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citrusdarling7 · 4 months ago

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Tightening the Knot ༊*·˚

18+ MDNI !!!

Pairing: Tom Riddle x Fem! Reader / You

Summary: Reader is captured at the end of the war as the Death Eater's celebrate their victory. She is told she is to marry Tom Riddle, but can't figure out why he'd want her or why she isn't trying harder to escape…

Tags: Forced marriage, P in V, Unprotected sex, Fingering, DarkLord!Tom Riddle, Set after a vague Wizarding War, Not canon or timeline compliant, Voldemort wins, Reader is a member of the Black family, Enemies to lovers (?), Imprisonment, Implied age gap (but i was thinking of it as like 10 years at most, again, not timeline compliant).

Word count: 2.6k

all fandom masterlist | hp masterlist | read it on ao3

Authors note: This was based on a request that I changed a bit to make myself more comfortable writing it (e.g. making the age gap smaller but vague enough so you can imagine whatever you like while you read it). Hope you like it anyway mwah ( ◕◡◕)っ ♡

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It wasn’t what you would picture as a prison. The plush furnishings, grand windows and monumental bookcases suggested an atmosphere of comfort and luxury, but make no mistake, this palatial room was your holding cell. The order had fallen, and the writing had been on the wall for some time now, however, there was no giving up in the fight against evil, so they fought until the bitter end. You were one of the lucky few still alive after the battle on the grounds of Hogwarts, although you hardly felt lucky given the circumstances. You stared at the ridiculously ornate, but admittedly beautiful, wedding dress hung in the small walk-in-wardrobe across from your bed, wishing it would light on fire from the anger in your gaze alone. But of course, it doesn’t. You have been stripped of your magic, your wand is who knows where and your room is enchanted to allow no magic inside it, all to prevent your escape.

Why he chose you, you can’t understand. Sure, you were from a well-established pureblood family with a deep history as he’d explained to you the one time you’d seen him since your capture, but there were many girls like that for him to have his pick of. You were angry and defiant, you didn’t wish to bend to him, you spoke back and you lashed out when he tried to touch you. Why would he choose that over, say, your relative Bellatrix, who seemed to constantly be vying for his affection and shared your heritage? Throughout the war, you had constantly found yourself facing against him. He had even commented on occasion that it was always you in his way. Perhaps, this was merely his final revenge.

“I don’t even like you!” you’d protested, sitting across from him at the grand dining table of the Malfoy or Nott or Lestrange manor, whichever of his snivelling followers house this was, shackled to the tall-backed, velvet upholstered chair.

“You do,” he’d smiled smoothly, sipping his red wine, eyes drinking you in with something like amusement. “You think I’m handsome, you can’t deny that,” he added with a smirk. Your cheeks bloomed red and you scoffed, looking down at your shackled hand, the other free to allow you to eat. He’s right, you can’t deny it, you’re aware of his skill at legilimency and you’re sure he has watched a few of the dreams you’d had since you’d got here and been told you were to marry him a few weeks ago. Filthy dreams about what your wedding night might look like, how rough he might be with you or how gentle. Later that night, a dream of him bending you over this very dining table, unaware of how close he had been to really doing so. Avoiding his eye, you continued.

“That is hardly enough to base a marriage on,”

“I have known marriages based on less,” he mused. “You will like it more than you think,” The smile that followed those words stirred your stomach in a way you don’t wish to try to interpret.

The wedding is a few days later. The decor in the manor is much darker than the decor for a usual wedding might be, feeling more mournful than anything else. It fits your mood, although from what you gather it’s merely an aesthetic consideration for the death eaters that put the event together. Your dress is beaded in intricate designs, black beads twisting around a white silk base, painting a design of thorns and roses across the fabric that almost reminds you of chains. Beautiful chains. How very fitting. Your veil is black, as is the bouquet of roses you are given to carry down the aisle. You wonder who designed everything, it was beautiful, presumably one of the death eater’s wives who had an otherwise unused eye for aesthetics. Bellatrix, the only relative you have around, is the one to walk you down the aisle, holding your arm oppressively the whole way. She is clearly bitter that she is not in your shoes, but still eager to please Riddle, who waits, standing tall and proud in front of all his death eaters in a pressed, pitch-black suit.

When you reach him, he slides his arm around your back and holds you tight, making sure you couldn’t possibly leave if you tried. He’s never touched you before, his hand is cold, large and imposing, making you want to lean in and away all at once. You are not asked to recite any vows or to say ‘I do’, the decision has been made for you. Once Riddle has agreed that he will take you as his wife, he turns you toward him by your waist and lifts your veil carefully, tutting at your unhappy expression underneath. He cups your chin and tilts your face up, leaning down to kiss you to seal your marriage. The kiss is forceful and possessive, but despite yourself, you lean in just a little, heat shooting through your veins as his lips press to yours. He is handsome and powerful, and as much as you want to resist, as much as you hate all he stands for, your body is weak. His fingers tighten into your dress, gripping the small of your back. You know what it means. You’re his now.

Riddle keeps you held captive at his side throughout the reception as he talks and drinks with his followers. You can tell from the way they glance at you at his side, that they are as confused as you are about why he chose you to be his bride and not one of the many willing girls and women amongst his followers, but have clearly been told not to dare question his decision. Trying your best to distract yourself, you play with the wedding ring on your finger. A thin serpentine silver band winding around your ring finger, inset with emeralds and black star sapphire. Once again, you wonder who might have picked it out for you. Surely, not Riddle himself? To your surprise, Riddle also wears a wedding band. A plain one with a subtle carving of a serpent, complimenting yours without being anywhere near as ostentatious. It’s a surprise that he would want to advertise himself as being married, you hadn’t expected it, but you aren’t sure what to make of it, so you don’t dwell. At least the food at the beginning of the reception had been delicious, and the cake your favourite flavour, decorated with the same thorny patterns as your dress.

You find yourself incredibly annoyed to stand around and listen to these men talk and laugh, wanting to retreat to your room, despite knowing what will follow. It’s your wedding night, and Riddle made it clear that he expects you to comply with traditional wedding night activities with him. At first, you were angry and disgusted, but now you just feel like you want to get to it as soon as possible, only to get it over and done with. His ever-present hand on your waist or lower back doesn’t help this feeling. Finally, once he is also sick of listening to his followers' drivel, he guides you out of the hall in which the wedding was held and up the stairs, not towards your quarters, but his own. You’re tense as you walk, knowing what is drawing ever closer and closer. His hand softly rubs your waist as he escorts you, presumably trying to ease a little of your tension, not wanting your apprehension to ruin his wedding night.

Sitting down on the edge of his bed, which was somehow even larger than the one in the room you’d been staying in, you watch him loosen the tie at his neck, pouring himself a little champagne.

“Want any, darling?” he smirks, sipping the drink, his eyes roaming the flattering figure your dress gave you. Part of you wondered whether you should drink to numb the experience, but all the same, you wanted your faculties about you. You shake your head silently and he shrugs. “Later then,” Once his drink is finished, he comes to sit beside you. You stiffen as his cold hands gather up your hair and move it out of the way, fingertips brushing the bare skin of your back. He waits a moment before popping the first clasp on your back. Goosebumps erupt across your skin and your muscles tighten, drawing in a breath. “You’re surprisingly willing, I told you that you’d like this more than you thought,” he ponders aloud with a hint of teasing, continuing to pop the clasps down your back. “I almost miss the fight,” he slips the sleeve of the dress off of your shoulder and bites down gently on the bare flesh. “Almost,”

The feeling of the cold air of the room meeting your skin sends a fit of shivers through you, the fabric of the dress pooling at your waist and baring your breasts to the air, your nipples hardening to peaks in an instant. Riddle hums, watching like a hawk over your shoulder, his hands caressing your skin just beneath your breasts, drawing yet another shiver from you. He slowly bites up and down your shoulder, not enough to hurt, but enough to make you gasp, to leave behind small possessive marks. His warm chest presses to your bare back, the soft fabric of his dress shirt brushing against your skin, his suit jacket shed much earlier in the evening.

