chibsandchill

[chibsandchill]

There are no gods

Can be read as a Pt 2 of Stolen moments under silk sheets, 2.5 will be published later as a NSFW continuation of this

Fandom: HOTD (House of the Dragon)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x AFAB!reader 

Summary: Aemond looks tense, reader wants to fix that

Warnings: Aemond POV, unreliable narrator, obsession, implied sexual content at the very end, Aemond monologues for a large portion of the fic, he’s a bit weird, definetly needs a hug and loads of therapy, grammatical and spelling errors (english is not my native language)

Masterlist

Those few stolen moments under the silk sheets offer a brief moment of respite from the cruelty of the gods. But just as soon as you part, the pain blooms again, stronger than ever. Its claws dig into his flesh with newfound strength, digging further into years old scars. It almost forces tears into his eye, but you are pressed so tightly into his chest that he feels your heart beat on his skin, and for each of those beats he is able to breathe again. 

“You are… perfection.” Aemond whispers into your skin. 

“You’re biased.”

“No. The others are just too blind to see it.” 

And oh, was he thankful that they were. 

They are not worthy to see you, to know you. 

Even he, who is a part of you, longs only to be worthy enough to be in your presence. 

Even he, who knows nothing else but how to praise you, to cherish and adore you, cannot ever even hope to think of himself as worth even a mere glance. But you love him still. 

It drives him mad, this injustice. This constant dissonance between loving you as you deserve while being wholly undeserving. His hands are not soft enough, his touch not light enough. He is made of nothing but jagged edges and truths shrouded by darkness. 

And yet, he clings to you. 

Without you he is nothing. He made himself in your image so that one day he might almost deserve to walk by your side. And still, it is undeniable that you are two halves of a whole, torn apart. Uneven. Wrong. 

Aemond traced the curve of your breast. You laid there, vulnerable, naked. So wholly trusting that his lungs seize. He swallows the heavy lump in his throat, touch light as a feather as he moves up your throat, past your cheek and over your cheekbone before he flattens his hand against your skin. You look at him, really look, dazed and with reddened cheeks, and he wants to die. 

“What are you thinking about?” You say. You grab his hand and bring it up to your lips, pressing a kiss on one of the many scars there. He shivers. 

“You.” He answers. 

You laugh. 

But it wasn’t a lie. Nor a jest. In fact, it is an understatement so great that he almost feels ashamed. How does he even begin to describe the twisted thoughts that linger? The deep scratches left behind by a wounded beast? That dark pit of obsession that scares even himself? How does he begin to describe himself as he would have you see him? You said that he’s more than his scars, than his past, but he has never felt as consumed by them as now, as he lay in your arms. You are so soft that you soothe even the harshest of his edges, so tooth-achingly sweet that the rot cannot even dream of taking root. In truth, he has no words to describe any of it because he can barely even understand it himself. He is driven by nothing but you, every second of every day spent trying to fix himself for you, to pull and tear at the pieces his family forced into him – pieces that belong to neither him nor you, and so they cannot stay. How could he force them into you when finally you are reunited. He must be pure, untainted, as he was before, just as you are now. 

He prays that you do not see the blood or the flesh beneath his nails, that you do not see the emptiness where you used to be, or the pieces he lacks. 

“I’m thinking about you too.” You confess. 

“Why?” 

“Because I love you.” 

“As I do you.” 

“I know.” You smile. 

You don’t, is the harsh truth. You don’t know how much he loves you, or even how he loves you. He loves you in ways no one has ever described before, in ways he is too ashamed to ever put to paper, or thought. Even he does not know the lengths to which he would go for you, or the depths of his affection, no, devotion, to you. You would run if you knew, of this he is sure. He loves you in many ways, many in which you should not love another. He loves you beyond the ways of man. 

But he says none of that. He cannot. He does not have the words. He doesn’t think anyone does, not even the gods themselves. 

And even were he to have the perfect words, he would not share them. The walls have ears. He would not share a single piece of you, not even his own love for you, for that belongs to none but you. Not even himself is he free to give, for he has always belonged to you. All that he was, is, and will be; all days lived and will be lived, belong to you. 

If his mother heard him she’d hit him. Strike him across the face. More than once, for the offence. But Aemond cared not. How could he love the gods when you exist? How could he deny you his devotion, his adoration? He has nothing to give to them that you do not already own. 

“You’re so tense.” You say. “Lay back for me, please.”

“As you command, my Queen” 

It is half a battle to force himself to let go of you, and even more difficult still to convince himself to part from your side. The sheets are cold against his back, the pillows too soft and low. 

“On your stomach, silly man.” He can hear the smile in your voice. 

He does as you ask. It is far worse than before. What offence has he committed that would justify this cruelty? From here he is robbed of you entirely. He is left with mere traces. A lingering, though fading, hint of a smell, which he inhales with tremendous greed. 

“Your husband is cold. Come warm me.” He says, but he wants to beg. 

Perhaps he is a little dramatic, but knowing that hardly lessens the freezing cold ravaging his bare backside. His skin can do nothing more than pebble. A useless defense against the offense of what feels like a winter storm. It is almost painful, and will no doubt be so should you leave him suffering much longer. Just a brush of your skin against his should surely cure him of this, and he will be ready to serve and obey you again. 

“So impatient.” It’s almost a scolding. “You are lucky you are beautiful, my love.”

He guffaws. “I am hardly beautiful.” 

“You are to me.” 

“Hm. Yours is the only opinion I value.” 

“Good.”

Aemond feels his ears heat up and could almost feel the blush reddening his neck and face. He preens at your answer. Your approval is far more addicting than anything else. 

You leave him to suffer for what feels like an eternity. You skirt around the edges of him, he can feel it. Your fingers tracing the sheets by his hips, so close that he can feel the air move, like a sweet promise broken. Your breath dancing across the soft skin by his neck, a warm exhale over the shell of his ear that made him moan. ‘Tis torture, truly. He knows of pain and suffering, has felt the wrath of armies, of the gods themselves. Even the fire from a dragon is no stranger to him. And yet even the smoldering heat from the belly of a beast pales in comparison to the fire your absence lights in him. 

“Shhh.” You whisper as he shivers. “Be patient.” 

Patience wasn’t in the nature of royalty, or dragons. A patient royal is a dead one, or a puppet on a fancy string. Like his father. Like Aegon. Only Aegon was neither patient or truly the king. It was hardly a secret that their grandfather orchestrated for Aegon to be put on the throne, and even less a secret that Aegon was as shit at ruling as he was at everything else.  He wasn’t even a good actor, but the overindulgence in wine took care of that for them. 

A dragon takes what it wants without hesitation, without fear, without mercy. It covets and possesses, protects and cherishes with a ruthless devotion. It is a love bound by fire and blood. If only Aemond was more dragon than he was man, perhaps his love would not be so tainted by the sinful nature of humans, of debauchery and darkness. He craves you and loves you, wants you, in ways, impure and hidden ways, that a dragon could never. A dragon is honest. Aemond is not. 

You know not the nature of him nor his twisted love. His plots in the dark goes unnoticed, the patience in which he took you from the world to be his not even a whisper on the wind. 

But for you he could be patient in an honest way. In the way you deserve. Even so, his body is yours to decide over, and so he could not fight the way his body melts even should he wish to. 

Your hands are slick when next you touch him. Slightly cool and smelling faintly of roses and herbs. An oil, then. He almost wants to protest you wasting such finery on him. He would die a happy man were it with your bare hands you touched him, expensive oil be damned. He sent for those oils to ease your pains, and now you’re covering him in it. Any and all thoughts of protesting melt away with the tension in his back. Who is he to argue against you? 

“Good.” Soft lips brush over the skin on his shoulder, leaving a trail of fire behind. “Just relax for me.” 

Firm but gentle pressure smooths the knots in his shoulders and upper back away, though your presence alone is remedy enough. Your skin is as soft as satin, and it is as if you are pressing down the very essence of love into his sore muscles with each movement. You’re unyielding in your pursuit, clicking your tongue against the top of your mouth when he twitches, firmly pushing him back into the mattrass when he tries to catch a glimpse of you. It seems you have moved on to a different kind of torture. He can have you, but not all, not at once. Always at your mercy. 

“I should like to keep you here, husband, like this, soft and pliant. Relaxed. Loved.” 

He aches with want at your words. What a paradise it would be were he able to spend his days like this; under you, serving you as you mercifully dote on him. Nerves spark to life as if it already was so. 

Aemond feels restless, hungry for something. He wonders if you can feel the yearning radiating from him, see the ripples of bone-deep want ravage him. It is as if fire is lit under, over, and in him. Perhaps his way of love is not yet lost, perhaps with time it may shift, fix itself. Be realigned with the love that you deserve, that you crave and need. In time his restraints may be gone and he will be free to love you as he is meant to, as he was made to. 

Your next words as sugary sweet. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” 

“Yes. Very much.”

Soft lips press down on his head. You soften in a way unexplainable, in a way he feels in his soul rather than feels or sees. 

“Maybe one day such dreams will be real.” 

“I’ll make it so.” He vows. 

Aemond feels your touch move down his spine, and he knows you believe him. The sheets rustle as you move, and before he can blink there’s a sudden pressure on his back and two long, toned legs one each side of him. Your hands move his hair to the side before pressing a series of long, almost wet kisses from the crook of his neck up to his ear. 

“A reward is in order then, yes?” 

[chibsandchill]

Do you love me still?

Fandom: House of the dragon (HOTD)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x GN!reader

Summary: You feel Aemond growing distant.

Warnings: Aemond, Aemond POV (unreliable narrator), brief mentions/description of blood, a hint of obsession, manipulation (if you squint)

AN: I haven't written anything in forever so this is just a little something to get back into the zone. It's a hot mess but I hope you enjoy it anyways!

Masterlist

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

His touch holds the same softness as one does with a wilted flower. Gentle, cautious, reverent almost. You are not yet broken, nor so wilted by life that the slightest change of pressure, or a touch just a smidge too hard, would turn you too touch. And yet he fears it all the same. His hands shake, and his shoulders are tense. It is almost as if he is grieving you before your time. He savors your every breath as if the passing ones have already been your last. 

“You needn’t hold me so gently, husband.” You say to him. 

He must. Outside of his touch there remains only the harsh cold of a country ruined by war, of bloody callouses who have forgotten how to hold anything but the pommel of a sword. He would have, if not you, then at least this moment be free from it. If not your present, your future, then he would have him, in this moment, be a sanctuary for you, and his touch be a healing balm. 

But he cannot tell you that. He cannot lighten his heart to you lest it all comes pouring out. His heart aches to be yours, to beat as one. Aemond fears that should he open himself even just a little he would not want to stop, even if he could, and all of that which made him him would drip out from the cracks in his people suit. 

“I hold you the way you deserve to be held.” 

The words feel shallow, empty. They are flat, wrong. They are shadows of his devotion for you, they are but a shallow puddle compared to an endless and yet ever-growing abyss. 

You hum. “I think I deserve to feel the touch of my husband. You are distant still.” 

Aemond tightens his hold. To him it feels as though he is strangling you, his jagged edges cutting through your skin like knives. Rivulets of red travel like snakes down your hand before dripping onto the carpet. You do not react to it. The tips of his fingers press through you. Webs of thin cracks snake across your hand until the tension breaks and he– 

“Aemond.” 

He looks at you. There is no blood, no cracks. 

“Yes?”

“This war… it has changed you.”

“Yes.” 

“It changed us.”

“Yes.” 

“Do you not… desire me… us anymore?”

He almost laughs. 

“On the contrary, my love, I desire you too much.”

“And yet your touch does not linger. I wake to an empty bed each morn, as cold as the dawn itself.”

You words, he does not find himself in them. Scarce few moments have been spent away from you, even before you were wed he was not truly ever away. He is glad you are free from that which plagues him, but a deeper part of him aches with the knowledge that you cannot feel him, cannot see him. It is not a thing that can be explained, nor truly understood. It eludes him, he knows only that he feels it, he knows it. 

“Hm. My duties are… demanding.”

You turn away from him. Just enough to be noticeable, but not enough to even shift his hold on your hand. And yet it is too far.  

“I see.” 

He closes the distance that you forced, reclaiming that closeness that you robbed him of. 

“It… saddens me that my devotion to you is not clear. That my absence allows others to convince you that my love for you is not as endless as the Gods’ might, that I might ever tire of being by your side. The mere thought of you in this room, doubting me… it breaks my heart.” 

Your eyes soften. “There are no others, Aemond.” 

He knows. You might think him far away, a fact that he, now that he has been made aware, will rectify, but he is closer than you could ever imagine. Not a single part of you goes unnoticed, not a move he does not feel as if it is his own. He has made himself part of you, you carry him with you in your heart. 

And yet, he pretends. But in a way he is not. He is chained to you in a way ever lasting, it is a bond he cannot and will never break. It echoes throughout time and space, and he will always answer. It is blasphemy to the gods, this devotion to you he carries. He has shunned them for you. He will not allow this to be threatened. 

“I’m glad.” 

He feels the loss of you in every passing moment. There is a disconnect between you that he cannot breach; not in this form, not in this life. It is as if you are just outside of his reach, your skin brushing the tips of his finger before dancing away. He is not whole, just as you are not whole, but you are not lacking the way he is. You remain perfect while he is full of torn edges and infected wounds. To stop this grief, this eternal mourning that he is sentenced to where he is forced to watch you perish slowly, he would fix what the gods destroyed. He would mend that which was broken. But in doing so he would lose you. No longer would he be a broken piece longing to be reunited with the whole. There would be no you for you and he would be complete again. No, he could not, would not, ruin you like that. He would not touch you with his filth, with the rot that grows under his skin, nor allow the beast that lives within to corrupt you as it has with him. But more than that he would not lose you. Perhaps one day when he is not so weak he will not see it as such, but as the way it was always meant to be. You and he were meant to be together in a way that transcends flesh, unbound by these mortal vessels that a cruel universe imprisoned you in. But today is not that day, 

and so Aemond will continue to suffer, 

continue to mourn, 

you who is still alive. 

[chibsandchill]

Fire and blood and ... love?

Summary: Daemon finds himself… yearning for who he believes is twin flame. Part 1 (?)

Fandom: House of the dragon (HOTD)

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x AFAB!reader (can be read as belonging to any house)

Masterlist

AN: I’m extremely out of practice, but yeah, here’s a bit of Daemon ig.

Warnings: Including but not limited to: Daemon, Daemon, Daemon, metaphorical sh, allusions to metaphorical sui***e, janky dialogue at times, unreliable narrator, obsession, stalking, thoughts of violence, Daemon monologues for a fair bit of the fic, brief (very) allusions to what could be interpreted as "self-exploration", Daemon is manipulative, Daemon is his own warning (again), grammatical errors  (english is not my first language).

Happy reading!

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Daemon was a stranger to peace,

as was you, he imagined. 

Until, 

him. 

He saw in you a twin flame. One that would challenge and be challenged, to comfort and in turn be comforted. 

Though he reveled in the bond, coveted it even, you had not yet realized what he was to you and you to him. But he heard your heart’s calling. Perhaps he always has, just as he always will. Now that he had found you there was not a man nor force nor god that could tear him from you. It is a belonging that transcends earthly flesh and desires, it is as vast and ineffable as the gods themselves, as chaotic as a dragon’s soul and as warming as a roaring hearth. It is a thing beyond any words known to him and anyone else, and even if he had the words he would not share them. To share would be to give way, to rip a piece of you and give to another. Not even a word would he part with, even the idea of you was one he kept and cherished.  

He wonders if you too felt the longing. If you ached as he did, hurt as he did. It oozed through the cracks of his facade like pus from an infected wound. It festered and blackened and split ever more with each second that he went ignored. Each time your eyes flickered past him was pain unimaginable. For this pain he too lacked the words. How does one even begin to describe the sheer size of the hole in his soul, the crippling agony that your absence caused him. The visceral reactions to others laying claim to that which is destined to be his. In all possibilities, in every life, on every plane of existence and even beyond that, it was always you, and across it all his pain and envy and longing echoed. It was enough to make even the gods cower under the weight of it all. 

He would not be ignored any longer. 

He would feel your eyes on him. 

Finding you is child’s play. Even without eyes he would know you. The sound of your breaths is as familiar to him as his own, perhaps even more so. Indeed, to say that he found you would be a lie, for you were never lost to him. Though his eyes may be torn from you, you are two souls torn apart, the calling of your own is deafening. It calls like a wounded animal. 

It’s all semantics in the end. Clever word plays and the copying of others declarations of devotion; all of which falls short of this. Whatever this is. All Daemon knows is that you are two parts of a whole, as crude and lackluster a description as that was. Perhaps even that is not true and the nature of this connection is beyond him. Maybe this body, this life is one where not even he can truly understand the bond and even were the gods to provide the words to put to paper, he could not. He is left stumbling in the dark with the memory of a light. He remembers the sun, he knows of it and can feel hints of its caress on his skin but he cannot bring forth the memories. 

He was born in the dark, 

but he would live in it no longer. 

Today, Daemon would step out of the cave and he would see the sun and the sun would see him. 

You linger among the flowers in the royal gardens even as the others have long since left. The floral scent clings to you. It becomes you. 

“I was not aware that the prince cared for flowers.” 

His heart skips several beats. Daemon is unsure how to proceed. What does he say? What should he not say? 

“It’s a recent development.” He says. 

You do not turn around to face him, even as manners dictate that you should. He’s glad for it. He finds himself overwhelmed, at a loss. Daemon came to find the sun but instead found himself drowning. Every sense set alight with you. It is a new sort of pain, this bonding. Different. Strange, even. It is water a touch too hot, like wine that stings as you swallow. 

The splitting of your souls did not leave a clean scar. The edges of you are jagged and sharp and cut ever so deeply when he presses against it. He cares not. He welcomes it. Craves it. Daemon would gladly press himself against you until there was naught of him left if only to feel the shadow of you.

“Indeed.” You say. You smile. He can feel it. A string in that odd bundle of nerves is tugged, and he feels it as though it is his own. “It is an interest well-timed. The garden is in full bloom.”

“How fortunate.” 

Daemon couldn’t give less fucks about the garden. But you did and so in a round-about-way, he did too. Viserys spared much expenses concerning the upkeep of their home, the garden but one of many that suffered because of it. You are deserving of more than this. He would have you surrounded by only the most fragrant and beautiful of flowers. This would not do. It is an insult to you. 

“I find myself curious as to the origins of this… newfound interest in botany. Forgive me, but I was under the impression that the prince was drawn to the battlefield.”

“There is more than one kind of battle. I found myself in need of a change. Variety is good for the soul, is it not?” 

“Quite.” You say. 

Your steps are light as you move around the garden. Daemon’s eyes follow you. He would not miss even the most minute of movement in you; a slight change in your posture, a passing glance to a maid scurrying past. 

“And you?”

You finally turn to him. Your eyes meet his, and all else disappears. If you answered his question, he could not say. He is not there to hear it. He is elsewhere. Wildfire courses through his veins and he feels both lighter and heavier all at once. It is confusing and frightening. It is raw pleasure and unimaginable pain. He is both hollow and full. Too full and yet not full enough. From beyond his body he looks at you and thoughts rush through his head at an alarming speed but still words evade him. Perhaps by design. His desire for you had no end, not even with himself would he share you. 

“Is everything alright?” Your voice cuts through him and he is back. 

He smiles. “It will be.” 

Daemon is awestruck. He is rendered speechless. To see you, for you to see him, is overwhelming. 

“That is good.” You say before excusing yourself to attend to your mother. She is with child again, you say. 

Daemon is tempted to deny your leaving, to demand you to stay and instead attend to your prince. But he does not. Even in the midst of this… growing bond, he will be patient. It pains him, but to cut you off from your kin would be cruel. Daemon will be many things to you, but never cruel. He would allow you this time, and then less time. He requires all of you, and he would have all of you. 

#

At first he thought he had fallen ill. 

But now he knows that to be without you is sickness. Your absence leaves him shivering, unable to think. It is not unlike a fever, he thinks. To burn and be burned in return is the way of dragons. He wonders if this is not how Vermithor feels when Silverwing is away. 

Your bond was not a thing of man, of Andals or the First men. It is a living being; unconditional love and devotion itself acting as a link. It is a concept beyond the mind’s of humans made palpable. He can feel it just as he can feel the ground under his feet or the fabric of his tunic on his skin. It cannot be denied, or ignored. It is not a thing created or formed, rather it has always been there. There are steps to it, Daemon reckons. And a line has been crossed. Surely the bond is screaming at you as it is roaring at him. It has waited for so long, as has he. 

And they will wait no longer. 

A day has passed, or so said the household staff. It might as well have been an age as far as he was concerned. Time passes remarkably slowly when you spend them hiding in walls and scouring down dank passages. You looked lovely as ever, like pure perfection sprawled out across silk sheets. 

It was tempting to breach the line he forced himself behind. To behold you not from behind the cover of darkness but by your side. It is ever so tempting to just step into the light and have you again. That should be him warming you in the night, undressing and dressing you again come morning. But it is not, because the gods are cruel. 

But Daemon, 

Daemon is crueler. 

He would steal you from under the Gods’ eyes, denying them the pleasure of his suffering. With you, he would have his justice. He would tear them from the sky, extinguish the flames and leave them shivering in the lands they themselves had sent his people into exile to. They would live a half life and he would leer at them from his throne. 

Thoughts of revenge fed his control. He didn’t step into your chamber as you slept, even if his bleeding heart tried to demand he do. Daemon would have you willing. He’s had far longer than you to understand, so he would be patient. 

For now. 

“You sent for me, my prince?” 

He shivers. 

“Yes.” Daemon says. “I thought we might walk in the garden. I would like to know more about botany. It will no doubt come in handy someday.”

It takes all he has to speak and for his voice to not falter under the waves of you. Daemon’s words are lacking, empty, choppy and almost incoherent. Charm evaded them. He feels unsteady on his feet and the idea of walking is as appealing as drowning. You seem unaffected by him, your voice is clear and strong, your posture straight and unwavering. Not even under the influence of ancient gods do you fall short of perfection. Mayhaps that is why he is so lacking, the split between souls was uneven, for such was the traumatic tear. He wonders what he has taken in return. He would, will, give it all back. When you are whole again. One. 

It is a thought that digs through him straight to his heart where it makes a home. Every drop of blood carries that single-minded desire of becoming one, of returning what was taken. All that he is, will be yours. Like that thought, he would burrow into your side, he would make a home in your heart and spend the rest of time keeping you alive. 

“My prince is deep in thought,” you say. An observation more than a question. “I’ve been told I have a talent for listening.”

He didn’t doubt it. But to tell would be to open the gates and let it all out. There would be no stopping it, and he was not finished. Daemon would not taint you with his darkness. No, he would keep his thoughts until such a time that he had made himself again. His life was constantly repairing and rebuilding himself when others would knock him down, and when he himself would tear down the very foundations of his being so that he could build himself anew. With each cycle, with each sacrifice, he lost a piece of him, one that was replaced by rot. This, this, he would save you from. Until he tears the infection out at the root he would not be a dragon whole.  

“I’m sure you are.” He says, though not unkindly. It’s half a battle already to try and tame his face. A grin would be fitting, expected even. But could he stop at a grin? Probably not. “But my troubles would bore you to death. I would much rather hear you speak.” 

You dip your head, a faint redness creeping up your neck. “As the prince wishes.”

“He does wish it.” Daemon says. 

“Where would you like to begin? Perhaps with the herbs, my prince? Most are commonly found across the whole continent and have been proven to help the suffering of others and oneself.” 

“Are you speaking from experience?” 

“Yes.” 

You don’t elaborate, and he doesn’t ask. Soon enough all of your secrets will be his, all those lovely thoughts shared. He would have it all.

“Then it seems I picked the right teacher.” 

You clear your throat. Are you nervous? He watches frozen as you turn. Will you deny him this simple pleasure? With ease, it seems, for you step away from him rather briskly. 

“This way, my prince.” You say. 

