whine instantly, entirely consumed by need. Your thighs tighten around his hips, keeping him pressed to you like he’d go anywhere else. Sucking in a shaky breath, your eyes go unfocused—only for a precious second—at the way the sturdy fabric of his trousers feels pressed against your bare center. “Want you, Joseph, please…”
The sound that tears from his throat at your plea is barely human—raw, possessive, hungry. His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks as he drags you flush against him.
“Then you’ll have me,” he growls before crashing his mouth to yours again, swallowing your whimpers as his hands roam, pulling at your chemise until it’s rucked up around your waist, until his fingers can find your soaked center.
He groans against your lips.
“Fuck,” he rasps, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. His thumb strokes once through your slick folds, slow and soft. “Already like this for me?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer before pressing two fingers inside without warning, savoring the way your back arches against him. A choked cry tears from your throat and you try to squirm, but his hand pins you down, keeping you still as he pumps his fingers deep and curls them just so until your thighs tremble.
“Ah!” You keen at the pressure, heart hammering at the way he grins when you shake against him. Frenzied, you claw at his back as he works you in a familiar rhythm.
“Look at me,” he orders and when you do, he smirks—wicked. “Good girl.”
Just as the pleasure begins building within you, he withdraws them, making you huff out a whine as he quickly undoes his trousers instead, pulling his cock free without ceremony. Panting, he lines himself up, pressing the thick head against your entrance—
And pushes into the hilt, groaning deeply against you.
Your thighs quiver around his hips and you jolt at the sudden stretch of him, whimpering out his name again and again while your body adjusts.
Distantly, you register that you must be making too much noise for his liking—especially for this time of night—which is why you hardly flinch when he brings one hand to your lips, clamping it over your mouth to muffle your pleasured sounds, as the other wraps around your throat. He doesn’t squeeze tightly, only barely—just enough to leave you feeling soft and floaty.
Once he’s certain you’ll be quiet, he moves.
His hips snap forward in a brutal, relentless rhythm, fucking into you with deep, sharp strokes that punch the breath from your lungs. The workbench creaks beneath you, the sound nearly drowned out by the slick slap of skin on skin, by the muffled little cries you make against his palm.
He watches you while you fall apart beneath him, taking in the way your lashes flutter, the way your thighs shake, how your body grips him like you’re afraid he’ll stop.
He wouldn’t—never.
He drags his thumb over your lips, smearing spit across them before pressing down harder, silencing you further as he leans in, his mouth hovering just above yours.
“Feel that?” He growls, voice wrecked, “Feel how deep I am?”
His hips snap forward again and he relishes the way you nod in his hold. His cock hits that sweet spot inside you, making your vision whiten at the edges.
“You take me so well,” he rasps, fingers flexing against your throat, “So perfect for me.”
And when your eyes roll back, when your body starts to tighten around him, he smirks and slows his thrusts just enough to tease—
Before slamming back in, unforgiving, until you’re sobbing against his hand and coming undone against him. The barn is filled with the sounds of your muffled screams and his ragged groans and the unrelenting, filthy rhythm of his hips as he spills inside you.
Only when you go limp beneath him, when your tears spill against his fingers, does he finally let go, forehead dropping against your own with a groan.
For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your shared panting and the occasional shudder of aftershocks between your thighs and the distant shuffling of horses in their stalls.
Then, with an aching gentleness, he pulls himself from you and gathers you against his chest. One hand comes to the back of your head, fingers threading carefully through your hair as though he fears pulling it too tightly now. The other smooths down your spine while you begin to settle.
He presses his mouth to your temple, easier now that the heat has ebbed. “Easy,” he says softly.
Your cheek rests against his bare chest; his heartbeat is still erratic beneath your ear, though it begins to steady as your breathing does. He bends and quickly retrieves his shirt before coming back to you, draping it loosely around your shoulders before drawing you closer once more, shielding you from the cool air creeping in through the barn walls.
After a moment, his hand finds your wrist again and his thumb presses lightly over the place where Mr. Earnshaw had dared grab you earlier that night. Something hard passes through his expression—gone almost as quickly as it comes. He rubs slow circles there, soothing what has long since faded.
“You’re all right,” he says quietly, more to himself than to you.
You tilt your head back to look at him. The lantern light catches the planes of his face—sharp cheekbones, lashes still damp from sweat, mouth parted slightly as he studies you in return. There’s something different there now—not the hunger from before, not the steady severity he wears during the day.
Something softer.
“You’re not just somewhere I run to when I’m in need of something,” you say softly.
The words hang between you for a second, fragile.
He stills. His thumb pauses against your wrist and his jaw tightens, only slightly, before he turns to look at you properly.
“You came to me tonight,” he answers, like that’s the only part that matters.
“I’d like to keep doing that,” you reply, heart skipping, “If that’s what you want.”
His gaze searches yours for a long moment, as though weighing something unseen. Outside, the wind shifts again, rattling the doors faintly on their hinges. The fog beyond the cracks has begun to thin. You can see it paling the dark just beyond the threshold.
“You don’t know what you’re offering,” he says softly. There’s no cruelty in it, no real denial—only weight. His grip on your wrist tightens just slightly, grounding. “It isn’t a small thing.”
Your breath falters, but you don’t look away. “I know enough,” you murmur. “I know I don’t want it to be just this.”
He seems to settle at that, shoulders relaxing a bit.
“If you’re mine in here,” he finally says, low and measured, “you’re to be mine out there as well.”
Your breath catches from the gravity of it, from the decision in his tone. The barn feels close now, warmer.
You lift your chin, just a fraction.
“Then I’m yours.”
For a heartbeat, he says nothing. Then he raises his hand and drags his knuckle along your cheekbone, though your tears have long since dried.
“Next time,” he murmurs, “you don’t need to wait for a reason to come.”
A faint smile, not quite visible but felt, teases at the edges of your mouth. “I won’t.”
“Good,” he exhales. This time, when he pulls you close, it’s with a gentleness you haven’t felt yet, as though he finally has something precious to keep.
Pulling away from you, he helps you down from the workbench, cooing when you wince at the welts across your bum. Kissing at your forehead once more, he helps you to the loft without another word.