“What has you so willing now, darling? You were so… incensed before,” he taunts, just gently brushing his thumbs on the underside of your breasts, his breath tickling your neck.

“I just want to get it over with,” you mumble, observing as his large hands move across your skin. He chuckles.

“I’m sure,” he hums, clearly not believing you. You wouldn’t believe you either. “Be a good girl and stand for me,” Very hesitantly, and fighting against several tonnes of pride, you rise to your feet, jolting as he gently eases your dress down over your hips, taking caution not to rip the dress or damage the beading. Once it passes the swell of your hips, it falls easily to the ground, leaving you in only a pair of panties. You remain facing away from him, too sheepish to turn. His fingertips trace the edge of the material on your hips, down to your rear. You twitch away from his touch and he tuts. “Come now, you’re only prolonging this,” he gently grips your hips, guiding you back toward the bed, his hands skimming over you as he twists you around and lays you down against the pillows. Staring up at him, you notice a disconcerting predatory look in his eyes, despite the otherwise uncharacteristic softness in his expression. Even more bothersome is the way your stomach flips upon seeing it. He crawls up the bed to loom over you, a smirk decorating his handsome face. “Such a pretty picture you are, my beautiful bride,” he husks, leaning down to nip at your pulse point. You close your eyes. Bride. You couldn’t believe that word was real. This time, you feel the bite of his teeth and you know he’s leaving a proper mark. A whimper leaves your throat despite your reservations and you feel him grin against your skin, pleased to have evidence of your enjoyment of this, despite your performative protestations.

You keep your eyes closed as you feel him withdraw from you, hearing the rustle of fabric as he removes his dress shirt and the clank of metal as he reaches for his belt. Your thighs clench as the reality of what’s coming washes over you properly. Despite everything that you know should have you running for the hills, you are curious, too curious for your own good. So curious that when you feel his fingers hooking into the fabric of your underwear and beginning to softly tug downward, you wordlessly lift your hips and allow him to bare you to his gaze. He growls softly, presumably noticing the arousal that has gathered as he spreads your legs.

“You don’t like me, darling?” he scoffs, repeating your words from a few days before.

“No,” you murmur. He brushes his thumb against your lower lip, which makes you part them obediently and clench around nothing. He notices your reaction instantly and gives a smug laugh.

“You are a terrible liar,” he purrs, placing his thumb on your tongue. “I think you like me very much,” he watches, enraptured, as you suckle on his thumb for the briefest of moments before you collect yourself once more.

“I do not,” you protest weakly, finally opening your eyes to look up at him again, but you know you aren’t remotely convincing. “There is a difference between liking and lusting,” you huff. He rolls his eyes, though he looks amused.

“I suppose that is true, I’ll give you that,” he hums, using his now moist thumb to come down and begin gently circling your clit, drawing a ragged gasp from you. “You don’t like me, but right now, I reckon all that matters is lust, don’t you, darling?” Your head falls to the side as you avoid his knowing gaze, breaths coming short as he continues his intoxicating circles, the sensation enhanced by how worked up he has you. Your hips squirm lightly and he just seems to find it entertaining. You hear the rustle of fabric once more but pay it no mind, eyes fluttering shut at the syrupy pleasure he’s providing you.

You shoot up in surprise when you feel him prodding softly at your entrance, your eyes flying open to meet his. He shushes you gently, pushing you back down to lie and despite yourself, you go. His thumb never stops circling, making you more compliant than usual. He’s hot and hard against you and it makes you moan. It’s awful to realise just how badly you want him to press inside.

“You knew it was coming, just relax, we don’t want it to hurt, do we?” he soothes with his slightly patronising tone, but you just give a shaky nod. “There we go, you can be so good when you want to be,” he coos. After a few more calming circles on your clit, he’s pressing inside of you slowly. Your eyes roll back and your lips part, your walls fluttering as you do your best to accommodate him. He shifts, looming over you even more, propping his hand at the side of your head to support his weight.

His eyes are dark as he stares down at you, growling in pleasure, finally inside of you like he has wished to be for so long. All those years of your infuriating scheming and fighting, only to end up a whimpering mess beneath him in your marital bed. The grin that graces his lips is downright devilish. He has you where he wants you, completely, rocking his hips a few times to draw those rousing mewls from your lips once more. Your hand grips his arm, the cool metal of your wedding band digging into his skin. Finally, he has you here and you’re willing, no matter what you assert. The sinful pleasure he’s giving you feels like sweet revenge as he begins to fuck into you properly, hips slamming into yours, slick sounds filling the room, claiming you entirely, consummating your marriage. The marriage you had claimed not to want, but never once tried to disrupt as it happened.

“You know what I think, darling?” he grunts, you don’t answer with anything other than a cry of pleasure as he angles himself to thrust even deeper inside you. “I think you do like me, and you will forever, whether you want to or not,”

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hey you! want to get tagged in my work when it comes out? click here! (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

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citrusdarling7 · 5 months ago

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Pomegranate Seed

• Demon!Aemond x Reader • chapter 2 • masterlist

• 9K •MDNI •

warning: In Dante's words, "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here!" Pure filth, and it’s only gonna get worse (a promise or a threat)

summary: It’s been three weeks since you made a pact with Aemond, which means it’s time for your first errand. While you intend to keep things professional, Aemond has other plans.

a/n: to the most passionate, loveliest, and devoted readers 🩶 Hope you find it delicious! 💋

It’s been almost three weeks since you and Aemond made a pact, and things have started aligning in your favor, as though by some unseen hand. You’ve become more active, more energized, more… alive. Every step you take feels infused with purpose, grace, and it’s almost as if the world shifts to make room for you. Men notice you, drawn in by the quiet allure of your presence, while women regard you with envy, sharp as a blade.

Your writing has transformed too. The words flow onto paper like water, effortless and seamless, twisting into sentences, unfurling into paragraphs, and finally, into chapters. The routine, once a struggle, now feels like a rhythm you can’t break. Morning until lunch, each session feels like a step closer to something… monumental. The plot unfurls in your mind with startling clarity, as if it had always meant to be this way. The characters pulse with life, their relationships burning with passion.

Sue, your editor, is in awe. She’s relentless, convincing you that the book will not just be good, but extraordinary—that it will propel you into the spotlight. She can’t stop gushing over the spicy scene in chapter 15, admitting Jack is the first fictional man she’d beg to fuck her. You laugh, awkward but pleased. But when you re-read the scene where your protagonist ties Susan using his tie, your thoughts inevitably stray to Aemond. You pray he never finds out how much of that scene was… inspired by him. The thought of him reading it makes your stomach twist. You fear his mockery, yet the darker part of you is intrigued to know what he’d do.

Today marks 20 days, which means the first errand should be given to you tomorrow. You sigh, rubbing the bridge of your nose, and for a moment, the pressure of your glasses feels almost unbearable. The Word document before you reads 1000 words—your daily limit, accomplished.

You glance to the side, your reflection caught in the vast mirror across the room. The flat is as small as ever, and this mirror, absurdly large, was an impulse purchase. You bought it to look at every day, to remind yourself that one day soon you would have more. A better life, a bigger place.

But despite the progress, there’s a lingering unease. A shadow of doubt creeps in whenever you think of Aemond. The errands, the obligations… what will he ask of you? The unknown always entails the memory of that night.

The way his belt pressed deliciously into your skin, how being blindfolded intensified every single sensation in your body cells. How his tongue swirled within you, making you cum again and again before he finally was inside you. Thick and hot. He consumed you, body and soul. You’ve been trying to convince yourself that that was the shame and guilt you felt. But the ache in the lower part of your stomach always screamed the truth at you. You want more.

Either it is your pride or stubbornness, but you’ve been fighting the idea of calling his name. And, very soon, you met Jacob. Confident, funny, perhaps a little too smug. You’ve been on three dates, and by the end of the last one, the hunger inside you grew insatiable. Surely, sex with Jacob would… fix things.

But no. What should’ve been the highlight of the evening—him going down on you—turned into a humiliating struggle. You had to guide him, your hands clutching his head, desperately trying to force him in the right direction, as he fumbled and slurped like a fool.