You guide him around the garden like a well-seasoned guide. You know the location of each and every one of the flower beds containing whatever herb you wanted to introduce him to. That you carry great knowledge becomes ever clearer. Words spill from you with great abandon, a constant stream of tricks and instructions on how to craft everything from potions and poultices to bandages and various concoctions. It is almost concerning, to Daemon, how much you know. You are not yet protected, not fully, and to know too much in a place such as King’s Landing was dangerous. You are not a man, and thus you cannot be made into a pawn. 

Daemon knows not how long he followed you around the garden for he was lost in your words. Time lost all meaning around you, it seemed. You spoke and he responded. He could hear himself answering, prodding, charming, but he knows not the words he spoke, nor the ones you sent back. He feels as though he has been split apart again, that part of him has ascended beyond petty mortal things. Words held no meaning for he would know your soul. Words are not honest. Not true. He is a Targaryen, and that word alone carries power, respect. You will not speak your mind, not freely. 

He does not blame you for this. 

There is the vessel, and there is Daemon. Your vessel is chained, restrained. Shackled. But you… you are unbound. Your core does not bend, does not sway in the gentle wind. It remains steady and strong; like a guiding light; a beacon. Daemon wonders if you too have split yourself apart. Perhaps, you too, are observing him in his entirety. There are no lies here, no secrets. There is only the truth for there are no words, no voices. It is and it isn’t. 

Your soul shines brightly, almost blindingly so. But it is fragmented. Cracked, even. He can see the edges of it. The parts bleeding and weeping, 

weeping for him. 

The Starks carry the legacy of Wargs; great Northerners with the ability to enter an animal’s mind. But they pale in comparison to the legacy of Dragons, and of their riders. For what is seeing the world through hogs and rats compared to soaring the skies as a dragon. To breathe and live as fire and fury made flesh. This, whatever this is, feels like that. An out-of-body experience. Daemon scours through the vast nothingness to find the only thing that matters. He is not himself here; or maybe he is? Maybe this is the truest Daemon he can be. Is this how dragons perceive the world? Beyond vessels and the meaning of words.  

“I apologize,” you say. “I have not had much practice with teaching.”

Daemon is back. He never left. Perhaps he is still there, gorging himself fat on your light while also conquering you here. 

“Nonsense,” he says, “I have learnt much.” 

Though not of botany. 

You look at him. He is once more struck by your beauty. Under your skin he can see the faint glow of your soul. It cannot quite be contained by this fleshy prison. It seeps out of your pores, gives your eyes that delicious sparkle. Perhaps it is not quite so clear of a split between the two. Maybe like all else, Daemon understands little. 

“I am glad. Though, I would recommend that, should you wish to know more, you seek the help of a Maester. They carry knowledge that I can only dream of possessing. You would learn much from them. Far more than I could ever teach you.” 

Daemon hums in agreement. Your glow dulls ever so slightly at this. A sharp sting of pain echoes through him at the sight. ‘Tis true, the Maesters did carry knowledge beyond your understanding, and his for that matter. But he cared not for that. Their knowledge is flawed; outdated. It is facts and political agendas and fantasy passed down through generations. But your knowledge? It is born, not from ancient tomes, but from experience. 

He doesn’t know how to fix the expression on your face; the slight downturn of your eyebrows, the dejection shown clearly. It is subtle, as all things are with you. You retreat a little, and the light follows. He wonders where you go. How can he follow? 

How does one fit all their emotions into such small words? All Daemon knows is anger and sadness and deceit. His family shows love through scathing remarks and lies to hide the raw truth. They hide, hide and hide, coveting their cores and their true selves. They are hidden but they long to be seen all the same. It is so very confusing. 

“Have you not considered that maybe that is why I chose you? I am a simple man in need of… simple knowledge.” 

You did not seem to know how to respond to that. He’s almost glad for it. You bow your head, but he knows not the intent behind it. Do you see past the words? Daemon is not a simple man, at least not in the way that matters. 

“I meant no insult.” He hurries to add. “It is as you say, I am drawn to the battlefield. Should I get injured there is no time for Maesters. Your simple knowledge may yet save your Prince’s life one day.” 

You gaze at him, guarded. “I hope that day never comes.”

#

It is under the cover of darkness that he plots. Daemon finds himself spending most of his nights in old Maegor’s hidden passages. The stench of it clogs his nose. It’s musty and dank, filled with spiderwebs and dead rats. As a child he stepped on many a servant’s old bones, but he has long since memorized their locations. 

From there, he watches over you. He knows the kind of people that are drawn to the Keep, to his family. Daemon is not the only one who lurks in the dark, but his purpose is far nobler, far more important. Far more than rats scuttle around the tunnels, but Daemon, Daemon would slaughter them all the same should they scurry too close. 

He rather enjoys these nights with you. Granted, he would enjoy it far more were he in your chambers with you. Faint traces of your fragrance linger on the cold stone. Daemon imagines that by the end of the night he, too, will smell of it. The fantasy is far warmer than the walls he’s pressed up against, but a mere flicker of a flame compared to the other fantasies he carried. Perhaps this night will inspire more of those delicious, toe-curling dreams to carry him through the days until he can be with you like this again. 

Surely, the way you move on the bed is to inspire him. 

Surely you feel his keen eyes watching you through the cracks. 

Surely, the light you keep by your bedside is so he can watch over you in the dark. 

Flowing satin sheets allow the contours of your body to be known to him. It clings to you in a way that has him swallowing; be it from desire or envy, it matters not. It is all the same in the end. 

Would your fingers wander, he wonders. Down, down, down, until even breaths stutter into a soft gasp. The pads of your fingers moving down your body, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Caressing, softly tracing soft skin. It is sweet torture to imagine these things, but when your fingers never take the journey his mind mapped out, he doesn’t find himself disappointed. 

Why would he be?

When you, ever so sweetly, surrender your pleasure to him. 

No, this is but a sweet prelude to what is to come, when Daemon can shed this skin and be yours. 

#

Daemon can no longer summon you under the excuse of learning about ‘botany’. His brother grows suspicious of it all and instead of having you waiting for him in the gardens, it is desecrated by a gray rat. 

Ever oblivious, his brother, the king. 

But he cannot say the real reason why he lingers there, why he no longer scours the streets of King’s Landing from dusk to dawn. This, you, any of you, he will not share. This place, this garden, is far more than that. Your… spirit lingers among the plants. When the sun shines just right he can even see it. You. Tending to them with a steady hand. You are faint, and you shiver in tune to his breaths, but you are there all the same. 

Perhaps you are indeed divided. Are you aware of it? Can you feel the disconnect? The separation of vessel and soul? It remains a comfort all the same to have you there. It is warming in a way wholly unfamiliar to Daemon that someone would go to such lengths (any lengths) for him. To tear yourself away from your vessel to watch over him, it is an honor he did not foresee. Perhaps you are more similar than he first thought. You stand guard over him just as he does you at night. You shroud yourself in the cover of the unleashed. 

Daemon resigns himself to find you instead. 

It is hardly difficult to. You are connected, after all. You are known to him. Always. 

He finds you hidden away under one of the alcoves, but you are not alone. 

“Prince Daemon!” The intruder exclaims, dropping down into a curtsy. 

Daemon nods. 

“My prince,” you greet him from your seat. 

He speaks your name and it feels heavenly on his tongue. 

A beat of silence. 

“Would you like some tea?” You ask. “I gathered the herbs myself.”

You make a sweeping gesture to the table. The three cups on the table makes him pause. Steam rises from two of them but the third is untouched, but placed with the same care as the other two. Your… visitor is seated on the opposite side of the small table, but the third cup, his cup, sits next to you.  Along with the tea the table is set with humble servings of desserts. 

Accepting the invitation would be breaching even further court etiquettes. Your honor could come into question should anyone wander upon the group, even should the unwanted visitor remain. Him being there was already bordering on inappropriate, but he was a prince, and commenting on his actions would be far more inappropriate than whatever mischief Daemon had gotten himself into.

Such a shame, though, that Daemon has never cared much for etiquette, and so he promptly sits down in his seat with a barely audible huff.  The corner of your mouth twitches as though you’re trying to hide a smile. 

You pour a healthy serving of fragrant tea in his cup. It’s dark and murky, like the puddles he jumped in by the stables as a child. The smell is distinctly floral, but not like any flower he knows. It smells nice, and as you add a spoon of honey to it, it almost looks appealing. He wonders then how you knew of his love for honey. The healthy dollop you scooped up for him was anything but the norm, as his mother kept telling him during their afternoon teas. But then again, was it so odd that you knew? Many things about you were known to him before he had ever set his eyes on you. Perhaps you had even expected him today. 

“Thank you.” He says, but he doesn’t move to grab the cup. You’re still stirring. 

Your visitor fidgets in their seat. 

“I… we apologize for the meager selection, my prince,” they say, “had I.. we known that you would join us, we would have asked the kitchens for things more… suitable.” 

“This third cup, who was it for?” He asks. 

“My sister. She usually joins us but she’s fallen ill.” They say, though he asked you. 

Daemon glances at you. The sun is high in the sky and there’s a glint in your eye. He knows, then. You clever thing, he thinks. 

“I am honored to take her place.”  

For the first time since he arrived, you look away from his eyes. He cares not for the feeling that washes over him. The stark coldness that crawls up his fingers. Surely it will reach his heart and turn him to stone. Luckily the tea provides some warming comfort. It is a piece of you, a product of your labor; a sliver of ground up love for him to have. It is bitter, but the honey smooths it and so he has another mouthful of it. 

“Is it to your liking?” You ask. “I’ve been told it’s an acquired taste.”

Daemon meets your eyes once more. 

“Quite.” He says with a smirk that’s almost hidden behind the rim of the cup. 

A faint blush spreads across your cheekbones, and you look away from him. He wonders if you know that he wasn’t talking about the tea. 

#

Before long he’s back in the corridors of the Keep. Not long after meeting you he was called away to attend to his… duties. He had no choice but to leave then, even if his entire being screamed to stay. He could not yet afford such carelessness. Not with you. Not with all the snakes still poised around him to strike. 

The King needed something done, and Daemon was the one who needed to see it done. But Daemon would have it no other way, for who else could his brother trust in this world. Otto Hightower? Surely not. 

But it came with a price. The moon was high in the sky by the time he finally lumbered up to the hidden door leading into your chambers. Your candles were unlit and there was a distinctively you-shaped form under the covers. Tonight there would be no teasing glimpses of smooth skin, or shy, tentative brushes of curious fingers against yourself. No choked down gasps of surprise when those fingers inevitably traced against something that made you feel oh-so-good. 

He could pluck you from your bed, if he wished. And he does wish it. He could take you now and before dawn you could be married in the ways of his people. No one would even know. 

That night, Daemon breaches the boundaries of your room. His mind is racing with ideas, with different plots and scenes and thousands of endings and consequences to every single scenario he had playing before his eyes. Though they all ended the same way – united. 

Several nights he’s stood posted outside your door, suffering in silence among the dust and whispers of whores and drunkards. But here? There is none of the harshness of the world. Your room is soft, in a way he could not explain. The air is not heavy, nor tainted with deceit. It is honest, pure. And it smells like you; alive and thriving. 

Apart from the elaborate murals, the decor is rather minimalistic in style. Everything serves a purpose. It is so very unlike his own chambers. Daemon has plenty of fine possessions which he displays on shelves spanning one end of the walls to the other. Great pieces of history polished until they shone like the sun itself. Much of it is the remains of his family’s life before Westeros. But to call his chambers simplistic would be a lie. Indeed to say that the only grandeur is his impressive collection of history would be a far greater lie. Daemon enjoys both simple and lavish pleasures, and he is not one to deny himself of earthly pleasures. He’s spent many a golden dragon on hand-crafted furniture and woven tapestries, but they are all picked with the greatest of care and his chambers are a point of pride for him. 

Alas, Daemon struggles to find you in the room. The smells and the feelings of it are all you, undeniably so considering how he shivers as he inhales, but the rest? Uncharacteristically bland. You are of life in a way that is not reflected in your chambers. There is none of you to be found; no memories to steal from a hidden chest of childhood toys, or clothing slung over the modesty covering in the back of the room. No books placed on the stool next to the bed, no flowers or herbs growing on the windowsill, not even a scratch or a smudge on the floor from a step just a tad bit too harsh. 

If he could not see you sleeping in the bed, he would think this to be an empty chamber. 

But he does see you, and so he knows it is yours. Perhaps you have hidden it away, 

for him. 

You know, just as he, that all that is you belongs to him. You have hidden yourself from the greedy eyes of your maids so that all you have, you can give. Just as he will give all that is he and all that he has ever been or ever will be. 

Your bond demands as much. 

Daemon looks over at you and he knows that he will no longer be satisfied by watching you from the hidden tunnels. 

#

He keeps one of your handkerchiefs in one of his pockets. It smells like you. 

He hopes it never fades, for surely the torture of being away from you will be unbearable then. This small reminder of you, this anchor to guide him in this sea of longing and deep pain, is all that keeps him from being swept away by the darkness within him. How can he bear being away from you if there is not even the slightest guarantee that he can return to you? 

It is only as he is crossing the threshold into his own chambers that he realizes that, though you have gifted this to him, he has left nothing in return. This gift … this lifeline … was it a silent request for something of his? A need that you did not yet have the words for beyond the near-on stomach curling want? It is almost enough to make him return to your side. 

Almost. 

He would not disturb your rest, not when he knows the struggles of sleep. For a brief moment he allows himself a pause in chiding himself for neglecting you, to admire your strength. With each day he finds an ever increasing difficulty in truly resting without you. The act of falling asleep is unfathomable. It is as far removed a concept as can be. Those moments in the hidden passages are the only moments when his shoulders can finally relax, when his thoughts do not race to the point of blinding pain. How much of your suffering has he been ignorant to? Has his responsibilities led to him missing this, this shared struggle? 

Are you yourself privy to this? Or have those grey rats convinced even you that your suffering is because of some arbitrary godly laws that you have broken by existing, by simply being in this bonded state that you are. They can sense this, Daemon is sure of it. They know what you are and they hate it. 

A piece of his resolve is broken then. A man can only take so much, and he finds himself, with each passing hour, less inclined to restrain himself. 

Yes, things would have to change, or Daemon fears that you both shall be driven mad. It is with that thought in his mind that Daemon returns to his chamber with a near on maddenly drive to set his plans in motion so that you can finally be whole again. 

[chibsandchill]

Simple pleasures (18+)

Fandom: HOTD (house of the dragon)

Pairing: Aegon II x AFAB!reader

Summary: Aegon, brothel, talking, wine, more wine, sex, that’s it. Need I say more?

MDNI 18+

Warnings: p in v sex, Aegon, canon typical themes, grammatical and spelling errors (english is not my native language), slow start, not proof-read

Masterlist

-:-:-:-:-:-

The room smelled better than most brothels. It was a welcome change, as was the surprisingly expensive and tasteful decor. It was homely; soft, comforting, warm even. All it was missing was a hearth and Aegon might have believed it to be someone’s home. 

“Remove your shoes please.” 

Aegon wanted to protest, for who were you to command him? The need to disobey, to dig his feet so far in the ground he could never be moved, was ingrained in his very bones. What would you do, he wondered, were he to step onto the pristine fur with his muddied boots? Would you turn red in the face as you screamed? Would you simply ignore it and move on, aware that any and all wrong steps may instead lead you to the black cells? He almost salivated at the endless possibilities. Alas, the carpet looked like it would feel heavenly under his feet, and so he kicked off his shoes. You thanked him with a voice dripping with honey, sugar and all things sweet. It made his teeth ache. 

He stepped further into the room, onto the carpet. He dug his toes into it. Heaven, just as he imagined. It is soft, and warm, and the strands feel like silk against his skin. Another step, like walking on water. There was not a stain on it, nor a patch of fur bent out of turn. Twas like wading through clouds. 

You pulled the drapes shut. 

“Please sit.” You made a sweeping motion to a group of furniture. “Would you like some wine?”

Sit? Aegon was here to get his cock wet. But he was parched, and so he nodded. 

You balanced two pristine silver chalices on an equally shiny silver platter in one hand and an overflowing silver flagon in the other. Expensive, for a whore at least. Did you have a set for each customer? There was not a scratch on any of it, not a spot of dirt or smudged fingerprints. 

“Dornish red,” you told him as you filled his chalice exactly half-way. 

His throat tightened. 

“In my experience Dornish wine is quite… bitter. Less suitable for pleasure.” 

You chuckled. He was pleasantly surprised by the sound. Most of the whores had rougher voices and were not as quick to laughter. 

“‘Tis an acquired taste, aye, but I do believe you’ll enjoy this one. It’s sweet and yet rich in flavor. Truly there is none who make wine quite like the Dornish.”

Aegon raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were a whore, not a wine merchant.” 

 “I do not spend all day on my back.” You took a sip from your own chalice, resting a hand on a cocked hip. “A good whore knows her clientele, and well, mine prefer… simple comforts.” 

He looked at the room again. There were large tapestries nailed to the stone walls, though he was unsure what they depicted. Fourteen of them in particular, all in different colors and vague figures. Interesting choice, he thought, but at least it would serve to lessen the echoes of your pleasure later. If the other whores had half the taste and coin for interior decorating as you then perhaps his head wouldn’t ache like a horde of Dothraki screamers had ran him over, when he left the establishment.

Perhaps simple was not the word anyone would use to describe the would-be safe haven that you had created. Twas clear your clientele were highborn, and in Aegon’s experience they rarely longed for simple things, be it wine or decor. Even you were not simple; your hair was well-cared for and shone of oils and had strings of precious stones fell between strands, your dress was not of Westerosi make and clung to you. Even your perfume was nothing short of expensive. A silver necklace clung to your throat, and your fingers were heavy with rings. No, nothing about your craft was simple. 

“They pay you well for these simple comforts.” He said between sips of wine. You spoke true; he did care for it. 

As if reading his mind you spoke again. “I’ve already sent a bottle with one of your guards, it should be in your chambers well before you return.”

“The crown thanks you.” 

“Sarcasm is a family trait, I see.” 

You refilled his chalice with wine, voice as nonchalant as if you commented on the weather. And for Aegon, who’s very core dripped with debauchery, well, you might as well have. 

“As is the want for simple comfort, I assume.” 

Your smile is coy. “Aye, I’ve found that the more riches one possesses, the more they long for, well, simpler things. Comfortable furniture, conversations with a friend,” you move closer, your fingers brushing against his shoulders. Your breath is hot as it fans over the shell of his ear. “A hug. A…” your hands move over his shoulders, down his chest, “mother’s love.”

And then you’re gone. 

“Simple things for simple men.”

“I’m not a simple man.” Aegon scoffed. And he didn't long for his mother’s love. He’s experienced it plenty, as he had the back of her hand.

“No,” you say, “I don’t suppose you are. The blood of the dragon rarely is simple.”

Aegon drank the rest of his wine. 

“You talk a lot, for a whore.” 

“I’m not a simple whore.” 

“Perhaps not, but you end up on your back all the same.”

“And your coin ends up in my pocket. You claim not to be a simple man, Aegon Targaryen, and yet, you drink, whore, and sulk like any other man, only your features are not so plain.” 

“I could have your head for saying such things.” Aegon raised his chalice and gave it a wiggle. “If you insist on nagging my ear off I need to be far drunker than I am.”

You brought a different flagon. It’s decorated with green and red stones, and there’s words engraved along both the bottom and the top of it. It’s Valyrian glyphs, but Aegon cannot read it. He averted his eyes. 

The wine shimmers in the candle light. It’s gold in color and smells heavenly. 

“From the Jade Sea,” you said as you returned his chalice to him. “The Dornish are excellent wine makers but even their finest vintages taste like vinegar compared to the golden wines of Yi Ti.”

Aegon swirls the wine inside his chalice. Never had he seen a wine so… appealing; so mouth watering. He brought it to his mouth. It felt like silk as he swallowed mouthful after mouthful, and a pleasant warmth followed it. There was none of the awful burn that came with the household wine back in the Keep, and neither did it feel like a stone in his stomach. 

“I assume a bottle of this will be waiting for me in my chambers,” he jested. 

“It’s already there. I had it delivered yesterday. A… preview of our evening of sorts, though now it will be a memory of it.”

Doubtful. Aegon would hardly have the time to reminisce on his one-off evening with the oddest whore in all the known lands whilst drinking his body weight in wine. No, the bottle of Yi Ti gold would be one of many bottles strewn across his chamber floors when he would inevitably be sent into another week-long bender. Besides, you served it in a flagon, and thus Aegon would not notice which bottle was which sober, much less drunk. Though perhaps it would soothe his body’s protests, as it was currently soothing him now. He sipped at the drink like a babe sucked at his mother’s tits, not that Aegon had much experience with the latter. 

“What wine did you give my brother?”

Your lips quirked into a smile. It fit you. Yours was a face made for smiling. “One that fit him.”

“That’s awfully vague.”

“You don’t last long in this business if you’re loose-lipped.” 

He chortled. “The one-copper whores beg to differ.” 

There’s a tightness to your smile. “You’d be surprised at the secrets they possess. Those one-copper whores could topple dynasties if they so wished.” 

“And you?”

Has his brother confided in you? His uncle? His father? Did you keep secrets that could rattle the foundations of the world as they know it? Aegon was almost tempted to give you more, to feed the fire burning under his feet until even he burnt. There were cracks in his family’s rule– of every rule– small as mice, but plenty big for secrets and deceit. 

“Perhaps if you behave I shall tell you some.” 

A hot flash of something rushed up his spine. 

“And if I do not?”

“Then you shall leave with nothing.”

“I could command you to tell me.”

“You could.” You inclined your head. “But as some of my… friends are also of noble birth then your command will simply be a waste of breath, and I would rather you save it for what is to come. You will need it.” 

There it was again. That thrill; that heat that licked at his insides. He should have you punished for your insolence. Whipped perhaps, or maybe he would have your tongue. But Aegon admired fire, but even more so he admired those who looked upon him as you do; as if he is more than a rusted sword fit to be wielded as his family saw fit.

“You’re bold.” Aegon pushed himself off the armchair. He walked up to you, moving as if to touch you. You glanced down at his hands, at his arms, then at his face. His fingers trailed up your arm, your shoulders, over your collarbones and the column of your throat. Aegon’s touch was gentle, teasing almost, he wanted you to want his touch. And judging by how your breath hitched when he reached your throat, his caresses are more than welcome. “I like it.”

His hand cupped your face. You were soft and warm. A healthy blush spread up your chest from the hem of your dress. 

How far did it reach, Aegon wondered. Were you as pink and lovely and soft and warm- 

You leaned into his touch. And then you were gone, leaving him cold with his hand still held high in the air. He dropped it quickly, but the feeling of you remained. Aegon adjusted his clothing but it did not lessen the memory of how you felt pressed against him. 

How odd, he frowned, to feel as such over a mere touch of his hand against your face. It was not at all intimate. Like a blushing virgin seeing a glimpse of a woman’s ankles he stared after you, which is altogether odd for a man such as Aegon who cloaked himself in sin and lust. He who had visited the brothels so oft even the whores’ whelps recognized him by the sound of his fancy boots. Scarce were the mornings he did not wake with one hand on a warm cunt and the other on a supple breast.  

“You’re eager,” you said to him with a slight smile. “I like it. It makes one feel wanted… desired, does it not?”

“Do you have more wine?” 

A flash of something passed through your eyes. “Of course.” 

“Go on then, fetch the next one.” 

You offered your hand to him. You didn't demand his answer, nor his thoughts. You took only what he freely offered. It left him feeling strangely full, and less like the hollowed out stranger he oft saw at the bottom of his bottles. 

He took your hand. Warmth flooded back into him. 

Pushed into a corner of the room was a large bed. It was similar to the one he had in his chambers, a bit too similar. Still, it looked comfortable enough. It certainly didn’t suffer from a lack of pillows, nor had you spared any expenses on neither the frame nor the make of the mattress. 

You gestured for him to sit down before you walked over to grab a third flagon of wine. Gods, Aegon was sure to be stumbling back to the Keep following your night together if the pace you were handing him drinks was to be considered. Still, Aegon sat fell down on the bed with a lack of grace most unbecoming of a noble. It was even softer than he imagined. 