The hay is warm when you lie down, the blankets thicker than they have any right to be.
He lies beside you, one arm curved around your waist, palm resting against your stomach. You fit against him easily now, and sleep creeps in quickly as the two of you settle together, breaths evening out.
Outside, the fog thins further, the first hint of dawn threatening at the horizon.
Unlike usual, Joseph doesn’t rise to see to the morning chores. Instead, he presses his mouth lightly to the crown of your head and closes his eyes.
When sleep finally takes him, it’s with you still tucked safely against his chest.
thank you for reading! reblogs, likes, and comments are always appreciated! 🩵
Me: no lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponent al, logarithmic, while i gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cow girl, doggy, backwards, forwards, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall, outside, in a train, on a plane, in the car, on a motorcycle, the bed of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the pool, bent over, in the basement, against the window, have the most toe curling, back arching, leg shaking, dick thribbing, first clenching, ear rining, mouth drooling, ass clenching, nose sniffling, eye watering, eye rolling, hip thrusting, earthquaking, sheet gripping, knuckles cracking, jaw dropping, hair pulling. teeth jitterbug, mind blogging, soul snatching, overstimulating, vile, sloppy, moan inducing, heart wrenching, spine tingling, back breaking, atrocious, gushy, creamy, beastly, lip bitting, gravity defying, nail biting, sweaty, feet kicking, mind blowing, body shivering, orgasmic, bone breaking, world ending, black hole creating, universe destroying, devious, scrumptious, amazing, delightful, delectable, unbelievable, body numbing, bark worthy, cant walk, head nodding, soul evaporating, volcano erupting, sweat rolling, voice cracking, trembling, sheets soaked, hair drenched, flabbergasting, lip locking, skin peeling, eyelash removing, eye widening, pussy popping, nail stractching, back cuts, spectacular, brain cell desolving, hair ripping, show stopping, magnificent, unique, extraordinary, slendid, phenomenal, mouth foaming, heavenly, awakening, devils tangos, you could dracarys me like how you dracarys the Riverlands, or take me as a prize of war and i'd still ride you.
Also, how do I become a paper, so he could crumple me?
summary | Aemond's veins ran hot with the high of his victory at Rook's Rest, while his mind pondered on what will come next.
tags | spoilers to s2e4 ahead! masturbation (m), cum eating, humping, aemond's so fuckin horny omg, vhagar is tired lol
wordcount | 2k
note | i felt insane writing this, but the new ep was just amazing! i know aemond felt good asf after that, as he rightfully should 🙂↕️
likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!
(divider graphic is from this website)
The sun had only started to dip into the horizon when Aemond returned to the skies. The sky was tainted with a lavender hue, while the remaining whispers of sunlight left streaks of orange and red. When the smoke had settled, Aemond remained assessing the fatality of the battle’s aftermath, as well as making sure Lord Staunton’s head fell from his sword. He made sure to show his face, had let their armies know who exactly it was that led them to victory. Cole was handling Aegon and what remained of his burnt body, but his uncle Gwayne had given him a proud clap on the shoulder.
As he returned to where Vhagar settled, the fire in his veins still burned ablaze with the high of their success. She fought well for him today. His old girl was just as eager as he, sharing a twin spark in their veins that had them thirsty to rain fire. He and Vhagar made for a horrific sight, reducing all else to mere dust under her talons. His aunt’s beast may have been hardened by battle, but it was no match for the queen of all dragons.
The king was a different story. Aemond hadn’t anticipated the drunkard to find his way into the battlefield. His arrival had complicated things, had blocked the younger’s path to proving himself worthy of glory. Taking down Rhaenys was Aemond’s battle alone, and to have Aegon be caught in the crossfire, well, that was collateral damage.
This victory will not be his to claim before the masses. He knew that. The streets will roar for Aegon, sing songs about the battle won in his name, despite the countless efforts of many others except for him. This was Aemond’s place, to get his hands dirty so his brother could forge his name in history as king.
He had taken his time flying back, feeling every bite of the wind that blew his long hair back, and savoring what remained of the day’s lights. His blood still ran hot with fire, his fingertips still buzzing with euphoric bliss. The one-eyed prince was drunk on power and glory. It bubbled down into a fire in his loins, a hardening in his breeches.
Aemond tried to keep his urges at bay, just until he returned home at least, but his body demanded reprieve. With no other eyes on him except for the gods, the kinslayer slowly canted his hips towards the front rise of his saddle. He held onto the seat’s horns, rubbing his clothed bulge onto the firm leather. His battle garb was rougher, stiffer than his usual leathers. It made for a delicious kiss on his cockhead. He rutted against his saddle ferociously, his hips lifting from his seat in desperation. His thighs were starting to burn from his movements, but the fiery lick deep within his belly was only ever starting to grow. Alone in the heavens, Aemond was free to voice his pleasure as he wished, his grunts and groans swept away in the wind with every flap of Vhagar’s wings. This was the first instance he let himself do so, only ever biting back his sounds when he was fisting his cock in his bedchamber, or fucking a whore.
Beneath him, his dragon was growing restless too. Their bond, forged with their souls, let her feel what he felt. There was no doubt a similar spark coursed through her. They were one and the same after all. But his urges grew desperate, and he wished not to let his girl fly like this.
“Lykirī, Vhagar,” he ordered, rubbing on her rough scales to ease her. With a tug on the ropes, Aemond guided his dragon to land. They found their place by a meadow, and with Vhagar’s size, it would be easy to mistake her for one of the hills that enclosed the grass. The night was slowly growing dark too, and Aemond could presume no soul would want to venture out this far at this hour.
The prince did not bother with removing his long coat, nor the belt around his waist. In haste, he merely unbuttoned the last clasps to split the fabric open, before untying his breeches. The night air held a slight bite of cold, and it made him hiss when it kissed his exposed cockhead. His pulse thumped loudly in his ears, while his face burned hot with a fiery vigor.
He had to let it out, lest it started to burn him from within.