You cursed, seeking relief in desperate self-pleasure with your fingers later that eve. His name was practically on your lips that night, you were so close to giving in.

You shake your head, closing your laptop with a snap, trying to push the disappointment aside. If it’s not Jacob, then someone else will come along your way. With Aemond, the best way forward is to keep things strictly professional. No more affairs with demons. Mental note taken.

Moving to the window, your feet sink into the softness of the white carpet, another purchase for this flat you’re determined to make feel like home. You peer out into the darkness beyond. The forest is a mass of shadows, and the distant call of an owl reaches your ears.

Your gaze drifts to the windowsill, and you spot the dark stain from a cigarette. A promise to return.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow you’ll figure it out. Tomorrow, you’ll see him again.

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The sunlight’s warmth tingles your face—pleasant, like a delicate touch, a quiet promise of a nice day ahead. You stretch in bed with a soft sigh, eyes still closed, when suddenly the sun disappears, as if hidden by a cloud, making you furrow your brow in confusion.

A voice, a familiar, velvety whisper, so close it sends a shiver down your spine.

“Missed me, little dove?”

Your eyes snap open, heart racing in your chest as his face is inches away from yours.

“You?” you gasp, sitting up in bed, the blanket, a flimsy shield, instinctively pulled tight against your body. You clearly didn’t expect to see him first thing in the morning.

“Me,” he replies, his smirk curling. He lies on his side, relaxed, like a predator toying with its prey. His pressed suit—what you mentally call it—is gone, replaced by a dark vest clinging to his bare chest and grey plaid trousers that hang loosely over his frame. A chain dangles from his neck like a snake. He looks so different and yet so… gorgeous.

“What are you doing here so early?” you manage, trying to steady your breath and dispel the drooling thoughts, as if in fear he might read them.

“Admiring you.”

“And how long have you been doing that?”

“I don’t know,” he murmurs thoughtfully. “It was still gloomy. Will you believe me if I say I heard you moaning my name?” A devilish edge sparks in his sapphire-blue eyes, savoring your micro expressions as blush paints your cheeks.

“Lie,” you puff, standing abruptly from the bed, cursing yourself for choosing that flimsy, transparent pink peignoir.

“It was loud and lingering,” he continues, his gaze hungry as it moves over your figure, making you feel it even with your back turned. You reach for your bathrobe, knotting it tightly around your waist, just as his eyes set you ablaze.

“So what’s my first errand?” you ask, your voice more clipped now, trying to regain control.

“You didn’t tell me if you missed me,” he tilts his head in a way that makes his hair fall just so, reminding you of its softness as you clasp it under his merciless tempo.

You shrug. “No.”

“Pity.” He pouts, though you know there’s no way your words hurt him. “Because I certainly missed you. And those little noises. And that tight cu—”

“Stop!” Your voice is a sharp gasp, but it’s the heat in your cheeks that betrays you.

He’s pleased with your reaction, savoring every moment of your discomfort.

With a soft hum, he rises to his feet, stretching his arms above his head. His waist is shamelessly slim in this outfit. His movement is feline, graceful, and you feel your knees buckle. And you mentally curse the universe for letting him have such an effect on you.

“Well, I see my little dove is bustling with excitement for her first errand,” he says, a chuckle barely concealed beneath the words. “Who am I to refuse?”

And the way he smirks tells you one thing: you’re going to hate it.

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Standing in the middle of the living room, your arms crossed, nausea crawls up your throat. “Absolutely not.”

Aemond leans lazily against the windowsill, his long fingers tugging a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

“Refusing your first task?” he asks, his tone laced with mockery. To him, it’s clearly an amusing game. “Don’t you think it’s a bit too early for that?”

The flicker of the lighter echoes in the room, and he takes a slow drag, tilting his head back slightly as smoke spills from his lips.

“Just give me a normal errand,” you demand, trying to steady your nerves. “And that’s it.”

He shrugs indifferently, exhaling another puff. “I’m only asking you to look after a pet.”

“A pet?” Your voice is laced with frustration. “A pet is like a fluffy, cute dog, or a grumpy cat that you visit to feed,” you blurt out. “Or at least a parrot. Not a demonic snake!”

A low hiss fills the room. You flinch, your gaze darting downward. Vhagar is coiled loosely near Aemond’s feet, her dark green scales glistening with a faint iridescence.

I’m here. And I hear you.

“She didn’t mean to offend you, love,” he coos to the creature, his voice sickly sweet, like a parent soothing a child.

You’d roll your eyes, if not for the memory of that night sparking vividly in your mind. The feeling of Vhagar twisting and writhing within you. The forbidden ecstasy of that night rushes back. You clench your fists, your nails biting into your palms as you force the memory down.

“It’s just for a few days,” Aemond reasons.

“No way! Days weren’t part of—”

“Well, let’s check the contract.”

With a flick of his wrist, the parchment materializes between his fingers, smoke curling lazily around it. He scans it briefly, holding it at an angle that invites you closer.

“See for yourself. What does it say about duration?”

You hesitate, your gaze flickering to Vhagar. The serpent is still, her head slightly raised, her eyes gleaming with an unsettling intensity. Maybe if she strikes now, you’ll be spared the torment of what’s to come.

Slowly, you step forward, the carpet muffling your cautious movements. Vhagar doesn’t so much as twitch, her coiled body a perfect picture of indifference.

Taking the contract, your eyes dart over the fine print. Your brows furrow. “It says nothing about the duration of the errand.”

“Exactly.” His voice is triumphant. Realization dawns with a cold finality—he can twist the rules however he likes.

“You asshole.” The urge to tear the paper into shreds burns in your chest, but before you can act, it vanishes from your grip, dissolving into the air like ash. Of course.

“Getting braver, aren’t we?” he chides, stepping closer. Every nerve in your body screams at you to move. “Haven’t you gotten what you wanted?”

His gaze drifts lazily around the living room, and you reluctantly follow it. The once-chaotic space now looks much better—organized, tidy, eerily reflective of your own thoughts.

His attention lingers on the wide-framed mirror. A flicker of curiosity crosses his face, his head tilting slightly. For a moment, you wonder what he sees.

The smoke from his cigarette curls toward you, snapping you out of your thoughts. You instinctively step back, wrinkling your nose.

“Don’t smoke here,” you snap. “My landlady will kill me.”

“Not if I kill her first.”

The casual delivery sends a chill down your spine.

“It’s a joke?”

He holds your gaze, unreadable, and for a second too long, he doesn’t answer. Panic rises in your chest at the thought of what he’s capable of—for amusement, or worse. Just as it crescendos, his laughter spills out, shaking his head at you. It’s so human, yet so terribly misplaced.

“Relax, little dove. I’m not killing your landlady.”

He stubs the cigarette out on the windowsill with deliberate ease, and you bite back a retort.

“I’ve got more urgent business to attend to,” he says, stepping closer, effortlessly closing the distance between you. His scent envelops you—rich, smoky, and intoxicatingly familiar. Your pulse betrays you, quickening as he invades your space.

“Which is why… I need your help. Vhagar can’t go with me.”

His voice drops a few tones lower, soothing, intimate. Irresistible.

Your breath deepens, caught somewhere between defiance and surrender, as he lifts your chin gently, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“She won’t bother you, I promise,” he murmurs. “You just need to feed her once.”

You hold his gaze, scrambling for an escape, a loophole—anything that might give you an out. But nothing comes. Staying with that creature is the last thing you expected. But he’s right. You are getting what you want.

“Why not ask me to do your laundry?” you say, the faint tremor in your voice betraying you.

The question amuses him. The corner of his mouth curls into a smirk that makes your stomach twist. “Who knows? That might be your next task.”

“Just for three days?”

“Just for three days.”

“Okay.”

“Thank you, little dove.”

With those words, he leans in, his lips brushing your cheek—a fleeting touch that burns. It takes every ounce of willpower to keep your hands at your sides, to resist the pull of him.

Then the moment shatters like glass.

“The mice are in the fridge,” he says, his voice suddenly flat.

Confusion flashes across your face. “Mice?”

But when you blink, he’s gone, leaving behind only the faint trace of his scent in the air.