He cared for conversation, he did, truly, but his cock had been aching for relief since you opened the door and any longer and he thought it might burst. Did you not see the lust in his eyes? Did you think to quench the burning desire in him with expensive wine? Nay, Aegon reckons his mother will have to collect his charred remains were you not to touch him. 

At last, after what felt like an age, you turned. Have you always walked as such? The sway of your hips were almost hypnotizing. A smile lit up your face, though he could not tell what kind of smile it was. He had no need for more wine, for his mind was buzzed and his hands longed to trace you. 

You didn’t bring the flagon you’d been observing. Mayhaps it was a bad fit. Aegon doesn’t care. 

“Are you familiar with how the wine merchants of Yi Ti make it?” You asked. 

He shook his head. Why in the hells would he know that?

You’re close enough that he could smell you again. Your touch is soft as you cup his face, thumb swiping over his bottom lip. “Wine is fermented grapes, as I’m sure you already know.” Your voice is a touch lower, more seductive. Odd, considering the subject, Aegon mused. You moved to straddle him, and he welcomed you with his hands falling onto your hips, his legs separating to bring you closer. ‘Tis a dance he is familiar with, finally. “The type of wood that is used is different with every maker,” one of your hands fell on his thigh. He swallowed a hiss when your hold tightened. “The merchants from Yi Ti? They use a very particular breed of tree to make the vintage I just served you. It is a known…” your hand released his thigh only to brush over his crotch, “aphrodisiac.”

“Uhuh.” Aegon nodded. So long as you kept your hands on him he’d feign interest in wine making. 

Pathetic. A brush of a hand makes him harder than he’s ever been before. 

The brush turns into a flat touch, which then turns into a caress. ‘Tis all teasing, in the end. Like the smell of a pie wafting out from under the gaps in the kitchen doors; ‘tis there, and yet, it is not. It’s a promise of a future reward. 

Aegon tightened his hold on your hips before pulling you forward until you sat as close as physically possible. And still did he want you closer. It’s a crippling need of his; a dark pit of emptiness that can only be temporarily filled with the closeness of another. It came back stronger, deeper, each time. Still, it gnaws at him, like a gnat buzzing in his ear. 

Closer, it whispered. 

Closer, it shouted. 

He would crawl inside your skin and live there, and yet it would not be enough. Nothing ever was. The voices would remain, and the abyss inside him growing ever larger, like a looming shadow spreading its rot to every interaction. Soon, Aegon would be as rotten as his thoughts, as his desires. He would be the failure of a man his mother believed him to be. 

You showed no signs of seeing his struggle for you pressed yourself ever closer until he felt your heart beat against his. Aegon surged forwards, slotting his mouth over yours in a dance that was oh so familiar to him. This, he knew how to do. If you’re surprised by it you don’t show it. 

You’re a whore, of course you’re not surprised by him kissing you. 

Briefly Aegon wondered who out of them were the best kisser, him, his brother or his uncle? How many Targaryens had warmed your bed? Had his father stumbled into your arms and sampled all that you had to offer? Had you woven tales of wine merchants and the likes to them as well? 

Did he kiss like his uncle? 

He knew he did not fuck like his uncle, for the whores spoke often of his uncle’s talents, and his obsession with taking them from behind like a hound. Aegon found he did not care for that, but he reckoned his uncle’s fancy came more from a desire to dream of fairer features than the pleasure of it. 

You pulled away from his lips. Strings of saliva connected the two of you together, and Aegon would never admit it, but he found himself chasing after your lips. 

“Undress.” You said and pushed at his clothed chest. 

He raised a pale eyebrow. 

“If you insist.” 

He shrugged off his tunic easily enough, but his trousers, well, he’d have to move you to remove those and Aegon found himself very reluctant to part from you or your body. Aegon tapped your thighs and you wrapped your legs around his waist. He stood from the bed and pulled down his trousers, kicked off his shoes and then fell back on the bed. 

“Fuck.” Aegon grunted. 

You laughed. 

“Lay back.” You told him. 

Aegon did as you asked. The pillows were harder than he thought, but in a good way. His head didn’t sink in, but rather rested on it. They reminded him of his own pillows. Strange, but he was too horny to care. 

He’s already hard when you grab his cock. Aegon gets nothing from your expression apart from desire. No surprise at his size, but neither disappointment. Not delighted at finding him hard and ready for you, nor dismayed. Curious. His heart skipped a beat at the uncertainty of it all. With common whores he knew how to act – where to touch, what to say. They swooned and gushed over every aspect of him, slobbered on his cock whilst moaning about his size and girth like they had never seen a cock before. But this? This silent appraisal, the almost tender hold of him as you swiped across his tip, as you traced the vein and cupped his heavy balls? This, this was unfamiliar even to him. 

“Are you ready?” You broke the silence. 

“W-what?”

It was an odd question. For as long as he had visited brothels, for as long as he had laid with others there had never been this out-of-place pause in… affairs. It all followed the same pattern; greetings, some petting, then sex, and then he’d leave. He didn’t know what to do with your question, what did you want? What answer should he give? 

Were you going to sit on his face? Many of his conquests enjoyed that, and while Aegon wasn’t overly fond of it and was prone to feeling trapped if it went on for too long, it was never a question asked out loud. It was the moving of hips, of knees closing in around his head and a warm, wet cunt dropped on his mouth. 

You swiped damp hair off his forehead, there’s a strained expression on your face. Aegon doesn’t like it.

“Are you ready?” You repeated. “Do you want this?” You clarified. 

Gods yes, he wanted to say. I think I’ll die if we don’t, he wanted to say. 

“Oh. Yes.” Aegon said instead. The odd expression on your face didn’t waver. 

Curious. 

You released his cock, and he shuddered. Instead you brought your hands forward and gripped his shoulders, leaning forward. Your eyes never left his as if searching for something. You scoured his face, watched his every microexpression. 

He just wanted to be inside you already. 

But he laid frozen beneath you. 

‘Behave’. Echoed through his mind. 

Then, your hand is back on his cock. You bring your hand up and down, loosening your hold and then tightening it. You seemed acutely aware of him – of his reactions. As if reading his mind you adjusted your hold, your speed, the pressure, even the angle as his pleasure ebbed, grew, and lessened. 

Odd as you were, you were a good whore. Skilled, certainly. But odd nonetheless. 

His toes curled, and a familiar warmth grew with your movements. Aegon wasn’t silent, he was a man proud of both the pleasure he felt and the pleasure he gave. And so he moaned, and he shuddered, and he groaned. It echoed far louder than he’d thought, and were it not for the gleam in your eyes he’d surely fall silent. 

He was about to tell you to stop; that he was seconds away from spilling into your hand, when you pulled away. 

Perhaps you were a mind reader after all. 

Your grip on his cock is loose but firm as you guided him inside you. Heavenly warmth enveloped him, and your walls felt akin to silk. Aegon knew little of love, but if he knew anything, it was that love surely felt like this. Like two pieces connecting. 

Your eyes flutter closed as you bring yourself down. By the time you’re flush with his pelvis Aegon has started to pray to all the gods to let him last a little longer. It is too much and yet it is not enough. His body ached for release; beads of sweat formed on his forehead from trying to stave off his orgasm. 

But you seemed like you were above it all, like something ethereal. In the throes of your pleasure – as you forced yourself to rise and then fall on him like it was your gods given duty – you shone, and Aegon had never seen anything more beautiful. Your sounds of pleasure are music to his ears, and yet it is whispered. 

Aegon pressed a thumb against your clit, and you trembled at the sudden touch. Then you moved ever faster, and Aegon tried to match your pace. He alternated pressure as you had before, he pressed circles and squares, and he spelled his name, and all others he could think of. 

Aemond. 

Daemon. 

Viserys. 

Jaehaerys? 

He’s soon lost to his pleasure as well, in the way you impale yourself on his cock and force him out of his thoughts and into the present. He knew not what names he pressed into your clit, not what names or family he used to elicit more and more moans from you. It is not enough. He ate up your pleasure as if it was his own. 

You batted his finger away from you before forcing his hands above his head where you held him by his wrists. 

“Behave.” You told him through your teeth. 

Redness spread across his face and a thrill rushed through his body. 

“You’re still dressed.” He realized. How he had missed that, he would never know. It feels like a sin to have been so caught in his own pleasure, or rather the chase of it, that he had neglected even that. 

Aegon blinked and you’ve ripped your dress over your head without missing a beat. 

He blinked again. Too stunned to react. 

Breasts. 

‘Twas like an out of body experience watching himself reach for your breasts, to feel the soft flesh under his fingers. He cupped them, thumbing at your nipples. 

He knew not what to focus on; your body, you, or the delicious torture of your hips slapping against his. Aegon felt in that moment like he was one and ten and he stumbled into his first pillow house. 

Aegon shook his head. 

“Focus on me,” you said as if sensing his thoughts. You tore his hands from your breasts and held them above his head again. It brought him back to you, and he gulped. He thought he might have felt small with the way you loomed over him, but he found that he did not. 

Fighting against the whirlwind of pleasure was a losing battle, and the hand you laid flat against the side of his face was his undoing. He burrowed his face in the crook of your neck as wave after wave of pleasure washed over him. It’s not a quick affair. He feels as if there’s no end to the white hot pleasure that shot through him. You didn’t stop your movements, instead you slowed down until you rose and fell in slow languid strokes. 

Aegon’s eyes burnt. 

“Did you finish?” He asked whilst panting when he didn’t feel like he was drowning anymore. 

You looked as if you were glowing, like the mother unveiled smiling down at him. 

“Your pleasure is my pleasure.” 

“Fuck.” He let his head fall back. “You didn’t. Fuck. Give me a moment and I’ll-”

“Nay, Aegon.” You laid beside him. He felt empty as he slid out of you.

Not close enough, the voices started again. 

“There will be other nights.” You soothed his bruised ego. 

“You truly are the oddest whore I’ve had the pleasure of fucking.”

You laughed. 

Aegon moved closer to you, though his skin crawled as the sheets below his sweaty skin seemed to tear at his skin. He pressed himself into you, resting his head almost tentatively on your chest. It felt good, he realized. And safe. Aegon melted into your embrace as you reached over to play with his hair. 

“So about that secret,” he glanced up at you, “what wine did you give my brother?”

“Myrish fire wine.” 

Aegon roared with laughter so loud that his chest ached. 

[chibsandchill]

Pallid eyes

Fandom: HOTD (House of the Dragon)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x AFAB!reader (reader is implied to be of Valyrian descent)

Summary: After your death Aemond is forced to continue living without you. But he cannot, and so as he prepares to leave for Harrenhal he thinks back on the past. 

Warnings:  Including but is not limited to canon typical themes, Aemond is depressed, §uicide ideation, angst, bittersweet ending, spelling and grammatical errors,

Masterlist

-:-:-:-:-

You always dreamed of having a real name day celebration; one just like his family had, with elaborate clothing, exquisite food prepared by the best chefs in the known world, with tables covered with decorations coated in glitter and popping with color, and of treats so sweet they rotted your teeth. You wanted gifts wrapped in fine silk with ribbons and a card. 

You wanted to invite the orphans from Fleabottom because your heart broke for them. Truth be told, Aemond had never noticed the starving orphans begging on the streets of his home, much less thought to invite them to grand events, but he’s glad you had such a big heart for he found some of his most trusted companions among your old friends there. They had saved his life many times over in your name. You also wanted to invite the old spinster that lived on the edge of the Street of silk. Your room had a window that faced the Bay, and you never fell asleep before Aemond, and so you were awake to hear the spinster wail her sorrows into the waters at night. You used to bring her tea, spend the afternoons basking in the fading sun whilst gossiping. You cared for many of the old whores living there, and you brought handmade blends of herbs and teas to ease their pains. 

Aemond never wanted a nameday celebration like the ones his family held in his honor. He only ever wanted to see you smile, and so he pretended that he too dreamt of frilly decorations hanging from chandeliers, and of sweet tarts and cakes with thick frosting, and of inviting the orphans, and the spinster whore. He knew even then, as a boy who could barely count, that you did what made him happy, whatever the price may be, and so he lied. Your dreams became his and only then did they come true, because surely if Aemond told you he only wanted to sit in the gardens with you and read together, both court and centuries old family traditions be damned, you’d make it happen. 

His ideal birthday was one shared with you. All other days of the year were shared with the rest of the kingdoms, but on the shared anniversary of your birth he wanted it to be just the two of you. He wanted to stroll in the gardens with you holding his arm, and take to the skies on Vhagar to chase rainbows and flocks of colorful birds. He wanted to fly to your secret beach that only the two of you knew of, and he wanted you to hold him tight when the wind grew cold, and he wanted to sleep in your embrace where he knew he was safe and protected. 

But you weren’t stupid, never were. You were always more clever than he, and you figured out his plans before he even knew he had one. You knew he didn’t want any celebration, none of the attention of the courts, none of the extravagance that came with it. You knew he only wanted a belly full of good food and your company. So you invited your orphans from Fleabottom, and the spinster from the Street of silk and all others there you cared for. You had the kitchens bake and bake until there was not a platter not full and not a grain of sugar left. You had the guests drape themselves in fashion from far away lands and coat themselves in fragrance. Gifts in great piles of silk and shining ribbons, and essays of praise rose like mountains in the Great Hall. 

The guests and your guests arrived, you thanked them for coming and directed them to their tables in the hall. You helped serve the steaming food and poured sweet wine in polished goblets, and you made sure your orphans and former whores were in merry company. 

He was miserable. 

You knew it. 

No more than five minutes passed before you took his hand and pulled him away. You led him from the party and into the hidden tunnels, and from there you left the Keep. Behind a boulder on the beach laid a rowboat. He remembered gasping and you beaming at him as if to say ‘this is the real party’. 

The two of you set out on the ocean in the little rowboat with your own shares of cake, drink and gifts. 

All alone. 

You laughed and laughed and laughed until your stomachs cramped and your chests ached. He was ashamed to admit that it stung his twelve year old heart thinking he wasn’t enough for her, but as you laid down in the rowboat and looked at the stars he knew that you never wanted that party either. You also just wanted a day for us to be us. 

Together. 

You healed many broken hearts that night. His from thinking his twin flame was unhappy, the orphans from being lonely and hungry ( they received many offers from nobles that night that forever changed their lives), and the spinster from the Street of silks had the nameday celebration she never got to have. 

And now you’re all alone. 

After a lifetime spent protecting him from everything and everyone at the expense of everything you had; everything you were, you have to spend your nameday alone, wherever you are. It’s not fair. He wants you to come back, he wants you to take his hand and he wants for you to look at the stars together. 

When he closes his eyes he imagines that he’s back there with you. Ten summers old and blissfully unaware that in just a few days your lives would be ruined forever. He dreams that he took a different path back to his chambers, or that he had gone alone, or even that he had never been born at all. All so that he could save you from so much pain and suffering. Alas, those dreams are nothing but torture and even when he forces myself awake there is no relief in waking. 

Aegon no longer torments Aemond, but neither does he speak to him at all. It’s a painful victory. You look too much alike, Aegon always said, and so he can’t stand to look at Aemond any longer. He still attends Aemond’s nameday celebrations, tournaments, and sometimes he watches Aemond train in the yard. 

Sometimes Aemond forgets that it was not only him that lost you that day. Aegon lost his closest friend, Helaena lost someone she thought of as a sister and their children lost their aunt. But they don’t miss you like he does, ache for you like he does. He sees you in the sky, hears your voice in the winds, sees you in every face he sees, in every corner of the room, and every time he looks in the mirror. 

He avoids mirrors, and the sky. 

You taught him how to swim. Of course, you had to learn first to see if it was safe, and then you had to be the one to teach him because you didn’t trust anyone else with his safety. 

He’s watching Jaehaera holding little Maelor, guiding him through the waves like you did with him. Maelor doesn’t cry even when the waves crash against his face because he knows that Jaehaera will protect him, like you did with Aemond. 

It’s your birthday today. You and Aemond’s. 

He spends it alone, in such terrible pain that he thinks this must be hell. He misses his twin flame. He misses the missing half of his soul. 

Aemond never got to protect you when you were still here. You wouldn’t let him. But you’re protected now, protected by your fierce Karnax, who’d never let anything happen to you. 

Sometimes he hates you for leaving him. But as he’s sitting there thinking back on all past namedays he knows this was always the way it was going to end. Even if it wasn’t for The Blacks, he'd eventually get himself in trouble bad enough he wouldn’t have been able to get out, and you would always come running to protect him and you would always take his place.

It’s not you he hates. 

It’s himself. 

He misses you. 

He knows you’re waiting for him. And he knows that when he joins you again he’ll try to be angry with you for leaving him. But he also knows that you’ll just smile at him and tell him that you had to die first to make sure the afterlife was safe enough for your little flame. 

Aemond loves his mother, his siblings, and Vhagar, but if it wasn’t for The Blacks, he’d have followed you in death as he did in life. He’d have thrown himself in front of Rhaenyra’s sword, and you’d hold him in your arms as you passed. 

He misses you. 

But he knows you’re finally resting now. 

But you’re waiting for him and every day your calling grows stronger, and soon vengeance won’t be enough. He loves his family, and he would give all he had to protect them, but he misses you. 

Most of him had been taken, but the parts of him that still remained belonged to you. One soul, two bodies, that’s what everyone said. And now he was forced to walk the lands alone. 

He misses you. 

He loves his family but he just wants to rest. 

Yes. When The Blacks have been defeated, he’ll finally join you. You won’t have to wait anymore and he’ll be whole again, and you’ll never have to spend your namedays alone ever again. He’ll let you braid his hair until your fingers fall off, and sing until his ears bleed, as long as you are with him again. 

After all, there is not a fate more cruel than having to endure time without you.  

-:-:-:-:-

Aegon visited him the other day. Aemond thinks his brother knows what he plans to do because he called you a cunt for leaving. He promised to look after their mother, and Helaena, and all the children. And Vhagar. He’s given up drinking and whoring. 

Once, he told you that he wished you were dead. He can’t remember why, but he didn’t mean it. He could never. Now he knows what life without you is like – what the bottomless pit of grief felt as it burrowed deeper inside him, gulping down piece by piece what made him him like it was the sweetest of wines. Aemond never wished for it. Or maybe he did, but he never wished to remain standing if you weren’t. 

His time in court taught him how to pretend; how to don a persona so flawless he even fooled himself. Aemond isn’t sure he ever left Harrenhal. He doesn’t know who this Aemond is. 

He’s exhausted. 

Aemond doesn’t sleep anymore. He doesn’t feel safe in his home, in his bed. When he wakes up there is no relief, no respite from that which haunts his dreams. He smiles at his nephew and niece, and he laughs as they laugh, but none of it is true. 

Helaena is frightened by her shadow, but Aemond can never tear his eyes off his. When he stands just right, he can pretend it’s you standing there, and for just a few seconds, the smile reaches his eyes. 

He loves his family, and there is naught he wishes for more (other than you) than to avenge you, to retrieve your bones, and that used to be enough to keep the overwhelming darkness at bay. But now? It is no longer enough, and Aemond is drowning in it. 

He uses his smile like his father used a mask – to hide wounds that will never ever heal, will never scab over or fade. They will only grow until they consume all. 

Aemond can’t leave his chambers anymore. He used to be able to bear being away for short periods of time; for war councils and battles, but lately it feels like betrayal. Like abandoning the last pieces of you he still has left. His mother tried to tell him that it’s not true, that the Stranger has poisoned his mind, and that the chambers will remain even should he leave, and that your memory will linger, but he is nauseous just thinking about it. 

Once, he thought of carving his eye out, so that he may be truly blind and would no longer have to suffer seeing the world. What use was his eye if you were not there? But even blind, Aemond would still feel your absence, for it was not by sight that he saw you. 

There are good days where he takes his sister on long walks on the beach, but he never looks at the ocean. They never go behind the boulder where you hid the rowboat. There are good days, but they are far and few between, and the bad days are so very, very bad. Sometimes Aemond can’t even get out of bed, his mind convinced that it’s you holding him again, that you’re back and as long as he stays there he can delude himself into believing you’re there to stay. But you’re not, and the days he can’t delude himself into thinking you’re alive are the worst. 

The crippling loneliness never goes away, never lessens. He never knew someone could cry so much, feel such pain and still be alive. 

He’s alive but he’s not living, not truly. Not anymore. 

There are good days but they’re not enough. Not anymore.

He loves his family and his dragon, but it’s not enough. Not anymore. 

You would want him to live, to stay with his family and the children, and defeat the threat against them,  but he knows you’re waiting for him. He knows you’re alone and you miss him just as much as he misses you. He knows you’re hurting just like he is and it’s cruel of him to not help you. You’ve sacrificed so much for him but he won’t let you sacrifice anymore. 

He can’t, he won’t, let you suffer anymore. 

There are bad days, almost all of them are, but he knows that when he joins you they’ll all go away. It’ll all go away and he can finally rest again for the first time since you left. 

He just wants you back. 

He wants you to fly together again, and taste the clouds, and dive for sea glass and shells together. He wants to hide away at the beach together and he wants to watch the stars in your arms. He wants to see you smile at him again, to laugh at his jokes and to take the pain from him. 

He loves his family, his dragons, and your home.

But it’s time. 

He won’t keep you waiting any longer. 

-:-:-:-:-

Aemond thinks his mother knows what he’s planning. She was crying when he told her that he will leave for Harrenhall where his uncle awaits him. She wouldn’t let him leave and so he had to tear his sleeve from her bloodied hands. It pains him to see her cry, but that pain is naught but a drop of water compared to the ocean of pain he feels. He’s delayed it enough, fought it for so long, but it’s time for Aemond to rest. 

For the first time since he received the raven, he’s walking on the beach with his eyes set on the horizon. His eyes do not avoid neither shimmering water or shining sky. He does not flinch at the sound of his dragon’s greeting, for his heart is lighter than ever. There is nothing weighing him down any longer. He will do this last thing, and then he will be reunited with you. 

He walks past the boulder, and there are children there, painting on the rock. They’re scratching your likeness into it. You were their champion, and they had lost you too. They felt your absence most keenly. He can’t help the laughter from coming — a wholly unfamiliar sensation – and tears prickle his eyes. The orphans had drawn you, but shorter than he remembered. Aemond  barely recognizes you, and it makes him falter, but then his steps are light again. You would have found it funny, would have laughed at your depiction before chasing the orphans across the beach with their laughter carried over to him by the wind. 

Aemond looks back, and there’s the spot where you taught him how to swim, and also where Jaehaera taught little Maelor to swim. It’s where you taught him how to wrap his hair after his eye was stolen, and it was where you declared that one day you and Aemond would fly away together. It’s where you killed a man for him after they mocked him, and it’s where you held his hands when he skinned his knee when he was five. The beach is crawling with memories, everywhere he looks there’s a new one playing out in front of him.. Admittedly most of them are you protecting him in one way or the other as he’s always been a magnet for trouble. He had avoided it, avoided being reminded of all that he had lost. But now the darkness has left the beach and all that remains are the good memories, the ones untainted by his darkness. 

It doesn’t pain him to see the boulder anymore. It fills his heart with joy and he feels like he’s thirteen again being led by you to your next adventure. 

He walks past it and keeps on walking until he reaches Vhagar. In her eyes he sees a reflection of his own pain. Karnax was her hatchling, and she had lost him too. She felt that pain, and carried it with her always. She did not hate him for abandoning her in his grief, she was relieved. Vhagar had lived a long life full of loss and pain, and she knew what was in his heart. And still she rose to the sky with him on her back. 

Perhaps that too was echoed in her heart.

Once they’re far enough from the Keep, Aemond unclasps his satchel. Several sweet treats and slices of decadent cake threaten to tumble to the ground, but he’s spent enough time on dragonback to know better. The dessert is too sweet, and it sticks to the roof of his mouth. 

He leaves most of it. 

It’s your nameday tomorrow, and you would be very upset with him if he ate it all without you. 

Up there, in the sky, it’s calm with nothing but a soft breeze to keep him company. ‘Tis a good thing that Harrenhall is not a long flight away, for he does not wish to taint this moment. 