His gloved hand made quick work of tugging on his shaft, establishing a swift rhythm. If it were any brighter, Aemond would have seen the flushing of his tip, almost to a purple hue, though under the moonlight, his arousal glistened. Nothing ever made his blood run hot like the addicting glory of proving he was above the rest. He had felt it then, when claiming Vhagar, when Daemon sent men to kill him in sleep, and especially when he had successfully reduced his brother into a pouting, stuttering mess in front of the council. They underestimated him too much, all throughout his youth. They are wise enough to fear him now.
With a grunt, Aemond bit the tip of his glove, pulling his hand free of the leather. His hand returned to his cock, pumping it with an unrelenting urgency. He squeezed his tip with a flick of a wrist, while his free hand descended to cup his stones. It was only recently when a whore had shown him how sensitive his sacks were, and with the slightest caress, it spurned the prince closer to his end. He bit down on his glove harshly, bringing about an aching in his jaw.
He was close, evident in the way the warmth in his belly bloomed upward towards his chest. When he closed his eye, Aemond could relive the glory of his triumph, could feel the fear in Aegon’s betrayal the moment his brother burned him. He could still smell the stench of marred flesh under his nose, while the weight of the catspaw dagger sat heavily on Aemond’s waist.
Aemond knew what was to come, what was needed of him now. The second son was the key to their victory, and it was his divine right to lead him to it. With a moan, Aemond leaned against his saddle once more, grinding his bare cock against the wood.
He could almost see it. The throne. The Conqueror’s crown on his head. With him crowned, the pretender and her brood will burn soon enough. He was not weak like the rest of them, like Aegon or Alicent; no, they were too soft. The gods have deemed him capable of such power, it was only right for him to wield it.
Daemon knew this, he understood it the same way as he. His uncle was the only formidable foe of them all, and Aemond knew he thought the same of his nephew. The fact that he had to send men to slay him in his home, in his bed, was laughable. It flattered him, really. When the time came, he would face the rogue prince head-on, and not hide like a coward. He would face him in the skies, yes, that would be the way to do it.
The ornate embroidery on the leather scratched his tip in a way that made his jaw slacken. He humped the saddle like a bitch in heat, his gloved hand still squeezing his hefty stones. “Seven fucking Hells,” he cursed. Vhagar grumbled, shifting him about in his seat. Leaning back to rest on the cantle, Aemond propped his legs wide open. His hips thrust into his fist, fucking himself into his hand. He was starting to perspire beneath his garb, droplets of salty sweat beading down his neck.
How would he do it? Vhagar was a behemoth compared to Caraxes. The red wyrm may be faster, but Vhagar was a seasoned killer. The way she and Meleys engaged in the skies was proof enough. She was smart, capturing the red queen in her hold before spewing fire. His uncle’s dragon would fare no better.
Or perhaps, he could meet him on the battlefield, where they would fight like mortal men. Aemond was a menace with a sword, expert skills honed by one of the best swordsmen the realm has seen. Cole had even beaten Daemon once, there was no doubt in the younger’s mind he could do the same.
His tip was leaking hard, weeping tears like a wailing widow onto his calloused hand. The wet smack of his cock echoed into the darkness, audible to none but the spirits of the forest. With courage bubbling in his chest, the hand on his stones descended lower, making an experimental press on the space between his rear and his cock. The touch made him shudder, bringing about tingles that spurred him further. He had only seen it done once while passing through the numerous bodies splayed about in Sylvi’s brothel. It intrigued him, making him pause from making his way to their designated corner.
We could try that if you want, she had whispered to him, but Aemond merely shook his head with a huff before moving on. He saw the appeal of it now as he massaged the area with a firm press. The top of his head was starting to grow light, threatening to float away. Low whines poured from his lips, his face scrunching as he desperately sought out his release.
“Please, please,” he whimpered. His arm was starting to cramp from exertion, while his thighs shook. With another vigorous caress on his taint, Aemond came with a cry. His seed spurted out in three thick, hot spurts, painting his hand, his breeches, and the leather of his seat. He had keeled over in overwhelming pleasure, giving himself one last grind against the wood, then another, to spill all he could. He had subconsciously squeezed his good eye a little too hard, and when it opened, specks of white danced in his vision. Through the bleary fog of his climax, he saw Daemon. He saw the life drain out of his uncle’s eyes, and his blood painting Aemond’s hands red.
They were already tainted by the blood of his kin— Luke, Jaehaerys, and Rhaenys. The same scarlet stream that ran in his veins. But as he lifted his hand to look at it, there was no speck of red to be seen. Instead, it was painted by the pearly sheen of his essence, his seed. This was his poison spilled clean. With a pleasant throb in his temples and a heaving in his chest, Aemond took his fingers into his mouth.
It was saltier than he imagined, though not entirely unpleasant. It was rather moreish, making him lick one finger clean after another to get another taste. He had even scooped up the spill on the saddle, swiping the leather clean with his tongue.
Thoroughly pleased, Aemond slumped back, tilting his head to the sky. He was calmer now, with the lightning in his veins wearing down to an ache in his muscles. Exhaustion was starting to creep up on him. Vhagar too. His mount was starting to let out deep huffs, the first telltale signs of slumber, and a warning for Aemond to hasten.
With a firm command, they took to the skies once more. It took little time for them to be greeted by the sight of King’s Landing. The Red Keep stood tall, speckled with flickers of light from the torches by the open windows. There was much awaiting him there, this Aemond knew. It would take some time before Cole and his men returned with Aegon’s injured body, and who knew if the imbecile would still be alive then. The second son was being presented with a golden opportunity. With the king and the Hand gone, it was up to him to commandeer their ship. His mother will think him capable, will finally see she had put the wrong son on the throne. It was no matter to Aemond now, he held little grievances, especially when his efforts were starting to come to fruition.
They will kneel before him soon enough. They will learn it will be better to submit than to resist. After all, it would be unwise to incur the Kinslayer’s wrath.