Your gaze falls to the plush carpet, where Vhagar lies coiled like a living jewel in the sunlight. Her dark, glistening scales seem to mock you, as if she knows what you’ve agreed to.

Your eyes catch your reflection in the mirror—flushed, disheveled, and disturbingly exposed.

Reality crashes down like a bucket of freezing water.

Fuck.

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You don’t know if it’s wise to leave the snake on its own. The thought lingers, gnawing at the edges of your plans. Canceling everything and staying home feels extreme, but going about your day while Vhagar prowls freely might be reckless.

Luckily, there’s no urgent need to venture out. Your next meeting with your editor and potential publisher is three days away, leaving you with ample time to focus on writing.

For most of the morning, you tread lightly, the floors creaking faintly under your tiptoes. You’re worried she might become restless in Aemond’s absence, that her sharp instincts might lash out without her master to temper them. Yet she seems content or rather, quietly certain. It’s as if she knows he’ll return, and you’re just another temporary fixture in her domain.

To your surprise, she’s claimed the new fluffy carpet in the living room as her throne, shifting occasionally to follow patches of sunlight that drift through the windows. When you pass by her on your way to your desk, her yellow eyes flicker for the briefest moment before settling back into an unfocused stillness.

Perhaps that’s a good sign.

Settling at your desk, you open your planner. The task for the day stares back at you: write a date night scene leading to a spicy encounter in a restaurant bathroom.

Each time you open a Word document and stare at the blank page and keyboard, doubt creeps in—you never quite believe the words will flow. But somehow, your fingers find the right letters, forming words that evolve into coherent, engaging sentences. They’re by no means perfect, but they bring immense joy, as if you possess a newfound power to translate the vision in your head onto paper with near-effortless precision. Writing feels as natural as breathing.

Jake gives Susan a compliment. It’s a small thing, but it lands, just as it always has. Despite all the years they’ve shared, the blush it summons to her cheeks is immediate. He asks for the bill, and she excuses herself to freshen up her makeup. Their eyes meet, her gaze lingering a fraction too long, and he catches the unspoken invitation. The restaurant bathroom is a haven of dark luxury: dim lighting, shadowed corners, thick doors that muffle the pounding bassline from the dining room. The air is heavy with an intoxicating mix of wood and floral scents. “Why didn’t we fuck here before?” he murmurs, his lips brushing hers as the door clicks shut behind them. Hot kisses follow, his hands rough and possessive. Her dress tears, the cold tiles beneath her back a stark contrast to the heat radiating from her body. An avalanche of sensation builds between her thighs. The sharp sound of a zipper, the rustle of fabric, and then he’s behind her, taking her with an urgency that matches the pulse of the music outside.

As you write, the scene takes on a life of its own. Your breathing deepens, a slow ache blooming low in your belly, heat pooling in waves that make it impossible to ignore.

Leg over leg, you press your thighs together, seeking some relief. What once felt like a chore—writing smut—is now a torment of its own kind. It’s foreplay in every sense of the word, which must be followed by release.

By the time Jake cums in your scene, your body is begging for attention. The thought of using a vibrator crosses your mind, but you pause, glancing at Vhagar.

She lies sprawled in the center of the carpet, her eyes half-lidded and unblinking.

No, I’m not doing it while she’s here.

You shift uncomfortably, your soaked underwear clings to you, almost enough to draw a groan of frustration.

Apparently, the passion you’d longed for has opened a floodgate you can’t control. Writing these scenes doesn’t help, nor does being perpetually single. If you don’t figure out how to manage it, you’ll inevitably end up calling his name—which is… unacceptable? Shameful? Letting him know how much you loved sex with him? How much you long to experience something even remotely similar?

You bite your lip.

Fuck. I’ll lose my mind if I don’t do something.

The shower feels like your only salvation. Shutting the door behind you, you twist the lock, checking it twice. The faint click feels reassuring, though the gap beneath the door is so narrow that not even a shadow could slip through.

The water sputters to life, droplets cascading over your skin, tracing paths down your shoulders, arms, and thighs, pooling at your feet. You let it soak into you, hoping it will wash away the flames licking at your insides.

Seconds stretch into minutes. Steam curls around you, fogging the glass, blurring the edges of the world. Still, you stand motionless, forehead pressed to the cool tiles, the contrast soothing against your feverish skin.

But the fire refuses to die. It gnaws at you relentlessly, twisting your need into something you can no longer deny.

So, you surrender. Your tentative hand slips down, fingers sliding between slick folds, gathering the heat before pressing against your clit. You circle it slowly at first, teasing, before finding the pressure you crave.

Your eyes close, and if on cue, the memory of that night creeps in.

His tongue. His insatiable hunger. That damned blindfold he tied over your eyes, leaving you sightless, helpless to the onslaught of his lips and teeth. A flicker of anger burns through you—how could he rob you of that sight? Of the longing on his face, the glimmer in his sapphire eyes as he devoured you. You know he didn’t look away, not even for a moment. If he could, he’d eat you entirely.

The thought tightens the coil of heat inside you, your walls clenching at the phantom memory of him filling you completely, stretching you to the brink.

Your fingers move faster, desperate, brushing against your g-spot as your thumb grinds harder against the swollen bundle of nerves. The pace quickens, but so does the ache in your hand. Your stamina falters, frustration bubbling up with each fleeting approach to release.

A moan escapes your lips—a sound caught between pleasure and exasperation.

And then, a prickle at the back of your neck.

You freeze.

The sensation is faint but unmistakable: the feeling of being watched.

Through the misted glass of the shower door, the room beyond feels heavier, darker, as though something lurks just out of sight. Your breath catches. You can almost picture it—a smirk curling on invisible lips, sharp claws flexing in silent amusement. The weight of its gaze presses on you, cold and mocking, yet it doesn’t interfere.

It just watches. As if telling you, Go on.

The thought sends a shiver down your spine, but the relentless tension in your body overrides any fear. You can’t stop—not now. Not when need has consumed every inch of you. Your fingers move with increasing intensity, your back pressed firmly against the cool tiles.

Closing your eyes, his face emerges in your mind, his dirty whispers echoing in your ear—shameful, praising, drenched in lust. You remember the way his seed spread within you, filling you completely.

A fleeting but shattering climax washes over you, leaving your legs trembling and your breath ragged. The water rushes over your skin, rinsing away the evidence of your efforts.

Your body sags, drained, as you fumble to turn off the shower.

Stepping out, you glance around the bathroom. The air is thick with steam, the mirror - fogged. The tiles are slippery beneath your feet.

No one is here.

As expected.

--------------------------------------------------------

The following morning nearly gives you a heart attack.

It’s time to feed Vhagar, and with dread pooling in your stomach, you retrieve the package of mice from the far corner of your fridge. Their small, lifeless bodies are cold to the touch, their stiff tails curling unnaturally. The sight fills you with a mix of regret and disgust.

Gripping one by its tail, you glance nervously at Vhagar. She lies coiled on the far side of the kitchen, her unblinking gaze fixed on you—or maybe just the meal dangling from your hand.

“You actually eat these?” you ask, wrinkling your nose.

Then it happens. The mouse twitches. Or so it seems.

Its tiny form jerks in your hand, and a phantom squeak echoes in the kitchen. The room seems to shrink, and your grip fails. The mouse plummets to the floor with a sickening thud as a startled yelp escapes your lips.

You scramble onto a chair in an instant.

Vhagar, however, is unfazed. She darts across the kitchen, and within a heartbeat, the mouse is gone, swallowed whole with a sharp hiss.

“Fucking hell,” you mutter, clutching your chest in a futile attempt to steady your frantic heartbeat. For the first time, you’re absurdly grateful for the snake’s presence.

Mentally cursing Aemond, you ease yourself off the chair and approach the kitchen counter again. This time, you move slowly, as though the remaining mouse might spring to life at any moment. Eyeing it from every angle, you wait for it to twitch.

Nothing.

Reaching for a fork, you give the mouse a cautious poke. Still nothing.

This one is definitely, positively dead.

With hesitant steps, you pick it up, inspecting it thoroughly for several minutes, reassuring yourself it won’t betray you like the last one.