His uncle is already atop his dragon when he arrives at the charred remains of a once great castle. Caraxes whines upon seeing them. Him and Vhagar had once fought side by side, but now they were enemies. But you? You loved the Blood Wyrm, and you loved Daemon. Loved him as if he was your father, and he loved you in turn. Your death was not to be put on his shoulders, but Aemond knows Daemon could not be allowed to remain. 

And, would you not be glad to be reunited with him too? What better gift could he bring but your father? 

“Nuncle!” Aemond shouts across the water. “You have lived too long!”

“On that, we can agree.” Daemon said. 

And so, the dragons danced, clashed together and burned. There would be no victor, that both the riders knew, and they were glad for it. It’s chaotic, and yet Aemond feels at peace. He feels drowsy, heavy, and yet he feels free and lighter than a bird’s feather. 

He doesn’t feel the sword being shoved inside his chest, for there is no suffering of the flesh that can compare to that of his soul. And so they fall. Fall, fall, fall towards the Gods’ eye, together. Caraxes is dying, and so is Vhagar. Daemon too, and Aemond. Soon you would all be together again. 

His eye starts to close, and just as it flutters close, he feels your strong arms wrap around him, and your scent fills his nose. You stroke his hair away from his forehead as you unclasp his eyepatch. You would have all of him – see all of him. 

“It’s okay to be scared, Aemond.” She says and Aemond wants to protest but the words are stuck, lodged in deep with his  tears and sheer happiness. He’s not scared, he’s so very very happy. He wants you to keep talking, to say his name again, even were this a cruel trick by the gods. “Shh, I know, I know. I have you.”

“Don’t let me go.” He says.

Aemond feels you press a kiss to his forehead as you tighten your arms around him, pushing his head to nestle into the crook of your neck. The last thing he hears is your voice. 

“Never.”  

And so he let go, surrounded by your scent, and resting in your arms again, just like he was always meant to be, confident that you’ll protect him on this journey too. 

His eternal protector. 

[chibsandchill]

𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕

Hi! Welcome to my masterlist. Stay awhile, read some fics, witness my descent into writing madness. Most of the fics are from the OG character's POV. Requests are very much open and very welcome!

𝑯𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒐𝒏

Daemon Targaryen:

Prized stallion ||Daemon Targaryen x GN!reader|| A good man ||Daemon Targaryen x GN!reader|| Until we become one ||Daemon Targaryen x GN!reader|| Fire and blood and ... love? ||Daemon Targaryen x AFAB!reader||

Aemond Targaryen:

Your little hatchling ||Aemond Targaryen x GN!reader|| A turn of events ||Aemond Targaryen|| A blood red setting sun ||Aemond Targaryen x GN!reader|| To secure a future ||Aemond Targaryen x AFAB!reader|| It all starts with a smile ||Aemond Targaryen x AFAB!reader|| Glory to the father ||Aemond Targaryen & AFAB!reader|| Moments stolen under silk sheets PT 2 ||Aemond Targaryen & AFAB!reader|| 18+ MDNI Moments stolen under silk sheets PT 2 ||Aemond Targaryen & AFAB!reader|| SFW version Pallid Eyes ||Aemond Targaryen & AFAB!reader|| Do you love me still? ||Aemond Targaryen x GN!reader||

Aegon II Targaryen:

Simple pleasures ||Aegon II Targaryen & AFAB!reader|| 18+ MDNI

𝑺𝒂𝒍𝒕𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒏:

Oliver Quick:

Oliver Quick indeed Part 2 ||Oliver Quick x AFAB!Catton!Reader|| 18+ MDNI

Felix Catton:

See me [Felix Catton x AFAB!reader] 18+ MDNI A sea of longing [Felix Catton x fem!reader]

Misc:

Not in love [Oliver Quick x Felix Catton]

𝑨𝒗𝒂𝒕𝒂𝒓

Tsu'tey:

Effervescent ||Tsu'tey x OC|| (series)

[chibsandchill]

Stolen moments under silk sheets (18+)

Fandom: HOTD (House of the dragon)

Pairing: Aemond x AFAB!reader

Summary: Aemond is touch starved. That’s it. That’s the whole story. Kind of. 

Masterlist

My requests are open! 

MDNI NSFW (warnings under the page break). SFW version here!

PT 2 can be found HERE

Warnings: Including but not exclusively slivers of angst sprinkled here and there, fluff, oral sex (m & f receiving), p in v sex, creampie, obsessive behavior, obsessive thoughts, descriptions of metaphorical self-harm, very brief mentions of the dance and the events that happened (some canon divergence), Aemond is his own warning, canon typical themes, the beginning is a bit slow, grammatical and spelling errors (English is not my first language)

I am not responsible for your media consumption 

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

The roses in your garden have begun to wilt. Summer is leaving, and winter claims all, but you remain untouched by the darkness that crept ever closer with each passing cycle. Your roses may have lost their vibrant colors but your face remained as bright and beautiful as ever. You thrive even in desolation – the harsh winds cannot steal the warmth from your cheeks or the spark from your eyes. 

“And you say you do not care for gardening, my love.” 

He’s almost startled by your presence, but since the war very little caught him off guard. But that look in your eyes? The overwhelming affection? That was something Aemond reckoned he would never get used to. And yet he could not get enough, you had awakened a beast inside him that fed and craved all things you. A smile did not satiate him like it used to, a night spent together felt like a fleeting moment spirited away by vengeful gods. 

Aemond hums. “Your passions are my passions.” 

You wrap your arms around his waist, resting your face on his shoulder. He felt, in that moment, as if he was standing on jelly, his knees threatening to buckle and his spine like liquid. There was not enough of you pressed against him. He felt burning hot and freezing cold at the same time, his skin crawling with want and desire, his cock half-hard already and his mind buzzing. 

“Clever.” You chuckle into the crook of his neck. Aemond shivers as your warm breath hits the sensitive skin there. 

“Did I wake you?”

His words are a whisper. Soft and with underlying guilt. You do not sleep well anymore, not without him. Too much has happened. The death of Jaehaerys proved that there is no sanctuary that cannot be breached, not a lock that cannot be broken, and not a part of you that will not suffer.  

You shake your head. 

“Liar.” 

“I was already awake. I like to…” 

“Hm? There is no judgment here.”

There was not an inch of you that he would part from – not a sliver of you he would not take, and not a piece of you he did not dream of devouring. The opposite was also true, for he craved to be taken, to be devoured and kept more than he ever dreamt of possessing. Aemond would have all of you, had woven that promise into the very fabrics of your marriage, embedded the words as if they were a spell into his vows, and oh, how sweetly you had smiled upon hearing them. He doubted you heard them for what they truly were. Are. 

“I watch you,” you confess, “when you sleep. You look so… so peaceful. The war has yet to poison that.” 

He blinks. Seconds tick by, but Aemond is too busy staving off the greedy blush from turning him red to respond. He is unable to respond, truly, even were he not practically glowing at your words. Words clump together on his tongue. 

“I should speak to the Housekeeper then,” Aemond clears his throat, “ if the room is so lacking you need to resort to staring at me. Though, perhaps I should thank her for her oversight that surely allows you to fall asleep quickly.” 

The corners of your lips fall, barely, but there is nothing about you he does not notice. There is nothing you can hide from his greedy eyes. 

“Twas a compliment, husband.”

“Perhaps a visit to the Maester is needed-”

You press a hand flat against his cheek and he falls silent. Your thumb brushes across his cheekbone to the apple of his cheek, to under his eye. There it rests, caressing him. He wants more. Your touch is only skin-deep, and it is not enough. If he could, he would press himself against your skin until all that remained of him was fading heat. Until he was but a faint whisper on the wind and his memory lived on only in you, for there was not a part of him he did not wish to give you. He would carve a place for him in you – in your heart, so that he would be close always. You would beat as one, breathe as one.  

“Yours is a beauty that the gods go to war for.”

“Perhaps once.” Aemond looks away. 

“Scars are stories of hardships overcome. They are marks of victory, do not think they make you less. They never will. Not to me.”

“Perhaps so, but I am not whole. There is a piece of me that was stolen and I can never get it back. The gods would not even glance at a man such as I for anything other than a feat of greatness.”

“And you have shown them many,” you press a short kiss against his neck. “You claimed the Queen of all Dragons,” another kiss, “you won many battles on dragonback,” another kiss, “you showed mercy to your enemies,” a series of kisses follow that claim, all inching up his neck. “You saved your brother and Sunfyre,” a kiss on his cheek, “you were crowned King by the smallfolk”, this kiss fell on the corner of his lips, “and you have been a most attentive husband.” 

A kiss straight on his lips. Aemond melts into it, pressing himself into you. You pull away too soon and he finds himself chasing after you, desperate for one more touch. 

“The gods give the toughest battles to their strongest soldiers.” You thumb the skin under his eye, “and you have won them all. Take pride in that. Gods know I do.”

“You do?” He asks. 

He did not think himself strong, or a champion of god given battles. His weaknesses tower over the oasis of strength, and so they are hidden to him. But he is not a vain man, that is not why he hates Luke for stealing his eye. 

You smile. “Of course. And I think all the beauty in the world fades compared to yours. Scars and all.”

Aemond is not sure he believes your words, but he believes you. It is a conflicting mess of jumbled thoughts mingling with the words of others. He was never the beauty of the family, his dragon was not the beauty of her kin. His life was one of hiding, of pride hidden beneath compliance, of hatred festering under blushing skin. 

“You flatter me, my love.” He says before his eyes wander back to your roses. “Yours is the only opinion worth hearing. The only one that matters.” 

You hum. “Come back to bed, Aemond.” 

“As my Queen commands.” 

The draping curtains flutter in the soft autumn wind, and from Aemond’s side of the bed he could see out across the Blackwater Bay. Sometimes when the wind is harsh and the rain plenty, Aemond is back in the skies above Storm’s End. He dreams of thousands of ways he could have saved Luke, though he does not wish he lived, not truly. In some dreams he thought of ways he could harm him further – truly punish him for what he took from Aemond that night. 

You can never have all of him. Not anymore. Though he dares not tell you that is why he cannot look at himself in mirrors. He would not show you the twisted being that hid under his skin. The one that would gouge out his other eye without hesitation were you to ask and smile as he did so. 

He could never, would never forgive Luke for what he stole from you. It is a hatred so woven into his very being that he would carry that with him even in all Seven Hells. 

“Come,” you beckon, kneeling on the bed. “If my words alone are not enough, I will prove it to you.” 

“Prove what?” 

His voice is low, filled with desires transcending earthly flesh. His is one of hunger for your very soul. 

“Come here and I will show you.” Your smile is coy, playful even. There are half-wilted petals from your roses on the bed behind you. They form no pattern, haphazardly thrown across the sheets.

He wonders when you put them there. 

Aemond comes to a stop in front of you, hands clasped behind his back, posture ramrod straight. He feels as though he is standing in front of the gods themselves, awaiting judgment. He hopes that he is enough, even if he cannot offer you all of him. There will always be a piece of him enduring the times alone. 

He does not feel worthy of you. No amount of petals carefully gathered off prickly stems will soften the harsh edges of his being. The love he grew up around was conditional, and though he was rarely struck, their words were as sharp as daggers, and left deep scars that will never heal. It left him jagged, bleeding, tearing at the seams with a beast untamed. In the image of you he tried to mend himself, with your love he patched the holes left by cruel words. He tore the flames from his breath so that his wrath could never burn you, the claws from his hands so that his touch would always be gentle. Not a piece of him was worth suffering in the absence of anything you. 

He was a dragon playing at being a lover. 

But he broke his wings for just a glimpse of you, then forced himself to fly when you desired to feel the wind against your face. You could not see the darkness oozing from the cracks of him, of your husband as you knew him. 

If it meant losing you, he would be a dragon no longer. 

He could simply be him. 

Aemond. 

But Aemond knew not who he was anymore. He knew who he was forced to become, and who war made him. But war was no longer, and yet the man rising from the ashes of his kin’s pyres remained. 

“Aemond?”

“Yes?”

“Where do you go when you get so lost in your head?” 

He does not wish to reveal to you how deep his longing for you goes. It is etched into the walls of his heart, it is a bottomless pit that calls only your name. He can never fill it. It aches and aches, and he longs and longs. His envy knows no bound, it is endless in its hunger for you. He would have all of you if he could, just as he wants you to have all of him. Every thought in your head, every feeling, every sensation. 

“Lost. I get… lost.” He confesses. The words are raw and a piece of his armor is cracked open to reveal mangled flesh of all Aemond’s that has been and will be. His recreation of himself in your image is as endless as his need to please. 

“Oh, my love,” you whisper. “Let me take care of you.”

You reach for the strings on his trousers before you pull them down. He steps out of them easy enough, though he feels awkward standing there with his tunic on. Though you did not leave him to suffer for long before you pulled his shirt off as well. You palm at his chest, touching every divot and lean muscle on his chest. It is overwhelming. He almost feels like crying. 

Your fingers massage, they scratch, they soothe and they burn his feverish skin. Your touch sets him alight. He can feel your love through every pass of your fingers over his skin. You press against the lean muscle, caress the slopes and divots of his flesh. Though you have long since memorized each other’s bodies, you touch him as if it is your first. His mind is dizzy with you, he feels as if he’s falling and drowning at the same time. The pleasure fills his throat, his lungs, and yet it also sweeps him off his feet, knocks the breath out of his chest. He wants more. He wants you to press harder, to mark him. You could press through his skin, through his muscles and ribs, and grasp his very heart, and you would still be so far away he wanted to weep.

His cock stiffens, though you keep touching him. You brush over his right nipple, then the left, then both. It is a strange sensation – one he’s not wholly against. 

Then, 

your fingers brush against his abdomen, trace the outline of his abs, then dips below. You grasp him firm in hand, and Aemond thinks he sees stars. You are so very soft, and he is so very very hard. 

The whore Aegon forced on him at his thirteenth name-day held him tightly, too tightly, then rubbed his skin raw, and still he could not force himself to come. He remained flaccid and cold in her calloused hands, even as Aegon jeered and leered from his place on the dais. 

But you showed none of her cruelty, none of the cold indifference. Just your presence took him halfway to completion, and he doubted it would take much more. Your other hand reaches below to cup his balls. That touch is less gentle, more firm. You start to twist the hand holding his cock, bringing it back and then forth in long, slow movements. You switch between firm, soft, fast, and then slower. But it is never not gentle. And you never look away from his eyes.

Though half-lidded, jaw slack and chest heavy, he stares at you. Pleasure of the flesh is second to the connection he finds in your eyes. 

His eye blinks wide open at the new sensation. Your mouth is warm and soft like silk. It is heaven made flesh, and it makes his knees tremble. You envelop him, tongue hot on his cock. You pay special attention to his head; trace the veins and the weeping slit with extra care. And, oh, is he weeping. 

Aemond needs more. 

He wraps his fingers around your hair, then gently guides you back and forth. A single shake of your head would free you from him, should you wish, but you don’t. Your tear-filled eyes plead with him for a tighter hold, and he complies. A bit. But he is soon lost to the pleasure of your mouth, and so as his eye flutter shut and he shudders, he finds himself guiding you all the way down so that your nose meets the short hairs at his base, and then back up just far enough that your lips wrap around his head. 

The reverence of a septon to the gods are nothing compared to that which he whispers your name.

Though if he finds the most pleasure from your sucking his cock or from knowing that a piece of him was inside you, he would never know. You swallow him down so easily, and with so much enthusiasm he is mournful that there is not more he can give. 

There is a knife on the chest by his feet. He wonders, would you swallow all of him as easily as his seed? If he cut himself would you lap at his wounds? 

Then, you pull away. You crawl up the bed until you fall down on the many pillows at the top of the bed. He follows without thought, kicking off his shoes and socks. His hair tie is next and his pale hair falls down his back. You are not prey, and he is not a predator, but he feels a thrill chasing after you into your marital bed. It sets his blood alight with desire. 

“That was cruel.” He says. “I was close.” 

He wasn’t. Your passions are his passion, your pleasure his pleasure. 

“Then I suppose you should get revenge.” You bite your lip. 

Your nightwear is thin. It is easily swept away from your body and thrown on the floor. 

“Yours is the beauty gods would die for.”

“It is all for you.” You tell him as you lean back against the pillows. 

His eye rove over you. Not an inch of you is not perfect, not an inch he did not love. All of you on display for him; an offering for a vengeful man. You are not unmarred by the war, and there is not a scar he does not kiss. He feels your pain as if it was his, and each wound on your body is his failure. 

“We match,” you told him once. 

He did not have the heart to tell you that this was done in your honor, to take the pain from you and deliver it upon him. He cut himself open for all the gods to see, then demanded they scar him as they did you. 

Aemond runs his hands along your form with the same careful love as you did him. His hands caress the skin on your ribs, dance around your sensitive nipples to lay flat over your heart. It pounds against your skin, calling out to him. His beats in turn. Then, he turns his attention to your breasts. You are most sensitive there. His lips wrap around a nipple, and you gasp. His hand wanders down your stomach, through the hair covering your cunt, and then he presses down on your clit. You jump into his touch, eyes widening at the sudden pleasure. 

“Aemond.” You moan. 

His mouth comes off your nipple with a wet ‘pop’ before he leans down and claims the other. He presses tight circles into your clit, alternating directions, then he moves his index finger to nudge at your entrance. His thumb stays on your clit, but the motions are lazy. He spells his name, then yours, then he stops. 

Aemond pulls away, but not for long. 

He moves down your body, about to put his lips against your cunt, when you pull at his hair. Aemond groans into your flesh. His desire for you is akin to drunkenness. He is dizzy with it, crazed with a need that can never be satisfied. Still, he presses himself against your folds, tongue darting out to lap at the wetness there. 

It trickles down the abyss of his desire, and in turn it grows. The hunger deepens, hollows out his chest. 

His thumb stays on your clit, but only for a moment before his nose replaces it. He grabs your hips and brings you closer to him. His face is all but buried in you, and yet it is not enough. Your wetness covers his lips, his chin, his cheeks. His tongue digs inside you for more, tip of his nose pressing against your clit in that way that makes your head spin. 

Time seems to stop, your pleasure endless, his chase bringing him closer and closer, and deeper. He presses a finger inside your entrance, before you give way and he thrusts it inside. He pumps it when his tongue darts away, so that you are never empty of him. 

Then, just as your hips start to shake, and your moans grow louder, you pull him away. He protests, loudly, but it falls on deaf ears. You pull him up to you, and he is reluctant to follow. Aemond feels cold and lost, but is then altogether found and warm when your hands wrap around his cock again. 

And the next moment he’s burning. 

You guide his cock inside you, and he sputters to life. His lips press down on yours, uncaring of the taste of him inside your mouth. He needs the connection, needs you. Aemond thrusts wildly against you for a few moments, his cock driving in and out of you with filthy wet sounds. 

You hold his face in your hands as you kiss, and his thrusts grow more controlled. Aemond wants it to last. Wants to drag out your connection for as long as he can, but he can feel his orgasm building already. His lower back aches with it, his toes curling against the bedsheets. He moves to slow down but the second he tries, you wrap your legs around his hips, pressing your feet against his buttocks to slam him into you. It is the same when he tries again, until he drives back with the same force as you drive him back in. 

The pace is maddening, your sounds so sweet he feels like he’s drowning. He knows not where he ends and you start, but he would have it no other way. If he pushes into you hard enough would you truly become one? In body as you are in soul? 

“Gods, Aemond,” you gasp at a particularly hard thrust.

Aemond brings his finger back down to thumb at your clit as apology, and you sing even sweeter for it. 

Time means nothing, there is only you and him. And then you’re falling over the cliff of pleasure, and he dives after you, clinging to you with bleeding fingers. Your pleasure is his pleasure, two halves of a whole finally forcing themselves together. There is not a crack in your connection, and Aemond thinks he sees stars as his vision goes white. He gasps and moans into your mouth, your pants and sounds of pleasure drowned by his need to bring himself closer to you. 

He lets himself fall upon you, cock softening inside you. His head spins still, but his heart beats like a drum in his chest at knowing that he’s once again been claimed by you. Even when he pulls himself free (reluctantly) there is still a piece of him in you. A piece that would never blossom into something more, for Aemond would not part with a single part of you, not even for himself. 

“I love you,” you pant into his ear. 

“Not as much as I love you,” he says in return. 

You laugh. “‘Tis not a competition, husband.” 

“No.” He agrees, with an easy smile. It is the truth. 

Aemond had won the war, and he had proven himself. And so he would never part from you again, even were the gods to try and force him from your side. The threads of your destiny are weaved together into one singular past, present, future. 

His beauty may be what gods fought for, 

but Aemond? 

Aemond would fight all the Gods, both old and new, 

for just one more stolen moment under silk sheets. 

Part 2

[chibsandchill]

Stolen moments under silk sheets (SFW version)

Fandom: HOTD (House of the dragon)

Pairing: Aemond x AFAB!reader

Summary: Aemond is touch starved. That’s it. That’s the whole story. Kind of. 

Masterlist

My requests are open! 

NSFW version here!

Part 2 can be found HERE

Warnings: Including but not exclusively slivers of angst sprinkled here and there, fluff, obsessive behavior, obsessive thoughts, descriptions of metaphorical self-harm, very brief mentions of the dance and the events that happened (some canon divergence), Aemond is his own warning, canon typical themes, the beginning is a bit slow, grammatical and spelling errors (English is not my first language)

I am not responsible for your media consumption 

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

The roses in your garden have begun to wilt. Summer is leaving, and winter claims all, but you remain untouched by the darkness that crept ever closer with each passing cycle. Your roses may have lost their vibrant colors but your face remained as bright and beautiful as ever. You thrive even in desolation – the harsh winds cannot steal the warmth from your cheeks or the spark from your eyes. 

“And you say you do not care for gardening, my love.” 

He’s almost startled by your presence, but since the war very little caught him off guard. But that look in your eyes? The overwhelming affection? That was something Aemond reckoned he would never get used to. And yet he could not get enough, you had awakened a beast inside him that fed and craved all things you. A smile did not satiate him like it used to, a night spent together felt like a fleeting moment spirited away by vengeful gods. 

Aemond hums. “Your passions are my passions.” 

You wrap your arms around his waist, resting your face on his shoulder. He felt, in that moment, as if he was standing on jelly, his knees threatening to buckle and his spine like liquid. There was not enough of you pressed against him. He felt burning hot and freezing cold at the same time, his skin crawling with want and desire. 

“Clever.” You chuckle into the crook of his neck. Aemond shivers as your warm breath hits the sensitive skin there. 

“Did I wake you?”

His words are a whisper. Soft and with underlying guilt. You do not sleep well anymore, not without him. Too much has happened. The death of Jaehaerys proved that there is no sanctuary that cannot be breached, not a lock that cannot be broken, and not a part of you that will not suffer.  

You shake your head. 

“Liar.” 

“I was already awake. I like to…” 

“Hm? There is no judgment here.”

There was not an inch of you that he would part from – not a sliver of you he would not take, and not a piece of you he did not dream of devouring. The opposite was also true, for he craved to be taken, to be devoured and kept more than he ever dreamt of possessing. Aemond would have all of you, had woven that promise into the very fabrics of your marriage, embedded the words as if they were a spell into his vows, and oh, how sweetly you had smiled upon hearing them. He doubted you heard them for what they truly were. Are. 

“I watch you,” you confess, “when you sleep. You look so… so peaceful. The war has yet to poison that.” 

He blinks. Seconds tick by, but Aemond is too busy staving off the greedy blush from turning him red to respond. He is unable to respond, truly, even were he not practically glowing at your words. Words clump together on his tongue. 

“I should speak to the Housekeeper then,” Aemond clears his throat, “ if the room is so lacking you need to resort to staring at me. Though, perhaps I should thank her for her oversight that surely allows you to fall asleep quickly.” 

The corners of your lips fall, barely, but there is nothing about you he does not notice. There is nothing you can hide from his greedy eyes. 

“Twas a compliment, husband.”

“Perhaps a visit to the Maester is needed-”

You press a hand flat against his cheek and he falls silent. Your thumb brushes across his cheekbone to the apple of his cheek, to under his eye. There it rests, caressing him. He wants more. Your touch is only skin-deep, and it is not enough. If he could, he would press himself against your skin until all that remained of him was fading heat. Until he was but a faint whisper on the wind and his memory lived on only in you, for there was not a part of him he did not wish to give you. He would carve a place for him in you – in your heart, so that he would be close always. You would beat as one, breathe as one.  