Who was this woman? A serving wench who dabbled in potions and spells, says Munkun. A woods witch, claims Septon Eustace. A malign enchantress who bathed in the blood of virgins to preserve her youth, Mushroom would have us believe. Her name suggests bastard birth… but we know little of her father, and less of her mother. Munkun and Eustace tell us she was sired by Lord Lyonel Strong in his callow youth, making her a natural half-sister to his sons Harwin (Breakbones) and Larys (the Clubfoot). But Mushroom insists that she was much older, that she was wet nurse to both boys, perhaps even to their father a generation earlier.
Though her own children had all been stillborn, the milk that flowed so abundantly from the breasts of Alys Rivers had nourished countless babes born of other women at Harrenhal. Was she in truth a witch who lay with demons, bringing forth dead children as payment for the knowledge they gave her? Was she a simpleminded slattern, as Eustace believes? A wanton who used her poisons and potions to bind men to her, body and soul?
'Honey, Are You Coming?' (Baby Said, Part 2) — Modern!Aemond Targaryen x Reader
divider is from @plutism
a/n: hello! i'm soooo so sorry for taking too long in doing the second part of baby said, college and work are driving me insane and i barely have time to write. i really hope you like this
Summary: After that mindblowing night after the bar, you find yourself waiting for Aemond's call, growing slightly disappointed.
Words: 4691
Warnings: +18 (minors dni), female reader, no use y/n nor specific physical description, swearing, dirty talk, hand kink, praising, tiddy sucking, oral sex (m receiving), fingering, p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie, slightly dominant aemond, riding, no proof reading! english is not my first language, i apologise in advance if there are any mistakes.
It’s been five days and you haven’t heard anything from Aemond. Not a call, not even a text message. Nothing. You started to feel a little bit anxious and somewhat offended. Perhaps he didn’t like you that much, or worse, he had a girlfriend and still had sex with you. You shake your head, trying to get rid of those thoughts, focusing on the task at hand.
A year before your graduation, you got a job in a small publishing house, working as an editor. You didn’t earn a fortune, but it was more than enough to make ends meet and pay rent. Still, you were trying to find a job in a bigger place, freelancing didn’t appeal to you and you were actually looking for a new flat, closer to the capital, which meant higher prices.
“For fuck’s sake,” you hear Arianne curse next to you, making you startle. With a frown, you lift your head to look at her. “You have been eyeing your phone for the last fifteen minutes, it’s quite annoying,” she says, half serious, half joking. The brunette tilts her head and places a hand on her hip. “He hasn’t called you yet, has he?”
You shake your head, pursing your lips. “I don’t know why it affects me so much… it was just a one night stand” you explain, running a hand through your hair and sighing.
“Perhaps he’s busy…” your friend tries to reason with you, seeing how defeated you looked. She gets on her knees and grabs your hands. “Hey, I don’t want you to feel like rubbish, you shouldn’t feel like this, even if he was a mindblowing fuck.” She says, quoting the words you said when you told her about that night, giving her all the nasty details over a cup of wine during dinner. “Have you checked his socials?” She asks, to which you nod.
“Yep. Private account on Instagram, no Twitter. Didn’t even bother to check Facebook, no one uses it nowadays” you move your hand in the air. “And before you ask, no, I didn’t ask a following request.”
“What’s stopping you?” She asks with a frown and clicks her tongue in annoyance when you shrug. “I swear to God…” she mutters under her breath before plopping down on her chair, opening an incognito tab in her browser, as if what she was doing was illegal.
You frown and move your chair next to hers. “What are you doing?” You watch as she types his name on the search bar. You read the first few results with narrowed eyes. They scan the many search results populating the screen, but they focus on one particular title. Meet the Targaryens: The Powerhouse Family Behind ‘Valyrian Press’
Oh God. “Click that one…” you point at the title and Arianne immediately clicks. The webpage loads quickly and a big picture pops up on the screen. Your eyes fall to Aemond’s figure in the family picture. He was looking into the camera, a serious expression on his face, his hands into the pockets of his black suit. He wore all black.
Arianne turns to look at you. “You didn’t tell me this snack was the son of Viserys Targaryen…”
“I didn’t know!” You whisper-shout, shrugging. “I had no idea he was the son of Viserys Targaryen, though the surname did ring a bell.” Just when she opens her mouth to speak, you interrupt her, lifting your index finger in the air. “Hey, it wasn’t a date, it was a fuck, okay? We didn’t just sit down to talk about our families” you explain, defending yourself. She lifts her hands in surrender.
“Didn’t say anything at all.” Your friend turns again and skims the article. “Well, my dear friend, you had sex with a single billionaire, son of the owner of one of the most important publishing houses in the country. If you don’t send that Instagram request, I will do it.” Just when she finishes saying that, your phone vibrates. Your head jerks and you extend your hand to grab it, your eyes widening when you see the notification. Arianne frowns. “Is it him?”
You nod, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. Arianne gasps and chuckles as you open the text message.
Hi. I apologise for not writing sooner. May I call you?
You fight the urge of jumping up and down and screaming of happiness, and instead you take a deep breath to calm down the butterflies in your stomach and type an answer, your hands shaking in excitement.
Hi there :) Sure, you can call me.
Just a minute after you sent that message, your phone vibrates once more, and you take the call, eager to listen to his voice. “Hi?”
“Hello, gorgeous.” Gorgeous. You hear him hiss. “I’m so, so sorry for not calling you back. I have been quite busy these days, travelling and accompanying my father to so many meetings…” you can picture him moving his hands around, explaining things to you. “I meant to call you right after that night, but work got in the way. I hope you accept my apologies…”
You smile against the phone. “Don’t worry, Aemond. It’s okay, I suspected you were busy,” you reply, biting your lower lip to try to stop a laugh, seeing Arianne making faces at your words and mouthing ‘I told you’.
“Anyways, I’m in the city right now… are you at work?” He asks after a soft sigh and you find yourself twirling a strand of your hair like a high school girl. How pathetic, you think.
“Yes, but I finish my shift at 5pm. We can grab a coffee or a sandwich, if you want…” you suggest.
“Of course, darling. Give me your address, I can pick you up and we can go to Honeyholt Bakery, they sell delicious lemon cakes.” You beam, lemon cakes were your favourites, but you never told him that. You give him your job’s address before saying goodbye and hanging up.