“You want another?”

Vhagar doesn’t reply, but as she slithers closer, a knot of panic tightens in your stomach. Her cool, smooth scales brush against your bare feet, and you freeze, every nerve on edge, as she begins coiling around your ankles. Her loose grip stirs the memory of that night, and for a brief moment, you imagine her slithering higher.

“Okay, got it,” you blurt out, tossing the mouse onto the floor.

You flinch as Vhagar lunges, her jaw stretching impossibly wide. It’s grotesque yet mesmerizing, the way she swallows the mouse whole in one smooth motion.

You rush to the sink, scrubbing your hands vigourosly. The task is done, you tell yourself, mentally checking it off your list.

But as you glance back at Vhagar, now settled contentedly on the kitchen floor, a shiver creeps along your spine.

If the rest of your errands are anything like this, you’ll be sprouting gray hairs by the end of the year.

--------------------------------------------------------

When the evening of the third day arrives, you don’t know where to settle yourself. Time crawls unbearably slowly, and for reasons you can’t explain, you’re more anxious about Aemond’s arrival than before. You’ve avoided writing—it would mean revisiting the latest smutty scene for proofreading. The idea of sneaking into the shower for a quick release while Vhagar looms nearby and Aemond could appear at any moment feels like a violation of every unspoken rule. As if that weren’t enough, your health app has kindly reminded you that you’re mid-luteal phase, amplifying your neediness tenfold.

Bundled in a blanket on the sofa, you flip absentmindedly through the pages of a magazine. The words blur as your mind wanders. It’s nearly midnight when Aemond finally appears.

You want to curse him for being late, but the words die on your lips. He’s wearing a tailored dark coat, its sharp lines emphasizing his broad shoulders. A pearl brooch glints under the light - a perfect match for the single pearl earring hanging from his ear. His hair is slicked back, revealing the hard angles of his jawline. He looks like he’s just returned from a fashion show. Is this what demons do?

You feel woefully underdressed, sitting there in your shorts and oversized T-shirt. His presence makes you want to shrink into the cushions—or run a hand through your hair, at the very least. But you do neither, frozen under his sapphire gaze.

“You’re late,” you manage to say, your voice sounding steadier than you feel.

He hums softly, his eyes sweeping over you, pausing on the curve of your bare legs. Heat prickles your skin, and you cross your arms over your chest, suddenly aware of how thin the fabric of your T-shirt is.

“The little dove survived her first task?” he asks, his eyes narrowing.

“As you can see,” you reply, a weak attempt at matching his composure.

Silence stretches between you, making you shift uncomfortably on the sofa.

“Did you pierce your ear?” you ask, desperate to break the tension.

He shrugs. “Maybe.”

His reply makes your eyes roll.

“You couldn’t just answer, could you?”

Before he can respond, Vhagar makes her entrance, slithering toward him. As he kneels down, she effortlessly climbs his arm, winding her sleek body around his neck with a series of hisses that seem almost conversational.

“Really?” he murmurs, his gaze fixed on you while his words are directed to the creature. “I’m sure it has nothing to do with you. She’s just shy, that’s all.”

Your brows furrow. Shy? Is he talking about you?

“Is something wrong?” you ask, rising to your feet.

“Vhagar was sharing her concerns,” he says, his tone casual, as though discussing the weather. “But overall, she’s satisfied with you as her host.”

You huff, masking your relief with exasperation. You don’t want to know what concerns a snake could possibly have.

The question that’s been burning in your mind finally escapes your lips. “Where have you been?”

“Party,” he replies, his voice laced with indifference.

You blink, incredulous. “Party?”

“Are you going to repeat everything I say?” he teases, his narrowed gaze challenging you.

“You went partying for three days and left your snake with me?”

“Broadly speaking, yes.”

You gasp. “You said you had urgent matters to attend!”

“That was urgent,” he replies, setting Vhagar on the floor.

You open your mouth to retort, but his next words stop you cold.

“Did you change your mind?”

“Pardon?”

“Our evening can end with this tiresome conversation,” he says, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a murmur, and you immediately know where it’s headed, “or move toward something more… enjoyable.”

Your breath catches as the space between you vanishes. Again, his scent captures you, filling in your lungs.

“We’re not doing this again,” you blurt out, praying for the strength to hold your ground.

“Why not, little dove?”

“Because it’s wrong.”

He takes another step forward, and you instinctively back away until the sofa presses against the back of your knees.

“Can you imagine my surprise,” he murmurs, his broad hands settling on your hips, fingers tightening just enough to draw you closer, “when I was in the middle of an important conversation, and Vhagar sent me an image of you in the shower, pathetically fingering yourself, making those little mewling noises?”

Heat rushes to your face. “How did she—?”

“The door?” he interrupts with a low chuckle. You shiver at the brush of his breath, the warmth of it against your skin. “There are no doors for us.”

“I fucking hate you,” you snap, pushing at his chest, but it’s a futile gesture. His grip on your wrist is effortless—unmoving.

“All you had to do was ask her nicely,” he murmurs, his lips so close you can feel them vibrating against your cheek. “She could’ve made you feel good. Just like that night. But now... you’ve insulted her.”

His words make your eyes sting. Shame, embarrassment, lust. How the hell did you end up here?

"So, let me ask you one final time," he breathes, his grip tightening just enough to make you hiss. "Do we leave it here, or not?"

You want to push him away, you swear you do. But it seems there’s no strength left in your body.

“What’s in it for you?” you whisper, searching for the answer in his gaze.

“Let’s just say,” he smirks, “I have a vested interest in making you feel good.”

“What kind of interest?”

“This pact we made—you didn’t think it was just about errands, did you?”

Your stomach tightens. It’s never occurred to you that there might be more to your pact.

“Most demons feed on emotions,” he explains, his voice almost casual. “The better you feel, the more delicious it is for me.”

“And if I don’t want it?”

“That’s your choice, little dove.” His grip loosens on your wrists, but the power he exudes never falters. “Stick with your fingers. Or call Jacob again.”

“Stop prying into my life!” The words are sharp, but even as they leave your lips, you feel small. Vulnerable.

His laugh fills the room, deep and knowing.

“You can blame me all you want,” he says, the casual tone in his voice making you bristle. “But we both know I’m not the source of your frustration. You wanted passion? Now you have it. But you need to learn what to do with it—or with whom.”

Your fists clench at your sides. As much as you hate it, he’s right. But no matter how much your body craves him, your pride won’t let him win this twisted game again.

“See you in three weeks,” you say firmly.

You expect your words to sting, but his eyes light with pure amusement.

“Your choice.”

With that, he and Vhagar vanish, leaving you alone.

You collapse onto the sofa, tears welling up in the corners of your eyes. Why does it feel as if you’ve just lost?

--------------------------------------------------------

Your comfort show plays in the background, but the uneasiness in your lower stomach refuses to fade. As you try to focus on the plot and the characters' lines, your hand sneaks absentmindedly into your panties. As you feared, the wetness is still there, spreading like a broken kitchen tap that won’t stop leaking.

I hate him. I hate him. No doubt, this is his doing. Of course, he’s a demon—you shouldn’t have trusted him. He wouldn’t have given you what you wanted without a hidden trap.

You press your finger against the sensitive spot inside you, seeking relief, but it’s like trying to douse a fire with a single drop of water. Your head falls back against the sofa, and you bite your lip.

The vibrator is dead. The new one won’t arrive for two more days, and you can’t exactly call Jacob—not that you’d want to now.

Pathetic. His voice slithers through your mind, even when he isn’t here.

Your mind drifts to the snake, to his mocking words. “You could’ve asked her.” The memory sends an exciting thrill through you. The way her cool scales brushed your feet this morning...

The pressure inside builds, your breaths shallow and erratic. You let yourself think of him, of his hands, his voice, his smirk. And just as relief seems within reach, his name slips past your lips in a whisper.

“Aemond.”

The room feels suffocatingly still, as horror wraps around you. Have you just...?

You pull your hand from your panties, your breath hitching as you glance around. No, no, no! It was a mistake, you didn’t really mean it. You didn’t... The credits start rolling on the TV, and the room is dim. Too dim.