“Yours is a beauty that the gods go to war for.”

“Perhaps once.” Aemond looks away. 

“Scars are stories of hardships overcome. They are marks of victory, do not think they make you less. They never will. Not to me.”

“Perhaps so, but I am not whole. There is a piece of me that was stolen and I can never get it back. The gods would not even glance at a man such as I for anything other than a feat of greatness.”

“And you have shown them many,” you press a short kiss against his neck. “You claimed the Queen of all Dragons,” another kiss, “you won many battles on dragonback,” another kiss, “you showed mercy to your enemies,” a series of kisses follow that claim, all inching up his neck. “You saved your brother and Sunfyre,” a kiss on his cheek, “you were crowned King by the smallfolk”, this kiss fell on the corner of his lips, “and you have been a most attentive husband.” 

A kiss straight on his lips. Aemond melts into it, pressing himself into you. You pull away too soon and he finds himself chasing after you, desperate for one more touch. 

“The gods give the toughest battles to their strongest soldiers.” You thumb the skin under his eye, “and you have won them all. Take pride in that. Gods know I do.”

“You do?” He asks. 

He did not think himself strong, or a champion of god given battles. His weaknesses tower over the oasis of strength, and so they are hidden to him. But he is not a vain man, that is not why he hates Luke for stealing his eye. 

You smile. “Of course. And I think all the beauty in the world fades compared to yours. Scars and all.”

Aemond is not sure he believes your words, but he believes you. It is a conflicting mess of jumbled thoughts mingling with the words of others. He was never the beauty of the family, his dragon was not the beauty of her kin. His life was one of hiding, of pride hidden beneath compliance, of hatred festering under blushing skin. 

“You flatter me, my love.” He says before his eyes wander back to your roses. “Yours is the only opinion worth hearing. The only one that matters.” 

You hum. “Come back to bed, Aemond.” 

“As my Queen commands.” 

The draping curtains flutter in the soft autumn wind, and from Aemond’s side of the bed he could see out across the Blackwater Bay. Sometimes when the wind is harsh and the rain plenty, Aemond is back in the skies above Storm’s End. He dreams of thousands of ways he could have saved Luke, though he does not wish he lived, not truly. In some dreams he thought of ways he could harm him further – truly punish him for what he took from Aemond that night. 

You can never have all of him. Not anymore. Though he dares not tell you that is why he cannot look at himself in mirrors. He would not show you the twisted being that hid under his skin. The one that would gouge out his other eye without hesitation were you to ask and smile as he did so. 

He could never, would never forgive Luke for what he stole from you. It is a hatred so woven into his very being that he would carry that with him even in all Seven Hells. 

“Come,” you beckon, kneeling on the bed. “If my words alone are not enough, I will prove it to you.” 

“Prove what?” 

His voice is low, filled with desires transcending earthly flesh. His is one of hunger for your very soul. 

“Come here and I will show you.” Your smile is coy, playful even. There are half-wilted petals from your roses on the bed behind you. They form no pattern, haphazardly thrown across the sheets.

He wonders when you put them there. 

Aemond comes to a stop in front of you, hands clasped behind his back, posture ramrod straight. He feels as though he is standing in front of the gods themselves, awaiting judgment. He hopes that he is enough, even if he cannot offer you all of him. There will always be a piece of him enduring the times alone. 

He does not feel worthy of you. No amount of petals carefully gathered off prickly stems will soften the harsh edges of his being. The love he grew up around was conditional, and though he was rarely struck, their words were as sharp as daggers, and left deep scars that will never heal. It left him jagged, bleeding, tearing at the seams with a beast untamed. In the image of you he tried to mend himself, with your love he patched the holes left by cruel words. He tore the flames from his breath so that his wrath could never burn you, the claws from his hands so that his touch would always be gentle. Not a piece of him was worth suffering in the absence of anything you. 

He was a dragon playing at being a lover. 

But he broke his wings for just a glimpse of you, then forced himself to fly when you desired to feel the wind against your face. You could not see the darkness oozing from the cracks of him, of your husband as you knew him. 

If it meant losing you, he would be a dragon no longer. 

He could simply be him. 

Aemond. 

But Aemond knew not who he was anymore. He knew who he was forced to become, and who war made him. But war was no longer, and yet the man rising from the ashes of his kin’s pyres remained. 

“Aemond?”

“Yes?”

“Where do you go when you get so lost in your head?” 

He does not wish to reveal to you how deep his longing for you goes. It is etched into the walls of his heart, it is a bottomless pit that calls only your name. He can never fill it. It aches and aches, and he longs and longs. His envy knows no bound, it is endless in its hunger for you. He would have all of you if he could, just as he wants you to have all of him. Every thought in your head, every feeling, every sensation. 

“Lost. I get… lost.” He confesses. The words are raw and a piece of his armor is cracked open to reveal mangled flesh of all Aemond’s that has been and will be. His recreation of himself in your image is as endless as his need to please. 

“Oh, my love,” you whisper. “Let me take care of you.”

You reach towards him, pressing your hands flat against his pecs. His heart beats like a drum against your touch, as if calling out for you. Your fingers massage, they scratch, they soothe and they burn his feverish skin. You palm at his chest, touching every divot and lean muscle on his chest. It is overwhelming. He almost feels like crying. Your touch sets him alight and Aemond thinks he sees stars. You are so very soft. He can feel your love through every pass of your fingers over his skin. Though half-lidded, jaw slack and chest heavy, he stares at you. Pleasure of the flesh is second to the connection he finds in your eyes. The reverence of a septon to the gods are nothing compared to that which he whispers your name. You are a goddess to him. 

You press against the lean muscle, caress the slopes and divots of his flesh. Though you have long since memorized each other’s bodies, you touch him as if it is your first. His mind is dizzy with you, he feels as if he’s falling and drowning at the same time. The pleasure fills his throat, his lungs, and yet it also sweeps him off his feet, knocks the breath out of his chest. He wants more. He wants you to press harder, to mark him. You could press through his skin, through his muscles and ribs, and grasp his very heart, and you would still be so far away he wanted to weep. 

Then, you pull away. You crawl up the bed until you fall down on the many pillows at the top of the bed. He follows without thought, kicking off his shoes and socks. His hair tie is next and his pale hair falls down his back. You are not prey, and he is not a predator, but he feels a thrill chasing after you into your marital bed. It sets his blood alight.

“Yours is the beauty gods would die for.”

His eyes rove over you. Not an inch of you is not perfect, not an inch he did not love. All of you on display for him; an offering for a vengeful man. You are not unmarred by the war, and there is not a scar he does not kiss. He feels your pain as if it was his, and each wound on your body is his failure. 

“We match,” you told him once. 

He did not have the heart to tell you that this was done in your honor, to take the pain from you and deliver it upon him. He cut himself open for all the gods to see, then demanded they scar him as they did you. 

Aemond runs his hands along your form with the same careful love as you did him. His hands caress the skin on your ribs, before laying flat over your heart. It pounds against your skin, calling out to him. His beats in turn. 

It trickles down the abyss of his desire, and in turn it grows. The hunger deepens, hollows out his chest. 

Aemond falls down next to you, pulling you into his arms. Your head rests in the crook of his neck. 

“I love you,” you whisper into his ear. 

“Not as much as I love you,” he says in return. 

You laugh. “‘Tis not a competition, husband.” 

“No.” He agrees, with an easy smile. It is the truth. 

Aemond had won the war, and he had proven himself. And so he would never part from you again, even were the gods to try and force him from your side. The threads of your destiny are weaved together into one singular past, present, future. 

His beauty may be what gods fought for, 

but Aemond? 

Aemond would fight all the Gods, both old and new, 

for just one more stolen moment under silk sheets. 

Part 2

[chibsandchill]

Glory of the father

Fandom: HOTD (house of the dragon)

Pairing: implied past Aemond x AFAB!reader

Characters: Aemond Targaryen, AFAB!Targaryen!reader, Daemon Targaryen

Summary: As Daemon’s eldest it is your duty to protect your house by any means necessary. 

Warnings: Grammatical and spelling errors (English is not my native language), angst, descriptions of violence and bodily harm, a drawn out fight, not a happy ending

Masterlist

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“Forgive me.” 

The bolt soars towards the goliath of a creature. You hold your breath. Your aim was true, too true. It pierces the great she-dragon’s eye, and her roar of pain makes the very earth tremble. And then, 

she’s falling. 

From far above the God’s Eye. Her sounds of pain are carried to you by the wind, never ending, ear-piercing shrieks. It is the sound of another piece of ancient magic ripped from the world, a bleeding wound that will never close – forever festering and weeping. Her descent is slow. Vhagar tries to stop it – spreading her wings as far as they can reach, but her body is failing her. There is nothing she can do to stop it. 

Nothing she can do to save him. 

Her wings flare one last time before she falls quiet. Her great jaws slacken and her head falls back. 

A dragon’s death is a sad thing. There is no joy to be found in watching her fall, despite the harm and death she had caused, it feels as though a piece of you dies with her. But there is no place for regret in your heart. 

Vhagar lived a long life, saw many riders fall and yet she remained. Alone. Perhaps there is some mercy in this, to reunite the queen of dragons with her beloved Visenya – with Meraxes and Rhaenys, and Balerion and Aegon. 

In the distance Caraxes roared louder than he had ever roared before. 

Thirteen days had you waited in Harrenhal for them. For thirteen days you worked to set the trap, shaved and hacked at iron to make the bolt. Thirteen days of chopping down countless trees – weirwood trees so that every god would be your witness. 

Just before Vhagar hits the water, a small figure is seen falling off her back. You do not tear your eyes off the dragon to watch him disappear into the depths of the lake. She would not go silently and alone, her last moments forgotten to time. 

You adjust the helmet on your head and wait. 

The sun has started its descent into the horizon when the kinslayer reaches the shore. His hair is plastered to his face, missing an eyepatch and hair tie. But there is no mistaking your uncle. You would recognize the sneer on his face even if you were blind, for that was all you had ever known him to be – a cowering cunt who lurks in shadows and leers at you from behind his mother’s skirts. 

Aemond One-Eye staggers to his feet, his chest heaving. 

“Coward.” He spits. 

You do not respond. 

“What? Nothing to say? Do I frighten you so, Nuncle, that you would not meet me as equals? Instead you cower on the ground. Craven!” Aemond moves to draw his sword. He’s soaking wet, and his boots squelch with every hasty step towards you. 

You straighten your back and pull your sword from its scabbard. The armor is light and you move almost without a sound, but its elaborate dragon design is infamous. Black scales reflect the dying sun when you move into stance. Aemond would not go down without a fight. 

He moves first. A simple thrust to test you. His sword is easily knocked away with yours. Another move, a quick step to the side followed by a broad slash aimed at your chest. You block it, but the hit staggers you. 

Your uncle has grown strong. 

“You disappoint me, Daemon.”

You scoff. There is little honor to be found fighting your kin. Still, you say nothing. His taunts and insults roll off you like water off a duck’s back. Instead, you step to the side. And then again, and again, until the two of you circle each other. You feign a lunge. He doesn’t move. 

The next time you lunge he’s ready. He side-steps, then twists and bashes the hilt of his sword against your helmet. Black spots dance in front of your eyes but you retaliate with a well-timed slash against his abdomen. Aemond dances away, but not before your sword cuts through the leather garb and draws blood. He moves like a blur as he twists back around. His sword but a few millimeters from cutting out your eyes. 

He would blind you, the coward. 

You grunt as you straighten up again, kicking at his knee. He buckles but doesn’t fall, barely managing to roll away from your sword. Your swords meet once, twice, and then thrice before you break off. You side-step to the left, jump back to avoid his swing, then fall down to one knee to swipe at his knee. 

This time he falls. 

But he is back up again too quickly. 

“I recognize you now.” He sneers. “You fight without honor. Just like that whore daughter of yours.”

Your blood boils. What does he know of honor? 

He comes at you again, faster than before. You parry his blow with one of your own, but you miss. Aemond’s sword digs into the flesh of your arm through the armor. Adrenaline drowns out most of the pain, but not all of it. It makes you hesitate. It makes you slow. 

You bash your sword against his, then again, and again until you’re driving him back. He is short and lithe, fast and agile, but you are your father’s daughter, and so you have both the strength, the mind, and the speed. You move around his twist of feet, dance around his blows and deliver small but significant blows to his limbs. 

“When I’m done with you,” he starts, “I’ll pay her a visit. I’ll tell her all about her coward of a father. She loved Vhagar. She won’t mourn you.” 

The irony. 

Your chest shakes with laughter, and he bristles at the sight of it. It drives him to action. He spins around to gain momentum, swinging his sword around. Your whole body vibrates with the force it hits your own sword with. It almost sends you to the ground. 

You jump towards him with your sword and just before your swords meet, you pull out one of the blades attached to your belt and thrust it into his stomach. It lodges deep in him, and he falters. His arm falls, and without his sword there to block your sloppy swing, it cuts him straight across the face. It misses his good eye, but his nose and cheek are not so lucky. The cut is deep and blood gushes out of it. 

The sound he lets out is hard to describe, but you can tell he’s in pain. 

His voice is shaking as he speaks next, but the anger in his voice rings clear. “I changed my mind. I’ll take her eye instead. ‘Tis only fitting, she did steal mine after all.”

You believe him. Shame he’ll never have the chance. 

You pull another knife free from your belt but you keep your distance. Aemond is coiled like a snake, ready to strike. The blow will be devastating, this you know. You taught him that move. 

Then, he’s pushing himself to his feet, one hand clutching his stomach, the other lifting his sword. He points it at you, flabs of mangled skin droop down, revealing the bloody mess hiding underneath his skin. You almost expected there to be scales. 

Aemond walks towards you, steps light and brisk. Dust kicks up around the two of you as the dance starts again. This time, you move first. You grab the sword with two hands, swing it upright and then pull it down. Aemond rolls away. You recover quickly, and aim another swing his way, this one lighter. He blocks it. 

“Why do you not call for Caraxes, Nuncle?” He taunts. “Perhaps then this will be a fair fight.”

If only he knew. 

“Or has he, too, realized what an old fool you are and abandoned you?” 

As if hearing his words, Caraxes high-pitched whistle can be heard in the distance. 

“Your daughter will be his next rider, I’m sure. The next best thing, I suppose. Tell me, is it true that she is not a daughter at all?”

You lunge. He swats your blow away. 

“Why, one could almost mistake the two of you for twins.” Aemond laughs. It’s a hollow, broken sound. 

He keeps on laughing. It echoes around you. The birds mimic the sound, the trees follow along. It is unbearable. It is manic, it’s insane. Your next hit is impulsive, irrational even, but Aemond’s eye is closed as his whole body twitches with laughter. Your sword cuts through him easier than butter. It slides through skin and muscle, organs and innards, until the bloodied point emerges on the other side. 

Blood trickles from the corners of his lips. 

You let him fall. 

But you do not watch him fall. 

He does not deserve it. 

He is unworthy. 

You look over his head, out on the lake. You wish he fell with Vhagar. Then you could remember him as the boy you knew, not the man he is. 

Then, a shout. It’s weak but the voice is familiar. The person shouts again. They’re shouting your name. 

They get closer. Yes, it’s your name. But who’s shouting? 

Aemond sputters on the ground, but clings to life. Stubborn to the end. 

It’s clear now. Your name. Rushed footsteps grow closer. They’re running. Fast. Your name, again. 

The voice grows clearer and clearer. 

The voice is frantic now, panicked, almost. It’s just your name over and over again. 

You start to turn, 

“Fa-”

Blood spills out of your mouth. Then, pain like never before. It burns and is freezing at the same time. You don’t want to look down, don’t want to see what you know to be true. You fall to your knees, and the sword is dragged out of you. 

You scream in pain. 

But it’s not enough for him. You can see the figure running towards you now, can recognize the shining white hair and the lean build of your father. Fingers grasp the edges of your helmet and yank it off just as the blade is shoved inside you again. 

A shocked gasp. 

You can hear Aemond staggering back. The helmet drops to the ground. 

Aemond whispers your name. It is the voice of the boy you knew, but you do not turn. That boy is gone, destroyed by this monster wearing his skin, his name, his everything. 

You want to lift your arms. You’re so terribly cold, but your arms won’t move. Your head spins, your vision shifts between focused and blurry. He’s almost here. Your father is almost here. 

“Father.” You choke out. Blood pools down your chin. It’s filling your throat. 

Daemon screams your name, and Aemond’s voice grows weaker. He’s leaving. 

Running. 

“Craven.” You call out to him. “I should have taken both your eyes!” 

It feels like time slows down as you fall towards the ground. Your father won’t make it. You’ll soon be gone, you know this. You’ll be gone and you’ll go as a failure. Aemond still lives, the monster you created will run back to his pit of vipers and lick his wounds. And then he’ll come for your family again. And again. And again. 

Warm arms catch you just as you’re about to hit the ground. You’re turned to lay on your back. There’s more blackness to your vision than not, but you see your father’s eyes brimming with tears. 

You want to wipe them away, tell him that you’ll be alright. 

But you can’t. 

And you’re not. 

“What were you thinking taking my armor to fight that bastard?!” He shakes you, then clutches you closer – stuck between punishing you and comforting his dying daughter. 

The words are right there, drowning in the blood on your tongue. 

He was my responsibility. 

I wanted to be useful for once. 

I wanted to make you proud. 

Tears fall from his eyes at your silence, but you can do nothing to comfort him. 

“Sh, sh, sweet girl,” he presses his lips to your forehead, the hand not holding you to him brushing through your hair, “it’s okay. I’ll see you soon.”

Caraxes shriek in the distance. He knows what’s happened. He knows that you will be lost to him. 

Your vision is gone soon thereafter, 

but your hearing lingers, 

and the sound of your father’s cries will be written into the books, 

for it was so heartbreaking that he brought even the gods to tears. 

[chibsandchill]

It all starts with a smile

Fandom: HOTD (House of the dragon)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x AFAB!reader (no use of Y/N or pronouns)

Summary: Aemond must learn how to move on from the past and lead his people into a time of peace. Only, he has forgotten how to live without war.

Warnings: Grammar and spelling errors (english is not my native language), short (1322 words), some angst if you squint

Masterlist

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The smell of lavender fills the room as you fuss with his hair. It is shorter than it has ever been – reaching just above his shoulders. It feels freeing, in a strange way. His long hair had been a shield, but he is done hiding. It is only right that you be the one to cut it for you had been there to witness his victory. 

“And what do you want?” 

“A smile, Aemond, ‘tis all I ask for.”

His lips quirk ever so slightly. He hasn't smiled in what felt like centuries – hasn't had a reason to. It doesn't fit him anymore (he doesn't know how). 

A mere twitch is all he can manage. 

“Perhaps my lady should wish for something more… attainable. A king has as much need for a smile as a-” 

A frown appears on your face and he wonders where he misstepped. His father had smiled. Plenty. Though not at him or his siblings. And he had almost led their house to ruin. A smile did little when faced with dragonfire. 

“It is time for peace now. And a king of peace has as much use of a kind smile as he does his right hand. The people need soothing – reassurance that all will be well again. That they will not have to send their sons to die or their daughters to pillow houses.” You move closer and Aemond holds his breath. He does not fear your touch, but his skin crawls at the thought of it. He can almost feel the water of that damned lake filling his throat again. 

“Your grandfather taught you much, Aemond, but this? The art of keeping the power he took and pleasing the smallfolk, that evaded him. In the end he was too much like the dragons he surrounded himself with.”

He wants to defend Otto, the words burn in his throat. “He was a great man.”

“Yes, he was.” You nod. “But not a good one.”

“No, but few men are.”

His eyes glance at the door, almost expecting his grandsire to storm through it shouting at him. His body prepares for a strike, but it never comes, just as the door remains shut. Otto is dead, but his mind still screams at him to defend his blood. His skin crawls at the neglect, at the words of weakness he let slip. 

Your hand cups his face. You’re on his weak side. He refuses to turn. 

“A soft touch.” You say. “The realm has been ruled by an iron fist for so long that even the ground has forgotten what it is like.” 

So you had noticed him stiffening. Another crack in his crumbling mask. Vulnerability seeps out like blood from a wound. Somewhere under it lay a scared boy, Aemond is sure. He still feels like he’s in the halls of Driftmark sometimes, with his eye in his hand and his father with his back turned. All alone. Scared. Scarred. 

He has no more allies. None bound by blood. And blood was all one could trust, Aemond had learnt that the hard way. And even then it is not guaranteed. His family cut him deeper than any. 

“A smile. A soft touch,” he repeats. Aemond grasps your hand in his and gently pulls it off his skin, “will not bring stability to a realm of chaos. A smile will not sway the hands of the thieves, or the rapists lurking in the dark. A soft touch will not bring back the sons or husbands of the thousands of widows. It will not bring back sisters, brothers, dragons.”

“No.” You agree. A frown pulls at your lips. Aemond almost puts your hand back on his face. “But it will not take any more. You cannot be a man of war in a time of peace, Aemond. Your life did not end in the battle above the Gods Eye.”

But Vhagar’s did. Vhagar fell. He is one half of a broken whole cursed to sit a throne that mocks him at every turn. His brother’s laughter haunts him when he sits on it, his grandfather’s leers scrutinizing his every decision from the place of the Hand, the smell of his mother’s blood followed by phantom pain when he misstepped. 

“No. It did not.” 

Your hand is back on his face, grasping at his jaw to guide him to you, to force him to meet your eyes. He allows it. Aemond doesn’t like the sharpness to your eyes as you look at him. What in him do you see that displeases you so? 

“You were shaped by bitter hands and hatred, but you are free of it now. We are free. Free to make mistakes. Free to… love.” 

Your eyes soften. 

“It is okay to grieve them just as it is okay to love them despite their faults, but you cannot let the memory of them keep you chained to the past. The future is yours for the taking, you need only grasp it.”

“I do not know how.” He confesses. The words were heavy on his tongue, and yet they are even heavier between you.

“A smile, My King. It begins with a smile.”

Again he tries, and again he fails. His lips twitch but it is more like a grimace than a smile. He knows anger, he knows sadness and he knows disgust. He doesn’t know this – doesn’t know the softness you spoke of, doesn’t understand the peace in your heart or the lightness to your steps. Rhaenyra never forgot. She smiled even in the end as Sunfyre devoured her whole. 

“Do you remember the night you claimed Vhagar?”

His scar itches. 

“Of course I do.”

You move closer again, though you do not reach for him. You kneel by his feet, your hands flat on your thighs. Your voice is as soft as the Maiden’s when you speak again. “What did you feel when you took to the skies as one for the first time?”

The words tumble from him before he can stop them. “Whole. Worthy. Happy.”

“Will you tell me about it?”

Aemond inclines his head, confused by the request. Unable to deny you, he thinks back on that night, before it all went wrong. And so he tells you of how he met Vhagar. Of how his legs shook terribly when he walked across the sand, how his heart stopped beating when her eyes met his and the bond was formed. Of how her scales felt against his calloused hands, her warmth against his skin, and her breath on his face. He tells you the color of her eyes, the scars on her legs, chest, the horns on her head, the shape of her scales and the stories her body carried. Aemond describes the climb up to her saddle and how he had to tie the heavy chains several times around his waist, barely managing to finish the last knot before Vhagar started moving. Vhagar was so large and heavy that each step shook the earth and he had never felt as small and yet so large as when he sat upon her. 

Somewhere in the story, Aemond loses himself, and the words keep coming but he no longer hears what he is saying. He’s back there – back on Vhagar. He feels her muscles moving under thick skin, feels her every inhale, every exhale and every grumble as she moves. Hears the thundering crack of her wings in the air, the wind through his hair. His heart feels full again, whole. 

The story ends, but the feeling stays. His chest feels lighter than it has in years.

“See, Aemond,” you say, “it – healing – starts with a smile.”

His fingers tremble as he raises them to his face. 