You plop down on your chair, a dreamy look in your face as you look at the ceiling. You feel Arianne’s gaze on you, and you look down at her. She slowly shakes her head, a smirk making its way on her face. “I sooo envy you, lucky bitch” she jokes, making you giggle.
Knowing that you were hours away from meeting Aemond was all the motivation you needed to get down to work quickly, going over the document you had to edit before sending it to the executive editor. You finish a bit earlier than expected and grab your jacket and purse, kiss Arianne’s head and head towards the exit to wait for Aemond. You leave him a message letting him know you were ready, and not even a minute later you receive his reply. On my way ;)
Less than ten minutes later, you see a black BMW with tinted windows steering around the corner, slowing down and parking right in front of the doors of the building. The driver’s windows roll down and you see Aemond, with his hair combed back and wearing sunglasses. Fuck me.
He smiles at you and you smile back. “Hello, darling.” His voice is smooth and it makes you swallow hard. He steps out of the car, not before shifting the gear level into park mode and pulling the lever so that the car stays right in place.
“Hi, Aemond” you reply, your eyes sweeping over his lean figure clad in some brown polished shoes, black trousers, black shirt and black leather jacket. A lot of black. He looks delicious. He leans in to kiss your cheek, his expensive cologne filling your nostrils.
He places a hand on your lower back and indicates you to get into his car, opening the door for you, which you thank. He closes the door and walks around his vehicle to get inside, and you take a moment to look around, noticing how clean it smells. There’s music playing, the electric guitars and drums echoing in the small space. When Aemond gets inside and closes the door, he turns the volume of the radio down, but the music is still audible. You can recognize the song very clearly.
Meet me there where it never closes
Meet me there, I'll give you your roses
All is fair in love, oh-oh-oh
Honey, are you coming?
He takes his glasses off and begins driving the car at a normal speed as he talks. “How have you been, gorgeous?”
“I’ve been great… I have a lot more work now, but it’s so fulfilling,” you reply, your gaze falling to his hand on the steering wheel. He looks so confident as he drives, and you suddenly feel your cheeks getting hot, so you move your gaze to the window, watching the shops as you pass by.
Aemond smirks and glances at you. “I’m happy for you. The most important thing is enjoying and loving what you do” you hum at his answer, showing your agreement. “You work at a publishing house, right?”
“Yeah, I work as an editor, have been doing it for a year now” he raises his brows and nods.
“So I take it that you’re comfortable in that place…” his eyes are fixed on the road, concentrated on driving.
You purse your lips to the side, humming. “I’m actually looking for other publishing houses. I’m thinking about moving closer to the capital, and the rent is obviously higher in those areas, so I need a better wage.”
Aemond nods, taking in your words. “Well, my father has a publishing house. Valyrian Press, you might have heard of it.” Your eyes widen in surprise —fake, of course,— at his words. “There are some vacancies, and the pay is really good.”
“Your dad owns Valyrian Press?” He hums. “Oh, that’s why your surname rang a bell…” What a big fat lie.
Aemond huffs a laugh. “You’re telling me that you didn’t google my name?” How the fuck does he know things?
“Not me, my friend did.” He chuckles. “It never crossed my mind to google anything… but perhaps I did look up your social media…” you trail off.
Aemond chuckles again, the sound making your heart flutter. “Well, I barely use social media, I have an Instagram account but I’m not very fond of those apps…” You look at him and shake your head, letting out a soft chuckle. He parks the car outside the café. “What do y’wanna eat, darling?”
You. “Uhm, a cappuccino and some lemon cakes would be fine.”
He winks at you and smirks. “Excellent choice. I’ll be back soon” and with that, he exits the car. You watch him as he walks towards the bakery, biting your lip at the sight. You rest your head against the back of the seat, sighing and thinking about that man you barely know. You don’t know why, but you feel so drawn to him and you want to kick yourself because you’ve never felt like this for anyone. Not even your ex, for God’s sake.
You see Aemond getting out of the shop with two cups in one hand and a small white box with a yellow bow on top on the other hand. You stretch to get the door open, making it easier for him to get into the car.
“Thank you, beautiful” he offers you a smile and you sit comfortably in your position. He hands you the coffees and sets the box in the middle of your seats before closing the door and starting the car. “Where would you like to go?” He asks you, grabbing his cup and taking a sip from it.
“Wherever you want, Aemond… is there any specific place you wanna go?” You ask as you look at him, your eyes momentarily drifting to his hand on the steering wheel, the other one wrapped around the cup. Fuck, how is it that his hands were enough to make you go wild, the mere though of having them roaming over your body, pushing your legs apart, grabbing your hips, squeezing your tits, choking you… and his fingers, God, his long fingers.
“Hey!” He calls you, startling you. His glances at you once again, smirking when he sees you blinking and wide-eyed. “I asked you a question…”
You blink a few times more, frowning. “Uhm, sorry… what?” Your voice comes out meekly as you try to gather your thoughts. He stops at the red light.
“I asked you if you wanted me to take you to your apartment…” when you don’t answer, he huffs a laugh. “Cat got your tongue, hm?” He murmurs in a husky voice. He places his cup on the cup holder and extends his arm, his left hand coming up to your face to cup your cheek. “You like my hands, don’t you?” Aemond looks at you, giving you a smug smile when you mutter something inaudible. “You think I didn’t notice how you were staring at my hands, love?” You swallow hard as his thumb grazes your lower lip and you take the opportunity to open your mouth slightly, the tip of your tongue licking his digit before sucking it, the sensation going straight to his cock.
You hear him curse under his breath, his chest heaving. He sees the light going from red, to yellow, to green out of the corner of his eye and, reluctantly, he pulls his thumb out of your mouth, fearing that if you did that again, he might lose control of the vehicle. Before he retreats his hand you take it and guide it inside your jeans, letting him feel you.
“Fuck, you’re soaked” he mutters as he feels your wet folds, his other hand gripping the wheel tightly, his knuckles going white. You keep him there, pressing his hand against your cunt to get some relief. “Holy shit, babygirl, wait…” he retreats his fingers from your cunt and you whine. “Shh, relax…” he shushes you, his fingers quickly undoing the button of your jeans and pulling down the zipper to get more space.