The floor creaks.

You freeze.

You don’t need to turn, to know it’s him, that there’s no escape now.

He steps out of the shadows, his expression unreadable. The glint of his dangling pearl earring and the sharp curve of his jaw catch the faint light, making him look almost ethereal.

“Am I interrupting?” Despite the teasing edge in his tone, his face is solemnly serious.

Your throat is dry, and all you can do is stare as he saunters closer, his eyes raking over you in your disheveled state.

He sits down beside you, and before you can process what’s happening, he grabs your hand. That hand. Lifting your trembling fingers to his lips, his tongue darts out, warm and wet, sliding over your slick digits as his gaze pins you in place.

Your lips part in a shaky gasp.

A low moan breaks the silence, but it isn’t yours. It’s his.

“As sweet as I remembered,” he murmurs, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

Shame and arousal war within you, and you know there’s no way you’ll resist him. As if sensing the shift, he lets your hand fall, his tone sharpening.

“Off,” he says, nodding at your shorts. “Now.”

You hesitate for only a second before obeying, slipping out of your shorts and panties. His gaze roves over you hungrily, his lips curling into a smirk as he stares at your bare sex.

“Good girl.”

He unbuttons his coat, revealing smooth skin, sculpted muscles, and a maddeningly slender waist. He looks utterly inhuman, impossibly beautiful, and you can’t tear your eyes away as he leans back, spreading his legs in a show of dominance. You feel you could fall to your knees at any moment.

“Here,” he says, patting his thigh. “Let’s see if you’re as desperate as you look.”

You straddle his thigh, feeling the hard outline of his trousers press against your core. The fabric is rough, yet it only heightens the burning need within you. He hasn’t even touched you yet, and you’re already trembling.

His lips brush against your neck, a soft kiss followed by a sharp nip that draws a gasp from your throat. “So needy,” he murmurs, his hands sliding to your hips. His thumbs dig into your skin, guiding your movements.

Your oversized T-shirt hits the floor, and his lips are on your breasts before you can even draw another breath. Unlike the last time, he doesn’t ease into it, his tongue flicks sharply against your nipple, eliciting a gasp that turns into a moan when his teeth scrape against the sensitive peak.

“Sensitive, aren’t you?” His voice drips with mockery before he sucks the bud into his mouth. The pull is deliberate, almost too rough, and your back arches instinctively, pressing yourself closer to him.

Your core grinds against his thigh in desperation, searching for relief, while his hands grip your ass, guiding you, controlling your rhythm. He shifts his mouth to your other nipple, biting down. Another cry escapes your lips.

“Shh,” he drawls, his hot breath ghosting over your damp skin. “You don’t want to wake up the neighborhood, do you?”

The fullness of your breasts, heightened by the hormonal changes, makes every flick of his tongue, every bite of his teeth, more intense.

Your fingers clutch at his hair. The stiffness from the hairspray yields under your grip, and you tug harder, desperate to make him feel even a fraction of what he’s doing to you.

You can't help but grind harder against his thigh, desperate for any friction to ease the burning ache. A part of you that knows you shouldn't is long gone—your body moves on its own, craving the delicious release.

He chuckles darkly against your skin, his mouth tugging at your nipple one last time before he pulls back to survey his handiwork. The peaks of your breasts are wet and tender, flushed from his attention, and the predatory satisfaction in his gaze makes your stomach tighten.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, indulging in the sight. “You’re already ruined, and I’ve barely touched you.”

His eyes drop to where your slickness coats his thigh, glistening under the dim light. A low, pleased hum escapes him, as he leans in close to your ear.

“You’ll come just from this,” he whispers. “I won’t even be using my hands. Pathetic little thing.”

His words are your undoing. The coil in your stomach snaps, and your climax crashes over you. Your nails dig into his shoulders as you ride it out, your moans escaping loud and raw.

When it’s over, you’re breathless, your body slumping against his. For a moment, you forget the rules and lean in to kiss him, but his hand catches your chin, stopping you.

“No kissing,” he reminds you with a smirk.

The reminder sends a fresh wave of shame through you, burning hot in your chest, but you bury it by nuzzling into his neck instead. His hand strokes your back, almost soothing. The final moment stretches endlessly, and you can feel your wild heartbeat gradually calming.

Without warning, he grips your waist and shifts you off him, forcing you back onto the sofa.

“Enough foreplay,” Aemond says.

Your gaze clings to him as he strides to the opposite end of the room, confusion flickering in your eyes as he drags a wide mirror from the wall, setting it closer to the center. He smirks, watching you struggle to piece together his intent.

“I thought we could make some good use of your new décor.”

You watch him kick off his shoes. A shiver runs down your spine as he unclasps his belt, the leather sliding through the loops with a sinister hiss. It falls to the floor with a thud, followed by his trousers and underwear.

Your breath catches, a strangled moan stuck in your throat. His cock, thick and veined, already glistens with precum.

“Come here,” he orders.

Your legs tremble as you approach, your body betraying your anticipation.

“On your knees. Face the mirror.”

You hesitate for only a moment before sinking to your knees, your hands lowering to the floor. Glancing at your reflection, a wave of embarrassment flushes your skin. You’ve never done anything like this—not with anyone.

He circles you slowly, like a predator savoring the moment before the pounce.

“All that stubbornness,” he muses, pausing behind you. His eyes meet yours in the mirror, dark and alight with sadistic glee. “All your silly defiance. Where is it now?” His finger traces a feather-light line along your spine, making you want to lean further into his touch. “You’re dripping like a bitch in heat. So I’ll fuck you like one. What do you say?”

The words hit you like a slap. You’ve already learned there are two sides to Aemond: one that whispers sweet nothings into your ear and another that is cruelly truthful. He looks at you expectantly in the mirror, but you only manage a curt nod as heat crawls up your cheeks—yet it’s not enough.

“Words,” he teases.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “Please.”

His smirk widens. “Good. But first, a small punishment for your naughty behavior.”

The belt slides into his hand as he kneels beside you, the leather coiled like a snake.

“Don’t worry, little dove,” he purrs, as he can hear your heart racing. “I’ll explain each one so your silly little brain doesn’t repeat the same mistakes.”

Nervousness and excitement swirl in your chest. The first slap lands on your right butt cheek, the sting sharp and sudden, making you flinch. Pain blooms, tangled with a strange, forbidden pleasure.

“For dragging Jacob into our bed when you could have called me.”

He pauses, ensuring you meet his gaze in the mirror.

“For not telling me you missed me.” His syrupy tone is a stark contrast to the harsher slap that follows. The burn lingers, and your teeth sink into your lip to stifle a curse. He leans closer, brushing a few strands of hair away from your face.

“What was that, little dove? Say it again.”

“You’re an asshole,” you snap, your anger flaring through the haze.

“For calling me an asshole, then,” he says, as another slap follows. This one stings worse, but you manage to stifle the whimper threatening to escape.

“And for being a naughty little girl.” His voice drops, dark and thick, as his hand slips between your thighs. Your body stiffens, as his fingers find your slickness effortlessly, gliding through it before teasing your clit with maddeningly faint strokes.

“Making all those pretty little noises in the bathroom.” His movements shift, drawing firmer circles, the intensity making your eyes sting with tears. “Making me hard in the middle of an important conversation.”

Your back arches against your will, a desperate sound escaping your lips. But just as quickly as he touches you, he withdraws.

“She shouldn’t have spied—ah!” you gasp as another slap follows, the sharp crack of leather against skin blending with your ragged moan. Your elbows give out for a moment before you force yourself back up. How many more of these would you be able to take?

“She’s deeply wounded after all she’s done for you. You’ll have to apologize” he murmurs, and his hand fists in your hair, dragging your head up to meet his gaze in the mirror. There’s nothing gentle in the move, but it sends a pleasant wave through your body.

“Now,” he breathes, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, “be a good girl and say those precious words.”

His amusement only fuels your frustration, and the remnants of your stubbornness reignite.

“Come on, little dove, it’s easy. ‘Fuck me, please.’” He drew out every word.