And there, 

stretching his lips in a motion so wholly unfamiliar that his face begins to ache, 

is a smile. 

Maybe there is hope for him after all. 

[chibsandchill]

A sea of longing

Fandom: Saltburn

Pairing: Felix Catton x fem!Reader 

Warnings:  Unreliable narrator (Felix), grammatical and spelling errors, mentions of Greek mythology, Felix sometimes pays attention to his lecturers, dreadfully short

Summary: Felix shares a sweet moment with you in his dorm. 

Masterlist

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One of the last things Felix expected to miss when he started uni was his mother’s bedtime stories, the bizarre tales she spun instead of prayer. One of her favorites was the story of Echo and Narcissus, a tale wroth with obsession. 

‘You’re a beautiful boy, Felix’, she told him often enough, though her tongue was far too loose for her own good when she’d had a glass (read: bottle) of wine, ‘but it’s far better to have others admiring you instead of wasting away in front of a mirror’. 

A… spin on a cautionary tale, he was sure. 

Still, 

he found himself in that story. 

Felix couldn’t remember life without you. Perhaps there had never been. He was sure that even in all of his previous lives he had you. Or rather, you had him. Two halves of a whole torn apart by someone who envied their bond far too much. Their Juno. Only, Felix took the part of Echo and Narcissus both, he longed and longed for you, sometimes even when you were with him. He’d scream and scream and his desire would echo right back in a constant cycle of desperation. Nothing could cure the want that had dug so far in him that there was no separating Felix and his need to be closer to you. To be with you. He was drowning in the sea of longing; a sea of you, chasing every bit of you that he could reach, 

even if in the end he could only grasp the edges of your reflection. 

“Hey, where’d you go?” 

He comes back to when you brush his hair away from his forehead, letting your fingers linger on his skin. The smile is instinctual, an act so deeply rooted in instinct that just the mere mention or allusion to you forced it on him. 

Felix grabbed your hand and brought it down to rest on his shoulder before covering it with his own. 

“Go? How could I go anywhere when I’ve got a girl as pretty as you in my lap?”

You’re so close he can feel your chest rumble when you chuckle. “Flirt.” 

His lips brushed against your shoulder as he moved to rest his forehead against you. Warm and soft, like always. You smell faintly of his soap and the laundry detergent his mother insisted on. There’s a scar there somewhere from when you spent the summer at Saltburn and he’d gotten so happy to see you that he bit you.

Hard. 

One of the happiest days of his life. 

You smiling at him from over the brim of your book in the fields, the hint of metallic blood sticking to his teeth, the sun shining down on you both, gauze wrapped around your shoulder, and a constant reminder of his love for you. 

He wondered, not for the first time, if you’d let him do it again. 

He’d let you do it in a heartbeat, would tear his shirt off and present himself, and you could pick whatever part of him you wanted. Though, he’d enjoy it far more than you would. And he’d leave it uncovered, 

he wanted it to scar. 

A mark of him on you, a mark of you on him. 

An echo of an idea branded into him since childhood; a constant need to be closer. It hurt to be apart from you. It hurt to be pressed against you like this and that be the closest he could get. If he could he would burrow himself under your skin, press himself into your heart. He would mend the rift, press soft kisses against the weeping wound until his lips fell off. Press himself against you until there was naught but his warmth left fading from your skin. 

Your fingers scratch against his scalp. 

“Is it the exams?”

“No. I’ve just missed you, s’all.”

A smile tugged at your lips. “Hm. If you say so.”

“I do.”

Silence fell over the room again, and Felix basked in your presence. You were his own personal sun and he tried to leech off whatever warmth he could before he was robbed of you again. The precious moments where he could have you like this – when you were all his and he was all yours – were far and few inbetween, and each time the hunger in him grew and it got more difficult to let you go. 

“‘missed you too.” You mumbled and you gave him one last heavy blink before your head lolled back into his neck. Your breathing evened out and his heart skipped a beat as the ring on your finger came into view. 

He couldn’t wait for the day when finally he wouldn’t have to let go. 

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Taglist:

@nowitsmissing, @khxna

[chibsandchill]

How to secure a future

Fandom: HOTD (House of the dragon)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x AFAB!reader (no use of Y/N or pronouns)

Summary: Aemond’s delusions about besting his Uncle in combat comes real, and he lives out the aftermath of the war in a cabin with you. Only, it’s not enough. 

Warnings: Obsessive behavior, Aemond Targaryen, mentions of Daemon, allusions to sex, descriptions of murder and gore, metaphorical self-harm, unhealthy relationships, Aemond has truly given in to the delulu, toxic behavior and mindset, spelling and grammatical mistakes (English is my second language), allusions to cannibalism, Aemond baby-traps you, etc

Masterlist

Comments and reblogs are always appreciated

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If Aemond knew anything it would be obsession. That gut-wrenching longing, the want for more;  the bottomless pit of darkness – a starved beast rattling rusty bars, frothing at the mouth for more. Every inhale heavy with hatred and jealousy, his blood thick as tar with envy, he was a mere shell of a man driven only by the desire to possess. To conquer. His uncle – Daemon – was much the same. His brother too. Though, Aemond thought himself cut from a different cloth. Same material, same maker, but Aemond was driven by love, he ached for the chaos that the chase brought. He thirsted for the blood of your enemies, a thirst that could never be quenched. 

Or could it? 

Had he not cut his beloved uncle from cock to eyes he might have asked for advice. Perhaps then he would be more like the prince his mother wanted and less like a rabid beast drowning in a sea of longing. Wave after wave threatened to pull him under. Sometimes he wanted to let it take him. There could be pleasure in that too. Is there a better death than one in pursuit of you? You’d cry so sweetly over his corpse. 

No, 

the thought disgusted him. He was the one deserving your affection, your tears, your pain. All of it. All his, his, his, his. 

Alas, 

Daemon, his severed cock and all his wisdom (for all the good it did him) laid buried beneath hundreds upon thousands of men in an unmarked grave, and so could not say much at all. 

If only his mother knew what Aemond was truly up to when he said he’d take Vhagar for a flight. She’d cry. Perhaps even strike him. He wouldn’t feel it, so he’d let her. Her words couldn’t hurt him anymore than the back of her hand could – not even his brother’s depravity elicited a reaction from him anymore. Their blades grew as dull as the scars they had left behind, more akin to a cold summer’s breeze than a sword through the gut. How could they hurt when you cut him so deeply? When you looked past him as if he was one of many in a crowd but you’d move so sweetly against him when he visited you at night; when you looked at him and saw nothing, but he looked at you and you were everything. 

The dragon fire in his heart was helpless against the cold left in your absence, he was a man without purpose, with naught but envy, envy, jealousy and longing and spite keeping him at your heels. Even when you were in the same room did he long for you, burn with envy at the sight of your friends sitting next to you, of your cousin who smoothed down wayward hairs, of your uncle who pushing in your chair, of the clothing that clung to you, of the very air you breathed, the blood in your veins, everything. There was not a thing he did not envy for their closeness to you, and not a thing he had not thought of tearing away so he could take his rightful place. 

Were he a better man he would write you poems. Mountains of them. Through mangled hands and bloody fingers would he write scroll after scroll declaring his love and devotion in flowery prose and sweet, sweet words that dripped with adoration. 

But Aemond was a dragon prince and he dealt in chaos, burning possession and fiery jealousy. It was all blood and gore and violence, but Aemond liked to imagine that before the war when he still had that softness to him that his grandsire made sure to beat out of him, he’d woo you with soft hands and smiles and flirtatious words spoken through giggles at grand events, and kisses stolen in gardens. 

But you saw through the flames and violence and saw Aemond for what he was. You had to. You did. He knew you did. He covered you in blood and through a wobbly smile and tear-filled eyes Aemond swore he saw your future together. 

And he grabbed a hold of that future with no intentions of letting go. 

“Honey, I’m home.” 

Aemond locked the door to the cabin behind him. Swinging from his hand was an unlit lantern. It sparked to life without much protest and a pleasant glow lit up the room. Gaunt faces drawn with unsteady hands on water-logged parchment stared down at him from where they hung precariously from rusty nails lodged in moldy walls. It hadn’t begun to smell yet – the mold – but the air was humid. 

“Aemond.” 

“Hello.” He placed the lantern on the kitchen table. It shook under its meager weight. Aemond would have to get you a new one for the new house. “Did you miss me?”

“Like a prisoner misses the headman.”

“Time has not dulled your tongue, my love. I’m glad.” 

You hummed. 

“Have you eaten?” He asked. 

“Yes.”

“Good. I brought dessert.” 

Aemond set the table. Two plates, both cracked, and a fork for you and a spoon for him. You have no glasses, not anymore, so he brought two wooden mugs with him. The handles have splintered from overuse but they served their purpose. He brought two lemon squares dusted with powdered sugar and candied lemons from the kitchens. Perhaps you’d even taste one of them this time. 

The smell filled the room, but you didn't move. 

Aemond let out a sigh as he placed the treats on the plates. “It’s your favorite.”

“Were. They were my favorites.”

His eye twitched. 

“My cousin used to steal platters of them from the kitchen the night before my nameday.” You mused. Aemond knew this already but said nothing in fear that you’d go back to silence. The sweet lilt in your voice warmed him ever so pleasantly. “They were my favorite because they were hers.” 

“Would you rather I bring something else?” 

“Candles. I don’t like the dark.” 

Odd, considering how you clung to the shadows of the room to avoid him. Aemond loved the chase. You knew that. 

“Of course.” He agreed with a dip of his head. “Anything you want.” Within reason. 

“Anything?” You pressed. “I want to go outside.”

“No.”

“Why? The war is over, isn’t it? Aemond, please, I haven’t seen the sun in months.”

The real answer was on the tip of his tongue, but he’d never let them go. You wouldn’t like it. And for what did you need the sun when he was here? He brought a lantern, did he not? He was your sun, and your moon and even the stars. In this cabin nothing could hurt you without his permission, no one could find you and take you away, nothing to leach the warmth from you or dull your smile. He could not shine like you, so he had to bring it with him, unlike you who shone like the brightest star whenever you entered a room. He had lived for far longer than a few months in darkness, with mere glimpses of your light and warmth. The gaping hole in his chest had festered and rotted the longer he carried on, but no longer. Each day when you smiled at him as he entered the cabin tore the corruption from him, your laugh cleansed him off the darkness gripping him. He was reborn by your grace. 

“Perhaps tomorrow, darling.” 

You huffed. 

“Oh. I almost forgot.” Aemond pulled out a locket from his pocket. It was made of gold and lined with red rubies. “I had this made for you.” 

His chest burned as you moved out of the shadows. They clung to you, tugged at you with their dirty fingers. Your steps are almost silent against the floor, but the rattling of chains is louder than thunder. 

A precaution. 

“What is it?” Your fingers curl around his wrist. 

The words died in his throat. You were so warm, your touch soft as silk against his scarred wrist. he had never known a gentle touch before you. Gentle did not make dragons strong, and they certainly didn’t create strong towers capable of withstanding a dragon’s attack. But he had no use of dragon fire in here, or twisted claws, or strong walls to keep you out when all he wanted was to have you closer. 

Here he was simply Aemond. And he was almost… content. 

Almost. 

“It’s a locket.” He cleared his throat. “Look.”

He flipped it open to reveal a portrait he had commissioned of the best artist in King’s Landing, and on the other side he had your favorite flower preserved. A token of his love; everlasting. Much like the flower it would never wilt, never change. He burned for you now just as he did before. He was as addicted to you as his father had been to the milk of the poppy before he passed. You consumed his every thought. 

“Oh, Aemond.” You whispered. “It’s lovely. Thank you.” 

You pressed a kiss against his cheek whilst placing your hand on the other one. Wildfire spread under the skin you touched. 

“I understand it can get lonely-”

He didn’t (couldn’t) understand, but his mother made sure he was a skilled diplomacist, and so he spat out the words as though they were poison. You were two parts of a whole, how could you be lonely when all he wanted, all he needed was you. 

“It’s okay! Truly. I like it here.” You rushed out. 

He allowed himself to bask in your touch. His clenched fist relaxed, but despite your light, your warmth, your love, the root of his darkness could not be touched. In a way, he didn’t want you to. He feared that if you reached that part you would be tainted, or worse, you would take it from him. That part allowed him to do what it takes to love you like you deserve. 

But you never would find it. He had torn at himself until he was in a thousand pieces, drifting in the wind after you. Gradually he stitched himself together, then tore the stitches and created himself anew. Mangled and broken did he wander two steps behind you, darkness oozing from the crude stitching and infested wounds. Truly a monster. Until he made himself whole again. For you. Like you. In your image he made himself anew. He tore the wings from his back, the claws from his fingers and the fire from his chest so that he may never burn you. He tore himself from the sky so that he might see you one last time. Again and again he tore flesh from bone, bone from flesh, until he began to resemble what you needed, what you desired. A thousand layers of flesh to hide the remains of a beast unworthy of you. 

Still, he could tear at himself until nothing remained, could press himself against you until all that remained of him was fading warmth, and it still would not lessen the longing he felt for you, the heart-crushing need to be closer. The seeds of doubt, of what-if’s threatened to undo all that he had made himself. 

If he allowed you but one candle, would you cast him aside? If he was not your light, would you cast him aside? He was nothing without you. Would you think the sun’s warmth superior to his? It would steal your affection, and he would be forced to wander the darkness alone again. Though he did not think he would survive this time, for he had been shown what being with you was like. 

“Good.” He managed to choke out, dull pressure growing behind his eyes at the reminders. 

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” 

“How- how is my mother?” 

“Thriving. Your father hired that gardener from Dorne.” Aemond placed his hand over yours. 

“Good.” You smiled with glassy eyes. “Good. That’s… good. I’m… happy for her.”

 Aemond nodded. 

He would never tell you the truth. 

Your mother carried that same unnatural warmth as you, and her blood felt like fire. Your father felt like ice. How the mix created you, Aemond would never know. The gardener had heard them. He tasted like the desert – dry, hot and awful. 

It was one of the best nights of his life, and he had left you unable to walk properly for days after. 

Now they could never take you from him. 

Their weakness disgusted him. How easily they had abandoned you. Aemond would not stop protecting you even in death. 

“Yes. Will you eat with me?”

“Oh. Thank you for the gifts but I’m not hungry.” You pulled away from him and he was once more plunged into the icy depths that was being parted from you. His skin crawled with the absence of you. 

His teeth ground together. “That’s fine.” 

“I had a lot of dinner. I’m sorry.” 

“It’s fine.” 

It wasn’t. Did you think him incapable of providing for you? 

The lemon squares dripped onto the floor. They coated his fists. 

“I- Maybe next time.” 

“Do you not love me anymore?”

Tense silence fell over the room. 

“What?” You asked, stunned. 

“Do. you. not. love. me?”

“O-of course I do!”

His eyes burned. “Is there someone else?”

“Aemond! What’s gotten into you?! There’s only you.”

“Is it the farmer?” 

“No!” 

“The stable boy?”

“No! Aemond, please! You lock the door every time you leave. There’s no one else.”

“It’s me then.” 

“Did Aegon say something to you? Is that why you’re behaving like this?” Your face reddened, but for all the wrong reasons. 

Disgust coiled in his stomach as his brother’s name left your mouth. 

“My apologies.” He inclined his head. “I haven’t been sleeping well lately. I shouldn’t have accused you of such filth. I knew you would never betray me like that.”

Aemond felt like a fool. Somewhere along the way he had miscalculated, had missed a piece of corrupted flesh and stitched it along his love and devotion to you. He knew you loved him. Of course you did. You were meant for each other. Two pieces of a whole torn apart by cruel gods. He would need to tear it out, and begin anew. Once more would he bathe himself in blood and fire to become worthy of you. 

You shook your head. “It’s okay. I understand.” 

He barely heard your words. He felt as though he was underwater.  Drowning, drowning, drowning. It was dark, cold, silent, and you were not there. 

How could he cement his place next to you? He had coiled himself around you after you joined together, had left himself inside you so not even that would tear you apart. As you slept he would press himself closer to you, his hold would tighten like a snake coiling around prey until you whimpered, and yet he was not close enough. His knees felt weak. It could never be enough, this would never be enough. Surely there was a way. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

“Let me make it up to you.” He heard himself saying. 

“There’s nothing to make up for.” 

So understanding. 

“Even so. I’ve missed you.” 

A sharp inhale, and then his lips were on yours. It felt like coming home, like completion. The missing piece returned to the puzzle. He had spent hours trying to put the feeling into words, and yet came up empty-handed. There weren’t a lot of thoughts swirling around his mind when he was pressed against you like this. Not when his hands had already begun to wander down your waist until he gripped your hips. You let out a surprised sound but you welcomed his touch, your own hands coming up to rest on his chest. 

Somehow you make it to the bedroom. Aemond shrugged off his coat and shoes before pushing you down on the bed. Your pupils are dilated, a delightful blush coated the apples of your cheeks, and you were smiling at him again. 

Oh, that smile. 

“Gods.” He whispered. 

Aemond’s hands shook as he began unlacing his shirt, then his trousers, his shoes. They were all thrown in a pile. They didn’t matter. His hands were steady, sure, and gentle as he pulled at the frail strings holding your dress together. It came undone easily enough, and pooled around your hips. 

Just as he leaned down to kiss along the curve of your neck, the lantern went out. It mattered not to Aemond who was used to the darkness, and he knew your body like the back of his hand. Your head lulled to the side and you sighed softly. 

And if a few weeks after that night you greeted him in tears when he returned for the night with the beginnings of a swollen stomach, then that was no one’s business but his and yours. 

[chibsandchill]

See me

Fandom: Saltburn 

Pairing: Felix x AFAB!Reader 

Summary: Each room in Saltburn is bursting at the seam with memories with you, and Felix remembers some of his favorite moments as he makes his way to his prize. 

Warnings: Felix, Mentions and descriptions of acts of violence and murder, NSFW content, MDNI, 18+, unreliable narrator (Felix), toxic relationship, obsessive tendencies, grammatical and spelling errors, p in v sex, oral sex (m receiving), Felix is a creep, themes of violence - self-harm and equivalent themes are prevalent through the imagine, some parts of their dynamic takes inspiration from Hannigram but with my spin on obsession

I am not responsible for your media consumption. Read the tags. 

MDNI

Masterlist

:-:-:-:-:-:-:

It’s a cloudy day when Felix first saw you,

but with you came the sun, 

warmth, empathy, love. 

Oh, how he loved your heart. But, oh, how careless you were with it. It was a gift, 

one meant for him, 

from you. 

Then why did you waste it on those beneath you? You chipped away at it to mend sobbing students, tore at it until it bled and thick scars rose like mountains. You took on their pain with a blindingly bright smile, 

only Felix saw how their burdens weighed you down. 

The sun was meant to warm, to burn from far away, 

but they tore you down from your place in the sky so that they might leech your warmth until you are left barren. Their sorrows were cold as ice against you. 

They stole you from him. Piece by piece they ripped at you with filthy nails. You became known on campus as someone who’d listen. Who wouldn’t judge. How could you when you felt their problems as if they were your own? The more they spoke those words dripping with poison, the more they tainted the very blood in your veins with their darkness. 

‘Walk in their shoes’. 

You didn’t need to. You could walk in their skin, feel their emotions as if they were yours. Heartbreak plagued you, sorrow fell on you like an ever present shadow. The death of a family not yours turned your face gray and your eyes misty.

Until Felix put a stop to it all. How could he stand by and watch it happen? The slow destruction of a bright star, who burned so bright that all envied it. 

Jenny from history of art, Carl from math, Robert from physics, Matilda from psychology, Caroline, Jeremy, Han, Thomas, Harry, Derek, Henry, Linda, Nico, Mark, John, Hans, William, Frederic. All turned away at your door. 

“Yes, I’ll tell her.”

“I’ll let her know.”

“Sure thing, buddy.”

Oh, how they believed his lies. Sweet, sweet, Felix Catton wouldn’t lie to them. Surely not. 

But lie, he did. It spewed from his lips like honey. All to have his sun beam at him again. To wash away the taint of the others from your skin, your heart, your eyes. He would have you look at him with soft, relaxed eyes. 

Him. Him. Him. Him.

Your protector. Even if you didn’t know it yet. 

“Felix.” 

He hummed. 

Your eyes are heavy with sleep when you look up at him, but the affection is hard to miss. It makes you glow. Felix curled his arm further around you, bringing you closer to him. But even then it is not close enough. He aches. It’s a want deeper than skin, deeper than bones or even his soul. It was as if his very being was made of want, of longing so intense he was blinded by it. If God was indeed real then he had created Felix with a thread laced with obsession, with love transcending all else. 

Even thinking about you made his heart race, pound. 

“Can I braid your hair?” 

“‘Course.” He said against your skin. 

As if you needed to ask. All of him was yours. 

You try to sit up but Felix isn’t ready to break the contact yet. He feels like a battery, no matter how bizarre a comparison it is, constantly needing to be recharged so that he might survive when you part. He’s constantly cold without you, he feels empty; hollow. His hands are too light with the lack of you, he breathes too easy without the weight of you on his chest. If he could he’d carve his heart out so that you could carry it with you, for that was how he felt anyway. He’d gouge himself hollow so that he could fit you inside. Never to be parted again, joined together by shared blood, flesh and bone. 

It’s not easy with his hold on you, but you manage to shift so that you sit in his lap instead. It’s not ideal if you mean to truly braid his hair but Felix won’t complain. He pushed his head into your touch when your fingers hover over him. 

“Patience.” You half-heartedly scold him. 

Your fingers weave through his hair, nails scratching just right against his scalp. With deft hands you untangle the mess you’d created during the night. There’s not much to braid but more than enough for you to wrap around your fingers and tug. The action pulls a low groan from his throat. 

He grabs your hips. Felix wonders if you’ve noticed how he’s caged you in. You probably don’t, as sweet and trusting a being as you surely wouldn’t peel back his layers to gasp at the thriving darkness beneath. With you he was his truest self. Could you see him? Would you run if he were to cast off the layers? Let you see him? 

Maybe you already could. You had seen the others. Even the empty ones, the ones who had gouged themselves hollow and shoved the essence of what they thought he wanted until it spilled from every hole in their body. 

Felix wasn’t hollow. He was bursting at the seams with life, same as you. And yet you stayed. Surely you knew. You had to. You and he were one. Two pieces of a whole finally reunited. 

He breaths in your scent, noses along your throat before allowing his head to rest in the crook of your neck. There’s a bruise there hidden on your shoulder blade. Late one night when you’d already fallen asleep he mouthed it into your skin with the moon as his witness, 

only, 

it had started to fade. 

He’d have to do it again. Closer. Marking you under the cover of darkness wasn’t enough anymore. An unspoken claim didn’t satisfy him anymore. It wasn’t enough. He was beginning to think it never would be. He could bruise every inch of your skin with his love and his skin would still itch to do more – to prove himself more to you.  

Just as his hands slide down to rest on the curve of your ass the scene slips through his fingers like sand. 

He blinks it away. He’s standing in the driveway of Saltburn. Your favorite statue is left in shambles on the gravel with his blood splattered across the white marble. 

“What the fuck.” Felix’s hand shakes and burns with pain. His knuckles are split open. 

It had been a slip of a thought he had once when you first came to Saltburn and you’d taken to leaning on the statues, the furniture, walls, pillars. He’d wanted them all gone. He’d be your pillar. He wouldn’t crumble with age, would never make you think they stood strong only for the core to be riddled with holes from pests.

Felix was whole and strong, had made himself such, 

for you. 

He’d burnt the tendrils of influence his mother had dug into him since childhood. Torn the threads of her darkness right out of the tapestry. Oh, how she cried when she noticed. ‘Felix,’ she’d whispered, a rare show of emotion plastered across her face, ‘what have you done?’. 

She shouldn’t have worried about what he had done. No, she should’ve worried about what he was going to do. 

He watched you for weeks before approaching you. He noticed what made you laugh, what made you smile, frown, scowl. And so he took that too. Cut out the parts of himself that would drop the smile from your face and sewed on the parts that he lacked until he was left a patch-work version of perfecting befitting a Mary Shelley novel. Pus and blood seeped from the stitches. The sight was unseemly. So he waited until he’d perfected himself, until the stolen was assimilated, until it was like another Felix had never existed. 