He hisses when he gets his hand inside your lace panties again, his middle finger trailing up your entrance, gathering some of your essence to rub your clit with his digit. “Oh, fuck” you curse, throwing your head back and closing your eyes as the pad of his finger rubs lazy circles over your bud.
“God, love, you’re really wet… thinking about my hands turns you on, huh?” He taunts you, a low growl rumbling in his throat when he feels your cunt sucking his finger in. Aemond slides his finger inside you and you mewl as he starts pumping it. He continues driving, his gaze focused on the road ahead, his mind racing. “Want another finger, baby?”
“Hmm… ngh… yes, Aemond- oh!” You squeak when he inserts his index finger. You grip the grab handle above the window, trying to hold onto something as his fingers continue his work. “Fuck, right there” you moan when his fingers curl up, hitting your sweet spot with ease.
Aemond hums, curling them again and increasing the pace of his fingers. You were thankful the windows were tinted, otherwise passers-by would see what you were doing inside that car. Aemond’s grip on the steering wheel tightens as he feels your cunt tightening around his fingers, you are so close to cumming so he slows down the movements.
“N-no, Aemond, don’t stop, I’m so close…” you complain in a whine, and he groans lowly.
“Baby, I’m so fucking hard right now and if you continue making those beautiful sounds I might cum in my pants and crash this vehicle. I need you to tell me where you wanna go, I can’t focus on the road if I have you squeezing my fingers like that…” he explains, panting a little bit.
“Pull over… drive to a parking lot, I don’t know…” you plead, bucking your hips slightly. You don’t know how long you can last, not when the heel of his palm is pressing against your clit, eliciting whimpers from you.
Aemond drives towards the nearest parking lot he finds, his fingers moving inside you again at a relentless pace, making you gasp. “Fuck, baby, I can feel you getting closer, you’re squeezing my fingers so tightly…” He says through gritted teeth, smirking when you let out a high-pitched moan the moment his fingers reach that rough patch inside you, making you jolt. “C’mon, pretty girl. Cum all over my fingers, wanna feel you…” he coaxes.
He grunts when you press your legs together as you come, head thrown back and jaw open, incoherent words and moans spilling past your lips. His fingers continue working inside you, helping you ride out your orgasm. He pulls them out, and you nearly choke as you watch him, through half-lidded eyes, how he brings his fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean and moaning at the taste.
“You taste incredibly sweet, baby. You have no idea how much I need to put my cock inside you” you moan in response, head spinning at his words. He enters the parking lot and rushes to find a spot, parking the car immediately. “Come to the back” he orders, and he peeks around to check that no one sees you in the almost empty place.
Both of you get to the back of the car, almost throwing yourself at him. His lips capture yours in an intense kiss, his hand cupping your neck to pull you closer and angle your head to deepen it while the other rests on your waist. The tip of his tongue presses slightly against your lower lip and you gladly part your lips, allowing his tongue to explore your mouth. You can taste the strong coffee in his mouth.
Your hands trail down his chest, feeling his heartbeat quicken under your palms. Aemond growls into your mouth when one of your hands cup his evident bulge, palming him through the fabric. “Holy… shit…” he mutters against your lips. You take the opportunity to leave open-mouthed kisses along his jaw, his neck, all the way to his earlobe.
“Want to suck your cock, Aemond…” you purr in his ear before taking his earlobe between your teeth, nibbling softly as you lower the zipper of his jeans, slithering your hand under his boxers.
“F-fuck…” he curses through gritted teeth, closing his eyes for a moment as you pull down his jeans and boxers in one motion. Your mouth waters at the sight of his cock straining against his stomach and you move in your place, bringing your legs up to kneel next to him, your ass propped up in direction to the window. Your index finger grates the weeping tip, making him shudder. “Don’t tease… put your mouth to work, needy girl” he instructs, his hand landing on your ass with a loud smack, making you yelp.
You swallow hard and lick your lips as you lean forward, your right hand wrapping around his base. Like a lollipop, your tongue licks his cock from the base to the tip, eliciting a hiss from him. The hand that smacked your ass comes to rest on the small of your back, hiking up your blouse and rubbing circles on your skin.
Your lips wrap around his tip, sucking it gently and swirling your tongue around it. “God… yes, like that…” he breathes out, his voice rough. You stroke his shaft with your hand in rhythm with the movements of your mouth, up and down his length. Your hair falls to the side but Aemond is quick to grab it, putting it in a ponytail as your head bobs up and down. He resists the urge to buck his hips up, trying not to hurt you.
You stop stroking him and move your hand to cup his balls, which ignites something primal in Aemond. He can’t help but thrust his hips upwards into your mouth, making you moan. “Fucking hell, you’re taking me so deep into that wet mouth… love it” he coos, biting his lip at the sight of your mouth around him and your head bobbing up and down. His cock is covered in your saliva, glistening under the dim lights of the parking lot.
You hollow your cheeks as you go up, your hands wrapping around his base again, adding a bit of pressure. That makes him growl and pant, the sounds he makes going straight to your cunt. He continues praising you in choked, needy moans, telling you how good your mouth feels on his cock, how he’s going to wreck your pussy immediately afterwards, his hand guiding your head up and down his length. You feel him twitch in your mouth, the signal that he’s close to cumming.
“Are you coming, Aemond?” You ask, your hot breath fanning against his length before taking him deep into your mouth, gagging around him.
“Y-yes… s-stop… I’m so close…” he warns, the obscene wet sucking sounds that fill the car making him let out a strangled moan. He pulls you away from his length, a trail of saliva still connecting your mouth to him. You use the palm of your hand to wipe your mouth, licking your lips and looking at him.
“Why did you want me to stop?” Your hand presses on his inner thigh, making him sigh deeply and let go of your hair.
“Because when I cum, I want to do it deep inside your cunt, alright?” He explains as he leans his back against the seat, his words making your jaw drop. “Now, get rid of those jeans and ride me.”
You eagerly do as told, putting your legs down and shimming out of your jeans and soaked panties. You toss them aside and straddle him, your bent knees on either side of his hips, your chest pressing against his given the constricted space you are in. His hands immediately land on either side of your hips, guiding you to sink down on his cock.