“Fuck you,” you growl instead.

His grip on your hair softens, but another slap lands against your butt cheek, drawing out another involuntary moan from your lips—a sound that mixes both pleasure and pain in the most delicious way.

“Close,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your temple. “But not quite.”

“Fuck me, please,” you finally whisper, the words trembling on your lips.

“Gladly.”

The belt falls aside.

He presses his hands firmly into your hips, pushing himself inside you in one unrelenting motion. By now, with you flustered and deliciously naked on all fours, his patience has worn dangerously thin. A deep sigh, tangled with a moan, escapes your lips, the heaviness of him filling you completely. The angle feels impossibly good, stretching you in ways you never imagined. His thrusts are slow, deliberate torturously so and you know exactly what he’s waiting for. His hungry, calculating gaze tells you the punishment hasn’t ended yet.

“Harder. Please,” you beg, your body instinctively arches into him.

His smirk deepens as he looks at you in the mirror, his rhythm still slow but growing more powerful with each movement. The air is thick with the lewd sounds of meeting skin and slickness, and the heat floods your cheeks as you watch yourself in the mirror—needy, undone, and utterly at his mercy. You can’t help the blush that floods your face, as you watch the reflection of your desperate self. Your fingers dig into the rug, trying to steady yourself as he pushes harder, deeper. And in that moment, you know—no one will ever feel better than him.

His hair is tousled, his earring clicking with every thrust. Your breasts bounce with each savage push, and his eyes never leave them, greedily drinking in the sight of your body quivering under his control.

Your gaze flickers briefly to the carpet—its soft, white fluff now forever tied to the memory of him claiming you.

“That won’t do,” he growls, grabbing your throat, pulling you back against his chest, making you gasp. The new angle sends shockwaves through you, the depth of his cock burying deeper, harder. You choke, your breath caught in your throat, feeling the burn of him, the delicious intensity that mixes pain and pleasure. Your reflection in the mirror is all need, all hedonism—a perfect blend of lust and submission. The diamond tattoo between your breasts catches the light as you sway with his thrusts.

His hand finds your sensitive nipple, twisting and tugging with deliberate roughness. The roughness and possession send a jolt of pleasure straight to your core. Your back arches, a moan escaping your lips as he pulls your bud.

“You love this, don’t you?” he taunts, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “Being my dirty little whore?”

“Yes... yes,” you pant, the words tumbling out in a desperate, trembling chorus. It feels like the only word you’re capable of forming, your mind consumed by him.

The orgasm hits you like a wave, crashing through you. Your hips tremble violently, an earthquake of sensation rolling through your core. He groans, his thrusts erratic, desperate as he follows you over the edge. His seed floods inside you, filling you with warmth, and for a moment, everything stops.

He doesn’t pull away—no, he stays inside you, his cock softening but still deep to remind you who’s in control. His hand remains steady on your throat, grounding you, while his other continues squeezing your breast, as though he’s unwilling to let go. His kisses trail along your neck, slow and wet, coaxing you to lean, offering him better access. And through it all, you’re trapped in the reflection in the mirror—watching your body respond to his every touch, every bite, every movement.

A moan slips past your lips as you feel him stirring again, growing hard inside you. His hand drops lower, rubbing your clit with slow, lazy circles, teasing you until you're panting for him again. A moment passes, and then he thrusts into you again, knocking the air from your lungs and forcing a strangled cry from your throat.

The pleasure consumes you. Your body is overwhelmed, shaking beneath him, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge again. You remember the feel of the soft rug against your cheek, the way the fibers soothe your skin as he pounds into you.

When the next round begins, you lie on your back, legs draped over his shoulders, your hips raised as he drives into you with a savage rhythm. Through half-closed eyes, you catch the sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead, while your own hair clings to your damp neck, but you can’t be bothered to push it away. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, eyes fluttering as waves of pleasure swell inside you. For a moment, no sound escapes—until desperate, mewling cries spill from your lips, raw and uncontrollable. Each time his name slips from your mouth, he rewards you with a low, “Good girl, sweet little dove.”

Every inch of you feels like it’s being devoured, and you love it. Your nails dig into the rug as you struggle to breathe, overwhelmed by the rush of pleasure.

As you approach your climax once more, his growl rumbles against your skin, his breath hot and heavy in your ear. The orgasm that tears through you this time feels infinite, your body spasming around him, squeezing him as you fall apart in waves of ecstasy.

When he pulls out, a whimper escapes your lips at the loss, your body instinctively aching for him to fill the void he left behind. Through the haze of pleasure, your half-lidded gaze follows as he strokes himself a few times before his seed spills onto your skin, painting your breasts and stomach—marking you, as if to say, “You. Are. Mine.”

--------------------------------------------------------

You hear a noise coming from the bathroom, but all you can do is lie back, letting the rug press soft against your skin. Your body feels weighted, content, and you give in to the calm.

When he returns, he's already wearing his trousers. Of course, he's not the type who would stay. You sit up slowly as he kneels beside you with napkins, his disheveled hair lending him a boyish charm.

The pull of sleep grows stronger, like a familiar shadow closing in around you—just like that night. No need to ask if it’s his doing. You already know.

There’s something oddly comforting about his presence now that his roughness and cockiness have faded. Even the angles of his face seem less severe, as though the sharp edges of his jawline have magically softened.

An impulse takes hold of you, and you lean forward, placing a soft kiss on his cheek. His skin, warm and smooth, feels tender under your lips. The gesture is simple yet catches him off guard, and in that fleeting moment, you seize your chance. With a quick motion, you tug at the clip-on earring with your teeth. It falls onto the soft carpet with a muffled thud. No piercing on his earlobe.

You lean back, your lips curving in triumph. “I fucking knew it.”

His chuckle reverberates through you, and you feel an urge to laugh in return. And before either of you can say anything, your body collapses back onto the rug, surrendering completely to the pull of sleep.

--------------------------------------------------------

You frown at the sound of your alarm blaring next to your head. With eyes still closed, you fumble for your phone and manage to shut it off.

As expected, you’re in your bed. No clothes. No Aemond.

Your body aches deliciously, every movement a reminder of him. His marks bloom across your skin, and once again, you’ll have to cover them with foundation—especially those on your neck.

The meeting with Sue and the publisher is just two hours away. Your stomach flutters at the thought. This could be it. Things might finally turn around.

You throw yourself into your morning routine, humming a tune as you rustle up breakfast. You almost spill your coffee when you spot a note attached to the mirror: “We should have one in your bedroom.” Cocky asshole. Yet the idea makes you feel giddy. A few moments later, you admire your sleek black suit. Nude lipstick and high heels add elegance and confidence. As you adjust your blazer, you realize something’s missing—a finishing touch to complete the look. At that moment, your heel clicks against something on the rug.

You pick up his earring, rolling it between your fingers. Its design is intricate, shaped like a key with a pearl crowning the top. A sly smile creeps across your face as you clip it on.

The taxi ride feels like an eternity, your heart racing the closer you get to the office. What if they didn’t like the sample as much as you think? What if this is all a misunderstanding? But you shake off the creeping doubts. If the publisher agreed to meet, they must have loved the first few chapters. There’s real potential here—a chance for a breakthrough.

Walking into the office, your heels echo against the polished floor, mirroring your growing heartbeat.

“Here she is! Our little star!” Sue’s voice rings out the moment the elevator doors open, her bright yellow dress a stark contrast to the muted office tones. As she strides toward you, her arms open in a warm greeting. Yes, there’s been a drastic shift in your relationships over the last few weeks.

“Hi, Sue,” you say with a smile, but she pulls you into a hug before you can react.

“Did you write another smutty scene?” she whispers conspiratorially.

“Almost there.”

“Good! The publisher is already in my office. You’re going to love her!”

Following Sue, you enter the room to find a figure standing with her back to you. She’s dressed in a dark cherry-colored suit, her curly hair cascading to her lower back as she gazes out at the city skyline.

“Y/N, meet Alys Rivers—my dear acquaintance and, hopefully, your future publisher.”