Felix throws the heavy doors open and the maids scurry away from his sight. 

Duncan emerges from the pack. Even after all he’d seen, his adoration for Felix remained. “Welcome back, Felix.” 

He nods. 

And then he’s off. 

The route he takes is reminiscent of your first tour of the mansion. He’s even nodding along as if hearing himself introduce it all. The staircase where he “fingered” his cousin. As if. Your face had reddened with equal parts jealousy and sheer disbelief of ‘what the fuck’. 

One of the smaller sitting rooms. The green one. He fucking hates that room. But you love it. He went down on you for the first time there. Right on the couch with his granny’s ghost knocking down a shelf of antique plates over his head. The blood had driven you crazy. 

The thought alone made him hard. 

But this was also the first room you’d held him properly in. He’d been crying. 

“What's wrong?” You ask when he threw the door open. 

You’d been doing some summer reading for uni, but your fingers clutched the opening pages with strength that betrayed your pounding headache. 

“Fucking Ollie.” 

Your brows furrow “Oliver?”

Felix lay down on the couch with his head in your lap. You smell good. And you’re soft. 

“Yeah.” He sigh. “He was lying to us this whole time. Turns out poor Oliver Quick has both a dad and mum who loves him. Even siblings! They live in a lovely house in a picture perfect neighborhood.”

‘I just need you to understand how much I fucking love you!’

As if there was even a sliver of Felix that didn’t belong to you, that didn’t scream out for you every second you were apart. Had Oliver not been paying attention? Could he not see the need that permated him? It ran so deep, was so all-consuming that he couldn’t contain it all. He breathed desire, cried longing, even fucking pissed envy. Envy even over the very air you breathed, the clothing that hugged you, the sheets for the audacity to imply he wasn’t enough to keep you warm. 

You hum as your fingers drift down to cup his face. 

“He was in love with me.” 

“Isn’t everyone?” You joke. 

Felix’s eyes opened (he hadn’t realized he closed them). “You love me?”

“Of course.” You trace a scar on his cheekbone. 

“Say it.” 

“I love you, Felix.”

Even that memory fades, but your words linger. 

I love you, Felix. 

You always linger. Your kisses burn his skin and he wishes it left a scar so that he could look upon it and relive it all. 

The green room is abandoned quickly, and he’s off. 

“A blue room!” You exclaim, and to Felix’s displeasure you let go of him to take it all in. 

“Yeah. It’s… blue.” 

“What? No ghosts? No artifacts?”

Felix shakes his head. “Nope. Just blue.”

Felix sees himself leaning against the door while you spin around the room. It’s like a movie, almost. Only it’s his memories and he can remember every second he’s ever spent in your presence. Including this one. And the next one. 

The one where you’re on your knees.

You’re pressing soft kisses to the tip of his cock, pressing your love into every inch of skin you can find as if you wanted to stay there, to have your love replace the tar that ran through his veins. 

It’s odd. He can almost feel the tingles left by your touch, but he’s untouched. Felix’s hands form fists at the sight. Was it possible to be jealous even of himself? The envy boiling in his stomach certainly said so. He would not share you even with himself. 

Felix strides forward and sinks into the place his past self sits. He unbuckles his jeans and frees his cock from his underwear. If he were not so deep in madness he might’ve felt the cold of the room, but he was, and so he felt the warmth of your hands, the wetness of your mouth as you wrap your lips around his tip. 

He moans. He didn’t know what he liked the most about it. The vulnerability, the act itself, your presence, or that it left you with a part of him inside you. You’d kneel in front of him for as long as it took, but Felix would not have you be uncomfortable and so he slid a pillow under your knees. 

Your hands cup his balls. He twitches. You take more of him into you. It feels like heaven to have you wrap yourself around him. Wet, warm, silky heaven. All for him. 

Him. Him. Him. Him. His. 

You moan around him. It sends vibrations straight through him. It pulls a low groan straight from his chest, one that makes you moan. His pleasure is your pleasure, and your pleasure is his, and so the circle begins. 

His eyes roll into the back of his head when you begin bobbing your head up and down. You slurp. Electricity runs down his spine. It’s wet. Sloppy. Saliva drips down your mouth as you press your nose into his abdomen. 

Someone drops a plate somewhere in the house and the spell is broken. Not unlike a reflection in a lake is the memory distorted, wrong. You’re on your knees without the pillow. He’s standing above you, not sitting. Your knees are bruised and bleeding. You’re crying. 

Some small part of him, one that he’d allowed to fester for far too long, enjoys the scene. Enjoys the submission, thrives in the knowledge that it is not only he that longs and wants and would press and press until nothing remains if only to bring you a sliver of happiness. You smile around his cock. It’s not the pain that brings you to tears. 

This isn’t right. This isn’t him. It’s Elspeth messing with his head. It’s Oliver whispering his lies in his ear. 

He wants to vomit. Why would they punish him so? To make him see you hurt, 

to force him to see himself hurt you, brutalize you, 

humiliate you. 

Why, when he adored you, worshiped you. If there was a puddle he’d lay himself down to let you walk over him. He’d drown himself so that you would not have to dirty yourself. Like a tumor he’d performed surgery after surgery to remove what you didn’t like. 

And you did the same. 

The image is restored, but he’s already on his feet. 

He would wait no longer. 

Felix runs up the stairs but is forced to a halt by the moans coming from the king’s bedroom. Another memory? The door is already open. 

“Tell me your vows again.” 

You’ve got your legs up in the air behind you, head resting in your hands as you stare at him. 

“Dear,” Felix turns around from where he stood by the window. Your name sounds like prayer on his lips. “I’ve never been alone. People have flocked to me since before I can remember. But they didn’t see me. But you… you, I let you see me. It’s a rare gift. And it’s one that I’ve never regretted giving you. I’ve never felt more loved than in your arms. Do I need to continue, Mrs Catton?” 

You laugh. 

“Come to bed, Felix.”

The memory changes before he can enjoy the sight of you in your wedding dress. The happiest day of his life. Gone in a blink. 

You’re no longer on the bed. You’re in his arms, crying yet again. There’s blood on his shirt. No finger graces your finger. Felix closes his eyes. He knows this memory. KNows very well what he’d have to endure to get back to you. 

“Y-you killed him!” You shudder. 

Felix shushes you. “There was no other way.”

“There’s always another way.”

“Not this time." 

Truly, there wasn’t. You saw much, but Oliver was so good at pretending to be someone else that he even fooled himself into believing his own lies. And so, you thought nothing of it when Oliver offered you his bottle of wine. Had no idea of the drugs that he’d shoved in there. 

“Are you scared of me?” Felix asks you. His voice shakes. He remembers his own fear, how his stomach churned. He could write a thousand words and not even chip at the surface of the emotions he felt. A thrill at the thought of you finally seeing the deepest deepest parts of him? Disgust that he’d slipped and revealed a crack in his mask? Such fear that it clung to his very bones, stopped his lungs from working and had his own eyes water with tears? All true. And yet all of them are false. There wasn’t a single emotion he could place, they all blended together to form a concoction of heart-wrenching pain and fear. 

The memory fades away. He doesn’t remember the rest. All he remembers is how it ended. 

The headboard bangs against the wall with the force of his thrusts. His hands are cradling your face, kissing away the tears of pleasure. You push your legs up higher on his back where you’ve hitched them, your own hands pressing against his own face to bring him closer. He’s inside you but he’s not close enough. 

Felix leans down to cover your whole body with his. You squeak at the change. 

“Oh god,” you throw your head back with a moan. 

He moves a deft finger down to press down on your clit. He experimented with pressure, directions, even spelled out his own name with your pleasure. Felix feels as though he’s on fire, but still he wants more. He wants to be closer. Closer. Closer. Closer. 

You clench around his cock, and he stutters. 

The love in your eyes makes him falter, before he drives into you faster than before. The bed squeaks, one hard thrust away from breaking. Fitting. So is he. Your right hand moved up his cheekbone, past his ear and to the back of his head. Your touch is gentle, barely-there pressure as you guide him down to slant your mouth over his. His heart aches with love, adoration, you. You’ve made it your home. 

Yet again he is denied release as the memory is gone. The room is empty. 

“Fuck.”

It’s not graceful the way he stalks out of the room. No more interruptions, he thinks. 

The last door in the corridor. Yours. And his. Your marital chambers, as Duncan would call it. Old fashioned bastard. 

He pushes it open without as much as a knock. And there you are. 

“Felix!” You cross the room in seconds and then you’ve thrown yourself in his arms. “We missed you!”

Your rounded stomach presses into him. He rests his forehead on yours, pressing long, soft kisses against your lips, even as you giggle and try to move away. When you do, he chases after you. He’s not done. Never done. 

His legs feel like jelly, his soul is on fire, 

but he finally found you.

In a house full of memories and vengeful ghosts he found you. 

And you saw him, as you always do, and he’s tugged back into bed with the comforting weight of you pressing him down into the mattress. 

And he’s almost content. 

Almost. 

Taglist:

@fedyascoffin

[chibsandchill]

Not in love

Fandom: Saltburn

Pairing: Oliver Quick x Felix Catton (brief mentions of past Oliver x Venetia)

Summary: Oliver reflects on his and Felix's relationship and comes to a startling realization that maybe there is no saving it.

Or,

The birthday scenes from Oliver's POV leading up to the maze, only with a slight twist at the end.

Warnings: A disgusting amount of Greek mythology references, Oliver, major character(s) death, spelling and grammatical errors, unreliable narrator, written from Oliver’s POV, descriptions of violence, description of metaphorical self-harm, mentions of drugs and alcohol, unhealthy relationships, toxic mindset, obsession, Oliver really really needs (needed?) a therapist, allusions to sex but no details

Masterlist

:-:-:-:-:-:-:

The clouds parted and there was light. Bright and wonderful, all for him. Even in a beautiful garden the rays strayed from the violets and the roses to spread its warmth to the weeds and the dandelions growing just outside the fence. 

You loved the sun, 

who wouldn’t? 

It brought warmth, life, peace and love, 

and thus, 

who would blame it for the fate of those who wandered too far? 

A simple dandelion who had only gazed at the sun from behind the fence wasn’t made for a life among the flowers, under the watchful eye of the sun. But still it looked. The roses stretched and giggled as they swayed gently in the wind, 

but the sun kept looking away. 

The garden was too pretty. The sun needed to see the ugly, to shine its light onto them too. It would feed on the darkness until it was full, and then it would retreat back into the garden to laugh and warm the flowers. 

The poor dandelion who had finally known warmth was abandoned. 

It hadn’t been dark enough to sustain the sun’s ever-growing want for ugly. Its warmth had brought out the taint, allowing the dandelion to thrive. 

It felt like a story from one of his old literacy classes in elementary school. Still,  It was true enough. Meeting Felix was like seeing the sun after an eternity of darkness and they were much like the sun and the dandelion, 

 only, 

Oliver was as ravenous for Felix’s warmth as Felix was for the darkness in him. Both of them tore and tore at each other to unveil more. It crumbled in their mouths like dust. 

But now the sun had found out the true nature of the dandelion, and for all the ugliness in the world it would not look at it. A flower in disguise, a lowly one but a flower nonetheless. Not pretty enough to line the garden beds or sprout from bushes, but not ugly enough to be torn from the root and thrown into the compost. 

Oliver stumbled through the party. His head pounded from the music, the spiked alcohol and the sweaty bodies that moved like giant waves. He was reeling. His hands shook, his eyes were red and his blood was cold as ice. 

It was his last night in the garden before the sun itself descended to burn him. 

Maybe the garden wasn’t an apt description after all. Perhaps his story was more like Icarus. Oliver had grown too bold in his want for Felix and had grown to love the feeling of burning too much to notice how close he got. He was cast from the heavens with the charred remains of his wings. Deformed and alone, he fell. The wounds on his back still weeping from when he stood in front of the Catton’s mirror and teared at his skin until his very bones were bared, until he bent and broke them to form his wings. The flaps of bruised skin stretched taut to give him flight, but had now been burnt to crisps. Flightless, he fell into the vast ocean of ravenous creatures who would do anything for Felix’s eyes to so much as pass over them – for them to be one of the crowd that he scoured for someone in. 

Venetia had warned him. ‘He never liked sharing his toys. Even the ones he doesn’t want to play with anymore.’ She would clothe herself in Daedalus’ colors but under the guise of care, she tempted him. Oliver would name her Circe, for he had given in, and had almost gotten caught. She would have him turned into a swine, just like Eddie. 

None of the guests knew who he was, so while her warning rang true, Oliver could never love another like he loved Felix. How could you compete with a bright burning star? By god, Oliver adored his sun, 

but you could never expect a sun to admire you back, 

but by god, Felix did. 

Did. Not anymore. The sun no longer shone for him. The rays reserved just for Oliver had turned cold like ice, like daggers they tore through his flesh until he was staggering, dazed and confused. Until all of Oliver that remained was a singular desire; find Felix. 

He stumbled past Venetia pressed up against one of the guests, and Harry who stared at her from across the room with red-rimmed eyes and full-blown pupils. The cold air hit him like a wall but he relished in it, it cleared his head, but made his heart hurt. He couldn’t stand the cold anymore. Felix was always warm. 

A hand dropped on his shoulder. It made him jump. 

“Hello Farleigh.” 

“How’d you know it was me?!” Farleigh pulled Oliver around to face him. His curls sprung free as he took off the donkey’s head. Oliver remembered how they felt in his hands, how it felt like silk slipping through his fingers. 

Oliver’s finger shook as he pointed at the ring Farleigh wore. “Signet ring.”

“God, you really do notice everything, don’t you?” 

Farleigh pulled out a baggy of white powder – cocaine–, shook it out on his hand before he snorted the messy line. The relief was visible. 

“Have they seen you yet?” Oliver asked. 

If Felix had seen Farleigh then maybe some of that anger could be shifted. Oliver hadn’t attempted to steal and sell family heirlooms. It wasn’t even that big a lie that his father had died, just a bit early. Eventually his father would lay buried in a grave. 

“Not yet.”

“They’ll go ballistic.”

“Doubt it.” Farleigh grinned. “They invited me.”

He laughed at the surprise Oliver felt. 

“God, the look on your face!”

“They can’t have invited you.”

“Oh, Oliver. You’ll never catch on. This place,” Farleigh gestured to the grounds and the house, and the party, perhaps even to Felix wherever he was waiting. “you know, it’s not for you. It is a fucking dream. It is an anecdote you’ll bore your fat kids with at Christmas. Oliver’s Once-In-A-Lifetime, hand job on a hay bale, golden, big boy summer. And you’ll cling onto it and comb over it and jerk off to it and you’ll wonder how you could ever, ever, ever, ever get it back.  But you don’t get it back because your summer’s over. And so you, you catch a train to whatever creepy doll factory it is they make Olivers in. And I come back here. This isn’t a dream to me. It’s my house. “ 

Farleigh bent down, grabbed Oliver by the neck and forced him to look Farleigh in the eyes. “So whatever happens – I always come back. Try harder next time, baby.”

He pulled away and put the donkey helmet back on before leaving Oliver alone, but Oliver doesn’t care. Felix just walked past with India, who was dressed as a fairy, wings and tiny green dress. Felix isn’t as an actor as Oliver, who doesn’t miss the downturn of his brows, or the tension in his face as his eyes catch Oliver’s. 

His heart sped up in his chest. A reaction! 

They enter the maze. Oliver didn’t move. He needed a plan. Last time he had lied, made himself small and helpless, a broken doll that was just so sad and pitiful you couldn’t throw it away. Like one from your childhood that you found and just had to fix. A bird with a broken wing being nursed back to health by a loving hand. But they were beyond those lies now. Peel back the layers of deceit, and what was left? What was Oliver when he was left bare, but average? One in the crowd. He wasn’t poor, wasn’t stupid to the point of amusement, or smart enough to rely on in uni, he wasn’t handsome enough to be desired, not deformed enough to be taken in by Felix. 

Felix’s family needed darkness. They fed on it. Without those lies Oliver was a skinny little fucking rat without a sliver of meat on his body. Felix had practically devoured Oliver when the sweet lies about his addict mum and his dead dad spilled from his lips. 

But they were just that,

lies, 

and Felix was left to regurgitate, to purge himself of Oliver. 

It was betrayal. It turned the moments they shared together black, the sweet words they uttered into tar that stuck in their throats.  

What Oliver had was the wrong sort of darkness. 

The sort that made him pour a baggy of powder down the throat of his champagne bottle. 

He was too drunk to navigate the maze. He’d have gotten lost were it not for the trail of bottles and clothing and dollar bills. Fitting. Princess Ariadne gave Theseus a ball of thread to escape the labyrinth after slaying the minotaur, but this thread? No. Rather it was the minotaur who had left the thread so that Theseus could find him. What was one’s biggest desire but to be seen? Oliver saw Felix in a way no others did. Theseus saw the Minotaur for the half-human it was; a creature born of pride and greed. Even if Felix didn’t understand it yet, he had left that trail for Oliver to find him. 

No. Oliver shuddered at even thinking Felix was like the minotaur. To liken the sun with a beast that feasts on human flesh? 

He was the half-human beast–  more beast than man. But he was not a creature born of greed or pride, but rather this is what he had become. With his lies his head had been torn, for Oliver was forgotten and the minotaur, shielded in lies, was born,  and it had been replaced, but unlike Farleigh’s helmet, it could not be removed. And now Felix saw him for what he was, 

and yet he still left a trail for the beast to follow. 

It’s the moans he heard first. It’s not Felix’s best work, Oliver thought as he leaned against the hedge. He takes a sip of the drink, and it almost burns as much as his heart. 

Almost. 

And he can’t bear the sight of them anymore. Connected. Pressed up against the statue. It was intentional, Oliver was sure. A show of power. A sacrifice. If Felix hadn’t wanted to be found he’d have hid somewhere else in the maze, and not in the center which he’d made sure Oliver knew how to find.

“Felix-”

Felix jumped. 

“Jesus Christ! What the fuck are you doing here?!"

“I need to talk to you.” His voice slurred. 

India hurried to put her fairy dress back on. One of the wings was bent. Felix buckled up his jeans and glared at Oliver. 

“Were you spying on us?” India shouted. 

“No. I wasn’t!”

India started moving toward the exit. “You know what, you two are fucking gross.”

Oliver noticed Felix didn’t watch her leave. 

“Fucking hell, mate.”

“I’m sorry." His words almost come out as a whimper. “I wasn’t-”

Oliver walked closer to Felix, desperation making his heart beat like a tattoo against his ribs. It’s fucking painful how every muscle in his body screams at him to move, how his skin itches for Felix’s touch. Like an addict. 

“No. What the fuck is wrong with you, Oliver? Leave me the fuck alone!” 

Oliver shook his head. Some champagne spilled over his hand. “No. We need to talk.”

He tried to grab Felix’s hand but the man just scoffed and stared as his hand fell. 

“We can’t… We can’t, are you fucking crazy?”

“You can’t just throw me away.” Oliver walked closer, undeterred. 

Felix pushed him back. Oliver almost begged him to do it again, if only to feel his hands on his chest. It’s like a soothing balm, but the pain returns two-fold when the touch leaves. 

“Get the fuck away from me.”

Oliver staggered but something inside him broke. He flew forward and grabbed Felix by the shirt and pressed himself as close he could. Words were on his tongue, but Felix just smelled so good and familiar that it all fell away. The side of his face rested against his chest, but then the rot took root again. 

“Look, I just gave you what you wanted. Like everyone else does! Everyone puts on a show for Felix. So, I’m sorry if my performance wasn’t good enough.”

Felix was tense in his hold. “I think… I think you need to see someone. You need help, okay? Seriously."

“No. No, I don’t. I just need you to understand how much I fucking love you. You’re the only friend I’ve ever had, Felix. I mean, doesn’t this just prove how much of a good friend I actually am? How well I actually know you! I’m still the same person! Yeah? I’m still the same person!”

Felix looked at him then. The wilted flower forced the sun to look at it. To see. 

“I don’t know what you are. But I do know you make my fucking blood run cold.”

There was silence. 

Maybe it was then that Oliver finally understood that they could never come back from the betrayal. There wasn’t a way that they could walk out of that maze together. They wouldn’t go back to uni. Felix wouldn’t kiss him on the forehead, wouldn’t rest an arm over the back of his chair, or tell his friends off when they made fun of him. 

Didn't Felix see that Oliver did it all for him? That he'd bend until his spine broke so that he might have one more glance?

“I see.” He sniffled. “That’s okay.”

It wasn’t.

But it would be. 

Oliver wasn’t a fucking dandelion, or Icarus, or the Minotaur or Theseus. They didn’t carry the rot he did. The darkness. This wasn’t a story of bravery, of a daring escape, or a beast by others' makings. Oliver was like Tantalus. He fed Felix lie after lie and now he had been caught and sentenced to a life of being forced to watch Felix from afar. A curse worse than death. Each day he would suffer through seeing what he had, what he had lost. 

But Oliver refused to be like Tantalus, 

he wouldn’t allow himself to be banished to Tartarus, starving in a pool of water below a bountiful tree with low hanging branches. 

How would the garden thrive without the sun? 

Oliver took another sip of the champagne, still holding Felix to him. Felix wouldn’t give Oliver anything, so Oliver took. And he had taken and taken until Felix was hollow. But he wanted more. He would have all of Felix. Even the bones. 

The alcohol is bitter in his mouth. 

Then, in a daring move, he stepped ever closer and pressed his lips to Felix’s. Felix froze and tried to pull away but there was nowhere to go. The statue pressed to his back, Oliver to his front. But Oliver wasn’t deterred. His lips slanted over Felix. It was sloppy, poor form, but when he felt the slightest movement from Felix it felt like heaven. 

A burst of wind sweeping through his broken wings. 

Felix’s lips moving against Oliver’s lips were soft, unsure. Not shy, never shy. He allowed himself to be guided by Oliver. But then it changed. Felix’s movements were more forceful, a hard press of teeth and lips against Oliver to the point where his lips bled. Blood and champagne mixed between them. Tongues battled against each other. Oliver pulled back, allowing Felix to take his place as the one in charge. 

Relief filled him. 

His muscles shook with the effort to hold himself up. Even Felix began struggling. 

And then they fell. 

Perhaps it wasn’t like anything Oliver had thought of. 

Perhaps the truest version of their story is something in between. Something between Theseus and the minotaur and Juliet and Romeo. An alternative universe where Theseus fell for the minotaur, 

and the minotaur fell for him too. 

Taglist:

@fedyascoffin

[chibsandchill]

Hellooo chibsss:)) I really like your writing

Can I be in ur saltburn permanent taglist? Thank you and have a nice day!❤️

Hiiiiiii. Of course you can! The tags you leave on my posts give me life💕

[chibsandchill]

The peasant dances in the pale moonlight

Pairing: Oliver Quick x Catton!AFAB!Reader (uses she/her pronouns)

Fandom: Saltburn

Warnings: Oliver, Grammatical and spelling errors, NSFW, MDNI, 18+, p in v sex, oral sex (f receiving), masturbation, non-con voyeurism, degradation & humiliation, thoughts of death, Oliver needs a therapist ASAP, 

Summary: You seem to have moved on from what happened the night before, but Oliver’s left craving more. 

Masterlist

Previous part  (Can technically be read as a stand-alone)                     

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

Life on Saltburn moved on as it always had, but Oliver felt as though he was forever changed. How could he not when he had felt what it was like to be part of them, pure and unadulterated bliss brought about by being so wholly consumed. You had chipped away at pieces of him until his very core was laid bare but not even then did your hand stay. With each caress you showed him what to be, how to act, and he devoured every inch of attention. You had given him a finger,

 but he had taken the whole hand. 

It was not only his core that was revealed in the pale moonlight. Underneath those designer clothes and the easy smiles both you and Felix shared, there was a particular brand of cruelty. A certain sharpness to his words as you degraded him. It wasn’t about pleasure, 

not really. 

It was about dominance, 

humiliation, 

and he longed to feel it again. 