Both of you moan at the contact, your eyes close as he lets you adjust to his size. When you open your eyes you find his hungry gaze on you, his pupils dark with lust. He licks his lips, bringing one hand to cup your neck and pull you down to kiss him. The kiss is slow but passionate, sensual. You find support on his shoulders and you start moving your hips, finding the right rhythm.
Aemond pulls back to breath, his lips hovering over yours as you rest your forehead against his. His fingers grip your hips tightly, certainly leaving marks. “Hmm…” he hums, feeling how your cunt sucks him in, engulfing him. “D’you feel me deep inside you, baby?” He murmurs against your lips.
“Y-yes… you’re so deep, Aemond,” you reply in a shaky whisper. You feel his breath against your face due to the close proximity, hearing the low grunts and whines that leave his lips. His hands move from your hips to your abdomen, lifting your blouse to feel your skin, his touch setting your body on fire.
“No bra?” His eyes widen in surprise and he smirks. “Naughty girl, I might have to punish you…” He taunts as he pulls the straps of your blouse down, freeing your breasts. He mutters a curse and dives into your chest, his hands bringing your tits together, squeezing as his tongue swirls around your right nipple, making you arch your back against him. “You fit perfectly in my hands, baby…” he squeezes your tits once more, making you throw your head back. Aemond leans forward and leaves wet kisses on your throat, sucking the junction between your neck and shoulder as his big hands knead your tits.
Your nails dig into his shoulders as you increase the speed of your movements, letting out desperate whines as the tip of his cock bullies the rough patch inside you. You’ve never been this wet before, the squelching sounds making you blush furiously in embarrassment. “Fuck, you’re so wet… can’t wait for when you soak my cock as you come” those dirty words he mutters against your ear have you gasping loudly and furrowing your brows. Aemond rests his forehead against your shoulder, the sounds escaping his lips coming out muffled.
“Aemond… I’m… fuck, I’m so close…” you speak in a choked moan, your arms wrapping around his neck as you bounce on his dick.
You feel him smirk against your skin, his teeth nibbling your collarbone. “Yeah, I can feel that… you’re so tight, love, you feel so fucking good” he praises, his voice hoarse and deep. Aemond lifts his head from your shoulder, looking up at you, his eyes roaming over your face. “Look at me” he demands in an authoritative, stern voice. You do as told, locking your eyes with his. “Do not tear your gaze away from me, you understand?” You nod frantically, your brows knitted together in pleasure.
His hands lower to your backside, gripping your ass tightly, helping you as you move on top of him. He brings his legs together, plants his feet on the floor and starts bucking his hips up, meeting your movements. Your eyes close shut involuntarily, wanton and sinful moans spilling past your lips as he pounds into you. “I said, fucking look at me” he says through gritten teeth, and you obey, as hard as it is to do so.
His eyes roam over your face, committing every detail to memory. “Y’gonna cum all over my cock, hmm? Can feel you squeezing me.” You nod, unable to speak. His hands grip your ass tighter, his nails digging into your skin. “Come, baby… let go and soak me, c’mon,” he gives your ass a loud smack, and that does it to you. His mouth is agape as he watches you come undone above him, your eyes rolling to the back of your skull and lips parted as you gasp for air. “That’s it, baby… I got you.”
You feel blood rushing through your ears, your eyes flutter close and your legs tremble. You feel Aemond’s hard grip on your ass as he keeps pounding into you, chasing his own release. “Fuck! Fuck, fuck, I’m gonna…” his hips stutter and his arms wrap around your waist tightly as he cums deep inside your cunt, a guttural groan coming out of his lips, the sound muffled as he hides his head in your shoulder.
Both of you stay there, panting and holding each other as you come down from your intense orgasms. You feel like you’re walking on a cloud, feeling boneless. Once you finally catch your breaths, he lifts his head to place a kiss on your lips. He pulls back and huffs a laugh.
“Shit… are you okay?” He asks, placing soft kisses along your collarbone, bringing you back to earth. You struggle to find the words, but eventually open your mouth to speak.
“Yes… I feel amazing…” he chuckles at your answer, your voice coming out croaky.
“I’m glad. Did I fuck your brains out?” He smirks when you nod, and places another kiss on your lips as his hands rub soothing circles on your back. He rests his forehead against yours, looking into your eyes. You untangle your arms from around his neck and place your hands on either side of his face, admiring his features. “I was serious, you know. About the vacancies,” he explains to you. “I can ask my father to arrange a job interview. I’m dead serious, darling.”
You chuckle, the sound of your soft laugh making him smile. You tilt your head. “Hmm… I think you’re just trying to get into my pants…” you tease, to which he chuckles.
“But I already did. Twice” he replies in a low voice, making you giggle. “Oh, and one more thing.” He adds, looking at you, his playful expression turning into a soft one. “Would you go on a date with me?”
Your lips curve into a smile. “Yes. I would love to.”
Ya es la tercera noche en el desierto y cada vez que lo pensás, te brotan las lágrimas de desespero ¿Y qué si los mensajes de rescate no llegaron a tiempo? ¿Y qué si tu esposo Aemond desesperó y salió a buscarte pero su coche también falló?
"¿Si temió porque nunca llegamos y está muerto ya?" Tu llanto se agrava mientras te tomas el rostro dañado por la sequía de la arena y el verano, aún así es de noche y estás frente a una fogata porque el clima cambia rotundamente de noche.
"No seas tan trágica, Aemond sabrá que adentrarse en el desierto es peligroso" Aegon te envuelve en una manta de cuero que lo viste, a tu vista su gran espalda percudida por la arena y rasgada que simula no tener frío para abrigarte a ti.
"¿No ser trágica? Es fácil para ti que tu esposa Helaena te esperará en casa como Penélope a Ulises, tejiendo y destejiendo. Mi esposo es capaz de venir a buscarme a pie" exclamas indignada ya harta de que minimice la situación. No se hablaron en todo el día porque él pareciera disfrutar estar lejos de la familia, de su tonta esposa, de su exigente madre y sobre todo de su arrogante hermano que es tu marido. Disfruta estar a solas con vos incluso si el asunto es de vida o muerte.
"Pues sería muy tonto de su parte venirte a buscar a pie" sonríe burlón y celoso mientras sus labios se tornan morados, al fin y al cabo es el único que habla tu idioma porque una comunidad de nativos los está acogiendo en su tribu. Molesta pero conmovida lo cubres con tu manta y sus cuerpos prontamente comienzan a recibir el calor.
"Acuéstate" murmura y sin previo aviso te abraza fuerte para no morirse de frío. Algo en ti late tanto que no te deja dormir. De repente logras dormirte pero al despertar, al abrir los ojos te encuentras con sus pectorales remarcados y sucios por el desierto. Observas su barba justo cuando sale el sol y casi tanto como a este astro un día de invierno. La barba está crecida, como tu esposo jamás la dejó crecer, Aegon tampoco se dejaba crecer la barba quizá por eso te sorprendió tanto aquellos días esos vellos dorados. El despierta y sonríe al verte observando su boca y con la excusa del viento te acomoda el cabello que te cubre el rostro porque también quiere mirarte. Con la excusa de brindar calor junta su pecho plano con el tuyo y sus narices chocan, ambos buscan dormir ya que tu eres la esposa de su hermano. Pero no lo logran.
La única vez que habían olvidado que Aemond era tu esposo, habían emprendido por diversión un viaje al desierto y todo salió muy mal. Entonces pareciera que ya no buscan olvidarlo. Él no se puede dormir, tus pechos junto a su pecho, tus muslos junto a sus piernas, la hebilla de su cinturon rozando tu vientre no le permiten pensar en dormirse. Y ahí piensas que se va a olvidar que su hermano es tu esposo, que se olvidará como aquella vez que se emborracharon y se besaron con pasión desubicada. Pero totalmente ubicado, y a tu pesar porque lo quieres junto a tu cuerpo desubicado, se levanta.
Detrás de él camina unos metros hasta donde está el coche y te comunica que ya lo arregló y podrán volver a casa. Pero ninguno de los dos quiere marcharse allá donde las obligaciones de la familia esperan, sus hijos y su esposa, tu marido y su exigente vida.
Aegon y tú suben al coche, hacen unos cuantos metros y antes de que se termine el desierto, se miran fijamente recordando todo lo malo pero también todas las noches que durmieron juntos por el frío, también el motivo que los condujo hasta allí. Se bajan del coche y se sientan en el capot, ninguno dice nada. Él se ha ocupado demasiado de aprender a ser un hombre respetuoso, Aemond muchas veces lo enfrentó porque te miraba descaradamente.
Te le acercas, sus piernas lo piden pues se abren dándote paso y prontamente con la libertad que el desierto te dio, le besas los labios no sin antes observar y acariciar su barba dorada.
"Debemos irnos, nena. Estabas tan apresurada para volver" murmura entre tus labios buscando sostenerse y que todo quede en un beso como siempre, que no pasen los límites.
"¿De verdad quieres irte?" sonríes abriendo tu boca lentamente, disfrutando de la textura de su barba en tus labios y esperando que te bese. Te aprieta la cintura y te acerca a él, prontamente sentís tu vientre rozar su entrepierna. Su lengua se entromete lenta en tu boca mientras busca estratégicamente que su bulto acaricie con violencia el interior de tus piernas.
"Quisiera quedarme para siempre aquí, ser un salvaje contigo y no hablar" vuelve a murmurar gravemente con su pulgar acariciando tu labio.
"¿Entonces cómo sabremos qué necesita el uno del otro? ¿Cómo sobreviviremos?" le preguntas mientras desabrochas su camisa encontrándote con su pecho tan dorado y crecido en sus vellos como su barba divina. Él te besa el escote rasgándote la piel con el filo de sus bigotes mientras te acaricia la cintura bajando lentamente tus pantalones. Sus labios filosos se entrometen faltando el respeto de tu sostén y llegando a uno de tus pezones, mientras que suspiras. Cada vez más fuerte se vuelve el placer y el verano allí en final del desierto, cada vez más fuerte te embiste contra su bulto ya rígido y un gemido se te escapa. Él que mueve su lengua y sus dientes contra tu pezon decide hablar mientras se deleita con la humedad de entre tus piernas que se delata al traspasar el pantalón.
"No hacen falta las palabras cuando verdaderamente necesitamos" te dice y a la arena cae tu ropa interior. Te deshaces de sus pantalones y apenas ves su ropa interior que también cae, ya que te sube encima suyo para que, así como en sus sueños más prohibidos, empieces a dar horcajadas que rápidamente enlazan sus humedades más íntimas. El capot promete y jura abollarse ante la fuerza de gravedad que desafías hundiéndolo en tu flor inmediata mientras le rasgas la nuca con tus uñas y él acaricia desafiante tu clítoris. El placer se denota en sus respiraciones y pronto como si transitaras un orgasmo permanente, tu cuerpo parece gastarse de energías. Aegon es mucho más grande entre tus piernas que tu esposo y deseas que vaya aun más profundo, entonces él te toma de la cintura y comienza a estrellarte una y otra vez disfrutando que tus gritos al unísono de sus fluidos hacen eco en toda la llanura desértica.
Esperaron tantos años que pareciera un sueño hecho realidad, de manera rabiosa y mugrienta seguís gimiendo vocablos vacíos de culpa y repletos de lujuria, como nunca antes. Y él comienza a acompañarte para estallar en ti con suprema potencia, dejando un blanco en tus ojos. Junta tus pupilas y las suyas.
"Sobreviví tanto tiempo a esta necesidad de ti que no hay desierto que me mate"
i just want you all to know i'm working on part 3 of 'cherry bomb' (my fic with michael gavey) and that maybe i'll write a second part of 'baby said', my fic with modern!aemond. i've started college again and i work part-time, that takes a lot of my time so that's why i'm not posting anything :( (aside from the writer's block lol)
anyways, a lot has happened since december, we've got season 2 trailers of hotd! what do you think about them? what do you expect to see this season? 👀