He found release like he had never before under the cruel ministrations of your fingers, euphoria as you whispered filthy, demeaning things in his ear with the same ease and familiarity as one would a pet name. 

Now his eyes sought you out from the shadows of the estate, eager to catch even a glimpse of that hidden part of you. Was it just him that you had shown it to? He held himself a bit taller at the thought. 

“Morning, Ol.” Felix slid into the seat next to him at the table. 

He instantly felt warmer. 

“Morning.” He ducked his head. 

Could he see the mark you left on him? 

He wasn’t just Felix’s anymore, just like the Earth belonged to both the sun and the moon, he sought to be warmed by Felix by day and be guided by you at night. You pulled and pushed and prodded at him until he bent under the weight of your touch. 

“Sleep well?” He raised a brow. “You’re a bit,” Felix gestures to his face, “red.”

Oliver cleared his throat. “Yeah, thanks. You?”

Felix shrugged his shoulders. “Couldn’t find my hairbrush. Venetia must have nicked it.”

The brush. 

“Must have.”

Images of how you had pushed it into him until he spilled himself into your hand played every time he closed his eyes. The noises rang in his ears even as Venetia and Felix’s banter started back up.  Oliver shifted in his seat, feeling his cock stirring in his trousers. He hid the brush in his room and sometimes it would catch his eyes and he would be transported back to that moment in the tub. 

He hoped Duncan wouldn’t find it. 

If that be his only memory of that night then so be it. 

It wouldn’t be, 

couldn’t be. 

You had given him a taste of belonging, of how it felt to be seen by something, someone, greater. It would be cruel, cruel even for a family of vultures, to open the door just a sliver only to slam it in his face when a speck of that warmth touched him. A man dying of thirst would drown himself in his desperation to drink, 

 and Oliver was parched. 

“Morning.” Farleigh slumped down in a chair next to Venetia. 

The Start boy nodded his head in thanks as Duncan placed a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. It shouldn’t have surprised Oliver that he took it black, as bitter a person as Farleigh was, but he’d imagined that a posh boy such as he would have milk or sugar, or sweetener to curb the bitterness. Rich people could afford to buy the finest coffee and add all kinds of things to chase away the taste. 

There’s a glint in his eye that sat wrong with Oliver. Did Farleigh see them? Did he know? 

A familiar sense of desperation blooms in his chest. It stings. 

Farleigh couldn’t know. He just couldn’t. How could he? His room was nowhere near Felix and his. Had Felix overheard them? Oliver knew he hadn’t been silent, but surely the walls were thick enough to drown it out. Wouldn’t you have told him if he got too loud? What if you had gone straight to Felix after and told him what happened. What then? No more Felix, Oliver imagined. He’d be banished back into the darkness. Thrown out like yesterday’s newspaper, discarded and used, and he’d have to go crawling back to Michael. 

Maybe he’d be even less than Michael then. Who would want to hang out with the person who got fucked by a hairbrush by his best friend’s twin sister while drinking his bathwater. 

A social outcast. Worse than before. 

He couldn’t go back to not having someone to speak to, to vent to and to marvel over. Tearing a lung out would be less painful than having to go back to staring at Felix from across the library, or catch a glimpse of him walking past his dorm window with the rest of his mates. 

Or maybe Farleigh was just a smug cunt. A shit-stirrer. 

Oliver spent the rest of breakfast waiting for you. 

But you never came. 

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

No one seemed to question where you’d gone. 

No one except him. 

Didn’t they care? Didn’t Felix? 

“She does this all the time.” Felix had said when Oliver finally asked over the brim of his cup of exotic tea. The floral undertones and fruity aftertaste was as foreign to him as the silk that brushed against his chest, and the underwear that sat a bit too loosely to truly be considered comfortable. 

“Don’t you think it’s a bit… strange?” 

“Nah.” Felix snorted. His own cup stood forgotten on the garden table. “She’s probably in the library. Last I heard she found a new exciting book about some murdered knight from the 1200s.” 

Oliver let his head fall to the side. Felix looked particularly handsome from that angle, he found. The sun lit up his face in delicious golden tones and cast shadows along toned muscles. 

“Fun.” 

Felix hummed around the base of his ciggy before he threw it over his shoulder. No doubt a maid or something waited behind the hedge and had already picked it up before it could ruin the precious lawn. Oliver wanted to chase after it, to chase the traces of Felix on it. He’d inhale and inhale until his lungs turned black but Felix would be on his lips and death would be a small price. 

Did you smoke? 

Oliver didn’t see you as someone who smoked. Your room didn’t smell of it, or your clothes. Your pillow smelled of your expensive perfume –  the one you shared with Venetia – and Oliver knew how cigarette smoke lingered. First time in Felix’s dorm he had a coughing fit, had almost drowned in it when he laid on his bed, but it had been worth it because Felix patted him on the back, fingers lingering by the nape of his neck. 

His mind wandered to the library. 

Felix didn’t like reading. Not like you anyways. What was it in the library that caught your eyes so? Oliver was right here, did you not feel the longing as he did? Like a chord strung so tightly he couldn’t breathe without feeling it strain against him. There must be something. 

Were you fucking Duncan? 

Is that why the butler lingered outside the door, lapping at your heels like a man possessed? That glint in his eye when he caught sight of you… Oliver knew it well. 

“There she is!” Felix whooped as you rounded the corner. “Ollie was asking about you.”

Your face is blank as you look at him, the warmth you looked at Felix with drained away. “Was he now?”

“Join us.” 

“Oh, fine. Just for a while, though, I need to check on the roses. Mum’s gardener forgot to water them again.” You sit down on the edge of Felix’s chair, head lolling over to rest in the crook of his neck. 

“Get a new one then.” Felix said.

Oliver heard you chuckle. It was not for the first time he thought you callous, but Felix? He had only ever thought him clueless; sheltered. The sun provided warmth for all, it could not help that some strayed too close, but you? You were cold and glared from your high seat, and if they did not worship you as you deserved you turned the tide against them. There would always be another to marvel over you. 

They were replaceable, 

he is replaceable. 

Oliver realized then that he must carve out a place in the very stone of Saltburn, burrow into the very foundations so that you could never get rid of him. He must become the ground to which you always return. 

“Felix told me you found a new book.” Oliver said.

You groaned. Felix scolded you. 

“Yes, Ollie, Duncan brought it from when mum sent him to the Henrys’.”

“Wh-what’s it about?”

“A peasant addicted to sex.” You peaked out from under Felix’s hair. There’s that cruelty. Oliver shivered, and his trousers tightened. “He fucks and fucks and fucks some more. And then the king beheads him when he finds him in his sister’s bed. The end.”

Oliver gulped. 

“That’s… dark.” Felix flicks you on the shoulder. “Did Duncan really bring you that book? Fuck, didn’t know the old man had it in him!”

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

Dinner came and passed, and the moon took its rightful place in the sky. It lit up his path as he stalked down the corridors to your rooms. For hours you had not so much as glanced at him. You had been inside him, forced him to release twice, but now he wasn’t good enough anymore? 

Oliver wouldn’t be a peasant. 

He wouldn’t be meek. 

If you would not give him your attention,

he would take it. 

All for himself. 

Him. Him. Him. Him. 

Deja vu hits him like a rock in the face. Your door isn’t closed. Through the crack he spots you, 

naked. Writhing on the bed with your hand working away between your legs. Moans spill from you, calling out to him. A soft sigh. He’s rock hard in his underwear. A roll of your hips against your fingers and he has to hold himself from moaning. Your eyes are closed, but you must know he is there. It was an invitation, but this time Oliver wouldn’t stop at the door. Wouldn’t force himself to stay and watch. 

Is Duncan in there with you? Looming in the corner of your room? Envy and jealousy combined in the pit of his stomach. He felt nauseous at the thought of wrinkled fingers staining your skin, tracing the edges of you like one would a beautiful sculpture. 

The door opens easy enough and then he’s there. He’s crossed the line – entered your space with audacity far above his station. 

“What the fuck!” 

You don’t bother to hide yourself as you hiss your venom at him. 

“Come back for more, did you? Fucking pathetic.” 

The words go straight to his cock. He doesn’t stop. His feet bring him to the bed where you’re still leaning against the headboard. You didn’t respect him enough to move. A lion staring down a sheep who thought himself one of you, who shaved his fur and mauled himself until he grew claws. Bloody and whimpering he laid himself at your feet, begging you to do anything, to touch him. Rub sand in his wounds, spit on him. 

“Just cuz I didn’t tell Felix about yesterday does not mean you can just walk in here.” You sneered. “You’re really fucked up, aren’t you?” 

The thought thrilled you. Oliver could see it in your eyes. He said nothing as he stood at the edge of your bed. 

“You’d let me do anything to you, and you’d thank me for it, wouldn’t you, you freak.”

“Not anything.” He protested, though the lie fell flat. 

You chuckled. “Leave.”

“Please.” 

He can’t let you go back to Duncan. Duncan wouldn’t let you do the things Oliver would. How could the old man keep up? Would he allow himself to be broken apart and put back together however you wished until he was your perfect toy. 

“Please.” You mocked him. “I feel sad for you, Ol, Ollie, Oliver.”

Oliver climbed into your bed, and you seemed amused by his bravery. 

“Go on then.” You said. “Prove me right.”

He fitted himself between your legs, eyes still staring into yours. Oliver lowered his head but refused to break the contact, and then he lapped at the wetness leaking out of your cunt. If it feels good you don’t let it show. Your taste is tangy, salty but wonderful. He could drink it for the rest of his life and never tire of it. 

You’re part of him now. And he’s part of you. 

Oliver flattened his tongue and ran it from the bottom to the top, snaking the tip in to prod at your hole, before flicking your clit. Your eyes flutter but you don’t shut them. Your lips remain in a smirk. 

“Is that the best you can do?”

Fire burned inside him. 

Dragging his thumb across your cunt produced a truly filthy sound, but the moan you let out when he used the pad of the digit to press down on your swollen clit almost has him cumming in his boxers. He flicked it. Traced it.  Experimented with shapes and pressure until your eyes fell shut, your chest heaved  and the smirk is gone from your pretty lips. 

His tongue worked diligently at the rest of you, lapping up the wetness no faster than more gushed out. Oliver’s face glistened with juices, and a stuttered moan was torn from him when you coated him with your release. It’s soundless, a sharp exhale before all tension leaked out of you – ragdolling in his arms. Eager to chase that high, you grabbed his hair and brought him closer, and he took his thumb off your clit, replaced it with his tongue so he could slip a finger into you. 

“Fuck.” 

His chest swelled with pride. You allowed Oliver to tear your pleasure from you, and he did not disappoint. He wondered which of you were the more eager for you to feel more pleasure, him in his all-consuming desire to serve, to press himself against you until he had ripped himself apart, embedded himself in your heart so that you would carry him with your forever, or you, who came so sweetly when he begged and pleaded. 

Oliver was about to press another finger inside you when his face fell on the damp sheets. His brain felt foggy, eyes unfocused as he searched for you. 

“Lay down.”

The command is sharp, laced with threat that send his heart rushing. He’s on his back within seconds, splayed out on your bed with hearts in his eyes. Would you tear them out? Grind it to pieces with your teeth, blood rushing down your cheek. He’d truly be with you then. But then you’d throw him away and he would have to offer another part of him, and another, until there was nothing left and you had consumed him all. 

He would give the last of him to you on bloody stumps and praise singing from his lips. 

“Hm. You’re bigger than I expected.”

Pride surged through him. 

And then you’re on him, grinding down your cunt on his stomach, manicured nails leaving crescent marks on his chest until he whined, shirt pushed up to his collarbones. But he doesn’t move away. He moved into your touch, arched his back to chase you when you left. And you indulge him. Blood wells up, and you dipped your head to taste it. it stained the corners of your mouth. 

Oliver throbbed. It was painful how hard he was. It felt as though he would tear through his underwear at any second, but then your hand pushed the fabric away and grasped him in your hand. Your hold is too tight, too dry but it tore moan after moan out of him all the same. 

Sweet relief. 

His heart sang when you guided him to your heat, and he never felt as full so that he might burst as he did when you joined together as one. To be inside you? Beyond words. Oliver felt as though he was floating. Did you feel the same? 

He would never let you go now. 

You were one now. 

The act itself is meaningless. The pleasure is background to the completion he felt, second to how he chased after your soul so that he could stitch himself onto you. He would tighten the stitches until they were seamless and no one would know who was who, for why did it matter? He was yours, always, wholly, all that he was was yours. 

He vaguely felt you rock faster against him, but your lips never pressed against his. You don’t seal the connection with a kiss. His spine ached, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. You licked them away with a throaty groan. You ride him ever so faster after that, fingers wrapping around his throat until he can’t breathe, 

but he doesn’t need to. 

You are his oxygen – all he needs to survive is but one glance. For the moon to see the Earth under the piles of bodies. 

When you climax, he does, and it is euphoria. Otherworldly pleasure times two. A golden string tugging and tugging until it snapped and left stars branded into his eyelids, scars on his heart from where it was torn out by your claws. He will forever bear your mark, 

but it wasn’t enough. 

Olive wanted more. He wanted you to take more. He was too whole, too alone, too cold, 

he couldn’t stand to look at himself in the mirror and not see you. 

Taglist:

@fedyascoffin

[chibsandchill]

I'm so glad you liked itttttt! Currently working on a part 2 with even more sub!unhinged!Oliver😭 I am deep in the trenches of the saltburn brainrot

Oliver Quick indeed

Fandom: Saltburn

Pairing: Oliver Quick x AFAB!Catton!Reader 

Warnings: NSFW content, a slight amount of dub-con, swearing, Oliver Quick, bathwater drinking, grammatical and spelling errors, Oliver is perhaps a smidge jealous of a bathtub, inappropriate use of a hairbrush

If you know me in real life and you found this… No you didn’t. 

Masterlist

Minors do not interact (seriously, don’t)

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

NSFW content under the cut

The bathroom is eerily silent – too silent – after Felix’s door slams shut. 

Well, 

not entirely silent. 

Was it possible to be jealous of a bathtub? Four legs, a scooped out body to rest in, and water. It held him you, and warmed you. It took care of the mess and when it was done you abandoned it, but it always welcomed you back. 

Did it long for your return? 

Like him? 

Was he jealous? 

Over a bath? He couldn’t be. 

But Felix would be warmer in his arms, and Oliver would make sure that not even a speck of dirt would muddy him. 

Oliver rinsed his mouth and leant his forehead against the cold mirror. He stared at himself. Blue eyes. Very blue eyes. Elspeth praised his eyes, fawned over them even when they first met. Told him about Venetia and how she’d just die. 

Did Felix like his eyes? Were they blue enough? Too blue? India didn’t have blue eyes, or Annabelle.

 Felix fucked them. 

Has he ever seen Felix with someone with blue eyes? No. 

Suddenly the praise sat wrong inside of him. Were they making fun of him? Did they know? Oliver knocked his forehead against the mirror once, twice, thrice before grinding his teeth together with a glare directed at his image. 

He forced a smile, but not too happy. Then he frowned, but not too unhappy. They liked a broken thing, Felix’s family. But not too broken. Just broken enough for them to be able to ignore it, like a barbie doll missing a few fingers, or a book with a cracked spine. 

Oliver’s father died, his mother an addict. No siblings, no money. Poor, poor Oliver Quick. 

Felix liked feeling needed, appreciated, 

adored. 

Poor Oliver with a dead dad. So, so incredibly sad. No one else in this wide world other than Felix Catton. No friends, no siblings. Just…Felix. 

The bathtub caught his eye. A posh thing, really. Like something out of a painting or a museum. His feet brought him to it before he’d even realized he moved. Oliver stroked the edges, pressed his nails against the porcelain until shivers ran down his spine. There was still some water in it. Warm, hot, taunting him. Felix had been there. A piece of him still lingering around the edges of the drain. 

They had hugged once. Felix was a generous person, free with his affection to everyone around him. He had kissed Oliver’s helmet when they first met. Told him he loved him. 

Did he? 

Leaning over the tub and watching the water slowly circle around the drain filled him with an unfamiliar sense of thrill. Like he was watching something forbidden. A piece of him; of Felix offered on a silver platter. 

Oliver didn’t hesitate as he got in the tub and got down on all fours. Pearly white globs swirling around below him. This was a gift. 

Did Felix leave it to him? 

He must have. 

The door hadn’t been properly closed, and he moaned like a wanton whore. It was on purpose. Did he mean to tease Oliver? He did. He didn’t. Oliver was no one. Felix was everything, 

Oliver’s everything. 

Yes, it was a gift, and Oliver would take anything Felix gave. 

It was still warm when he pressed his face against it. It coated his lips, his nose, his cheeks, his eyes. When he breathed, it followed, and he hated how it left when he exhaled. It clung to his hair. 

Felix. Felix. Felix. 

He wanted it on him. On. On. On. On, 

in. 

The tip of his tongue wetting his lips, a taste of heaven. 

Oliver pressed himself closer, and closer as if to fuse himself together with the porcelain, but even then, 

it would not be close enough. 

He needed to be closer. 

What was wrong with him?

Felix was so far away still, even as Oliver had a mouth full of his cum. He dared not swallow for he would not be separated from even a single piece of him. 

“You’re a fucking freak, y’know that, Oliver?” 

Oliver jolts up, almost banging his head on the faucet. 

“W-what? Oh. Oh! No! I- I wasn’t- I mean- It’s-” 

He felt sticky. Cold. His blood froze. Would you send him away? Tell Felix? Anger blossoms under his skin. Felix wouldn’t understand. How could he? How could perfection look at ugliness and understand? Even the light could not see in the dark. How could he understand the longing? The envy? The chest crushing feeling of being so close to the sun, being burned alive and yet always left craving more and more. Loving every second of losing yourself to another. 

“You weren’t what?” You narrow your eyes. 

“I was just…making sure the tap was closed properly. It’s been dripping all day and night.” 

You scoff. 

“It has!” Oliver tried to defend himself, wiping at his mouth with his wet sleeve. 

“You’re pathetic, Oliver. I saw you… licking. We’ve all seen you stare at him. I mean, I’d say you were his shadow if you didn’t moon over that one as well! But Felix doesn’t see it. He doesn’t believe us when we tell him what a little freak Oliver Quick is.”

Oliver can’t help but feel smug at that. Felix believing him over everyone else? It made him hard. 

It must’ve shown on his face for next thing Oliver knew your fingers burrowed into his hair and you forced him down into the water again. He coughs and splutters but you don’t let him up. 

“ Stop it!” He protests. The water’s gone up his nose, he’s choking on it. 

“What’s wrong, Ollie?” You coo. “I thought you liked drinking bathwater. I’m simply… giving you what you want.”

In his mind he begged for Felix to come save him, like he had at the pub, at uni. Felix would hate him for it. Would cast him away, away from him, away from Saltburn. He’d rather drown in the tub than have Felix come save him. He’d become part of Saltburn then. 

“Please don’t tell Felix,” he managed to get out. 

You hummed but offered no response. 

Cruel. You were all cruel. 

The drain cuts into his face, but you don’t let up. 

Your breath fans over his ear. Oliver shivers. “We’ll see.”

You smell like Felix. You even sound a bit like him too. If Oliver closed his eyes he could almost pretend it was Felix who was taking his shirt off in the bath, who urged him to clean all his spill away. 

It’s filthy.

“Do you want this, Oliver?” 

You placed your hand flat over his bulge, cupping the hard outline of his cock. Could you feel him pulse? 

He shakes his head no. He doesn’t. 

Does he? 

His head’s all muddled. All he can see, all he can feel, 

taste, 

is Felix. 

One thought circles around in his head; more. 

You squeeze, and Oliver moans. 

“Thought so.” You whisper. 

And then you’re gone. 

“Keep your head down.” You order him, though Oliver hadn’t moved a muscle. 

Despite how humiliating it was, he still wanted more. All he felt was longing, envy and pure want. Felix could stand in front of him, his spend in Oliver’s mouth and he’d still want more. When would Oliver be satisfied? How close could he get to Felix? Not close enough. 

Oliver jumps when he feels your hands back on him. You tug at his boxers and his face grows red when you touch him. 

“Well, well, well,” you said to him. “Prepared, are we?”

He shakes his head again. 

“Liar.” You say as you bring your hand down on his ass. Oliver groaned and closed his eyes. 

When had you grown so confident, he wondered? He had barely seen you at the estate, always hiding away in the library with Duncan standing guard by the door. Oliver mistook you for Felix once, but you had only laughed and walked away. Didn’t even turn to look at him. 

And now your finger was in his ass and he was resisting the urge to grind back. You don’t even need to push his head down anymore, he wouldn’t raise it even if you ripped all his hair out. 

You smoothed down some of his hair. “There we go, you poor thing.”

He doesn’t feel poor. Certainly not when your free hand is gripping his cock and stroking it so slowly it feels like torture. Even then the coil in his stomach starts to tighten, a delicious burn in his spine from bending over as he was; face down, ass up. 

Then you’re pulling out your finger. He feels empty. Hungry. He hears the water splash as you run your hand through it, and then you’re touching him again. Spreading the wetness around his hole, in him, everywhere. 

You slip a finger back in. Oliver groaned at the feeling. 

“Can you take another?” You asked. 

His forehead smacked against the porcelain from how hard he nodded. He thinks he might die if you don’t, stuck in this limbo of barely-there pleasure and coldness. 

Oliver shut his eyes when you started pushing in the second one. He’s never had anyone there before. It was uncomfortable and it even hurt a little, but that ember of pleasure in his stomach when you crooked your fingers and touched that spot inside him made him want to beg for you to never go. 

But then, you leave him again. Almost as if you heard his thoughts. 

He sobs against the tub, but then his eyes flashed open in cold surprise as he felt something prodding at his entrance. Something smoother and colder than your fingers. “W-what’s that?” 

“It’s a surprise.” You told him. 

He almost thought you kind when you made him spit in your palm so you could wet his cock with it. He hadn’t thought it could get better, but when you spread it around him, gradually building up to pace again, he wants to thank you. It almost made him forget about the mystery object you were pushing into him. Almost. It was still cold, but felt better than he thought it would. He shuts his eyes again, losing himself to the pleasure. 

It wasn’t long until you had him moaning and whining and grinding against the tub, against you, against whatever it was you were using against him. There wasn’t enough left of Oliver to think it embarrassing how he acted like a wanton whore. All he could think of was the tidal wave of pleasure that was building. It grew. Grew. Grew. 

You push into him harder and harder. Your hand smacked against his skin until he was sure Felix could hear it. If not, then his moans would still tell the story. 

“If only Felix could see you now.” You whisper in his ear, cruel and cold against the warmth of his pleasure. 

Oliver whined. He almost wanted Felix to see. Almost. 

“Freak.” 

Oliver came harder than he ever had in his life. Rope after rope of cum landing on his stomach, in the water, on the sides of the tub. It seemed endless. He shook and cried as the wave fell over him. He was drowning. Drowning in you. In pleasure. In Felix. But you kept your hand on him, tugging and tugging even as he moaned from the overstimulation. 

“Oliver Quick indeed.” You mock him. “I’ve barely even touched you.” 

You tugged out the thing from his ass and threw it next to him, but Oliver didn’t have enough strength to even open his eyes. Not with how you forced him into a second orgasm, one almost more painful than pleasurable. 

“Do you want me to stop?” 

No. Yes. Never. 

He never wanted it to stop. Even as it grew painful and he cried from it, he wanted more. He wasn’t satisfied. Not even close. He wanted more. More. More. More. More, until there was nothing left to give. Until he had taken all you had, and he alone was left. Even then would he want more. 

You scoff at his lack of answer and tear your hand from him, wiping it off on his hair. 

“Go on, Dog, lick it up.” You spat at him. 

And he did, 

addlebrained as he was, so fucked out from the pleasure he couldn’t even tell you his own name. 

He licked and licked, until there was no more left, water nor cum. No more of him, no more of Felix. He had swallowed it all. All gone.

Oliver looked at you from under hooded eyes. Pleading. “Please don’t tell Felix.”

“You’re pathetic.” 

You stormed out of the room, and then his eyes fell on the object you had thrown on him. The surprise, 

it was Felix’s brush.