When Alys turns to face you, your breath catches. She isn’t conventionally beautiful, but there’s something undeniably magnetic about her. Her emerald-green eyes gleam knowing like she’s seen it all—and her lips, painted crimson stand out against her pale complexion.

You swallow, an awkward “Oh” escaping your lips before you compose yourself. “Nice to meet you, Miss Rivers,” you say, extending a hand.

“The pleasure is all mine,” she replies, her grip warm and confident. Her voice laced with an accent you can’t quite place draws you in.

“I’ll leave you two to chat,” Sue says, bouncing toward the door. “Meanwhile, I’ll grab some coffee.”

You know she has an assistant for that, but it’s clear she’s giving you and Alys space to talk.

Once the door is shut behind Sue, Alys speaks.

“I’ll be direct,” she says, her eyes never leaving yours as she sinks into the sofa, gesturing for you to join her. You hesitate just for a moment before taking the seat beside her.

“It’s not every day I’m impressed by an emerging writer, but the first three chapters I read? Simply exquisite.”

“Thank you so much, Miss Rivers. It means a lot to hear that,” you reply, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks.

“Call me Alys.”

You nod, offering a small smile.

“I’m ready to offer my help with publishing,” she continues in a businesslike manner. “But before we get into the details, there’s one matter I need to address.” She pauses, her gaze locking with yours. “And I need your complete honesty.”

Her emerald eyes bore into yours, and your stomach flips.

“Of course.”

She leans forward slightly, her gaze locking with yours at the same level. Her presence is suddenly suffocating. And then, in a voice so calm, she asks, “Why are you wearing my husband’s earring?”

If you'd like to be tagged in future chapters, please let me know here 💌 A kind reminder to all readers: every comment you share matters, as it fuels the writer's inspiration and passion. ♥️

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citrusdarling7 · 6 months ago

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I beg all of you to go read a Tom Riddle fanfic called The Seven Devils by thesehunprint on ao3 and Wattpad. Beautiful writing, tragic storylines, and charming characters are what made it really win my heart.

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citrusdarling7 · 6 months ago

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Pomegranate Seed

• Demon!Aemond x Reader • chapter 1

summary: When your life goes downhill, you take the plunge and summon a demon to make a pact. But the dream life comes at a price.

warnings: !MDNI! Dark themes, mature content (p in v, fingering, oral (f), bondage, blindfolding, unprotected sex, praise kink, and snake… yep, you read that right). English isn't my first language.

word count: 7.1 K

a/n: the idea captured my brain like a fever, so in the spirit of Halloween and in honour of the deliciously freakish kinks harboured in the darkness, I share this story with crimson cheeks! Enjoy! 🖤

divider credit: @saradika-graphics

They say the darkest hour is just before the sunrise. Well, not in my case. What I thought was my sunrise turned out to be a bright flash—a burst of a supernova—before darkness swallowed everything up.

“You’re so kind, so smart, so beautiful, but you’re… detached, as if you’re always holding back.” That’s how things ended with Cregan just days before our second anniversary. His rugged features, softened by dark curls, are now out of reach. He was the one I could confide in, who believed in me at my worst—until he left me. Leaving me to sink to the very bottom.

“Your writing is captivating, nothing like I’ve ever read before! If only there were more… passion. Do you think you could work on it?” my editor, Sue, asked, checking her watch every minute while I sat across from her. You could tell she was uneasy having the conversation, but I swear she didn’t care a bit. My nails dug deeper into my palms. This was my chance to get a royalty to cover the flat—a place that was too pricey a few months ago. But since things were finally going my way, I took the plunge. And I fucking lost.

Now, you might think I’m here to pour out my soul and make you sympathize with me. But no, that’s not what I’m after. I actually want you to see why I have no other choice but to do this. This letter is to justify my actions, to make you understand I’m desperate, lonely, and left with one bullet only—so I’d better not miss. This is me making a pact with a demon, so I can breathe again.

Shutting down the laptop, you let out a deep sigh, rubbing the bridge of your nose in an attempt to relieve the tension. Your eyes burn from all the research you’ve done these past few weeks, not to mention the sleepless nights.

Would it even work? You wonder, casting a wary glance at the massive candles and the paper bundle containing the herbs on the table.

Night has fallen, and as your windows overlook a dark forest, there isn’t a single light in sight. The blackness presses close, watching, still. Perfect time to summon a demon, you think wryly.

A few weeks ago, in a moment of total despair, you stumbled upon a website dedicated to dark magic. It had everything from creating a voodoo doll for your boss—option number one on your list, considering you’d had to move into a cramped apartment on the outskirts because of her—to a premium subscription promising greater wonders to fulfil all your dreams. The price was ridiculous: $5,000 per month. No way people in despair could afford it. But later, you received a 30% discount for being the most active user, checking updates 24/7. Small comfort, as your bank account sat at under $1,000.

You glanced at the “increase loan limit” option, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. Something in you dared to take the risk. After all, could things get any worse? With a deep breath, you clicked the button.

Now here you are, setting the candles in a careful circle around yourself, your hands trembling as you unwrap the paper bundle. The smell is thick and pungent, filling your lungs until you almost cough. Whatever this package contains, the delivery guy must have been relieved to drop it off.

You place the herbs in a cup, crushing them with a masher before pouring the powder into a glass of pomegranate juice. Inside the paper bundle, a phrase in an unknown language is scrawled, along with the number 3. Repeat three times?

“Is this what I truly want?” you ask the void, your voice barely a whisper.

Your gaze drifts over your cramped apartment—the littered mess, the misery. The weight of every failure presses on your shoulders as you stare down at the drink.

So, as no answer comes to stop you, you grab the glass, holding your nose with your other hand. You gulp it down. It’s thick, almost fleshy; each gulp is a struggle as the substance coats your throat.

You clap a hand over your mouth, desperately hoping to keep it down as it stubbornly climbs up. It makes you swallow again and again before the drink finally settles in your stomach.

Right. The phrase.

You grab the paper with trembling fingers.

"Ad alt… altiora tendo. Ad altiora tendo. Ad altiora tendo."

Your gaze darts around the room as the candlelight trembles, casting abstract shapes on the walls.

Nothing but utter silence greets you.

You frown, biting back a curse. Did that first attempt count, or was it nullified by my stumble?

“Ad altiora tendo,” you repeat, louder this time, the desperation cracking in your voice.

Still, nothing.

Did you just throw away 3.5K bucks?

The glass hits the wall and shatters into countless pieces, the sound echoing down the long corridor, followed by your low growl.

“Fuck!”

Blowing out the candles, you storm into the bedroom, leaving the mess untouched.

No choice but to go to the only place where things still feel right: to dreams. Whatever was in that bitter concoction works quickly, sleep greets you like the embrace of an old friend.

You find yourself on a stage, seated in a plush chair beneath a glaring spotlight that halos around you. The woman across from you asks something, her voice reaching you muffled and distorted, as if coming from underwater.

“What?” you whisper, confused, staring at her crimson lips as they part in a slow, graceful smile. Her poise stings, almost mocking you—she’s everything you aren’t: confident, magnetic, entirely sure of herself. You wish you could be… And then it hits you.

It’s you.

You’re staring at yourself.

You transformed.

No dark circles. Lustrous hair. A wine-red dress that flows like liquid confidence.

Behind you, a display showcases the book with your name, labelled “The Bestseller of the Year.” The audience watches you with rapt attention, their gazes warming you like sunlight soaking into your skin.

This is your book launch. Your moment in the light.

The applause thunders, pride swelling in your chest, flooding your body with heat and joy—

Then you wake up.

The darkness is a stark contrast.

Cold. Silent.

You sit up, pressing your palms hard against your eyes, as if the lingering spotlight could still hurt. Your skin is damp and warm with tears. What a weird comfort.

Your stomach suddenly lurches a low, queasy growl making you cover your mouth.

This isn’t good.

Barely able to walk, you shuffle toward the bathroom, reaching the toilet just in time for the maroon liquid to erupt from your mouth. It burns on the way out, forcing you to double over as fresh tears sting your eyes.

Flushing it down, you can’t help but think bitterly that you just poured all that money straight into the sewer. Cold water brings you back to your senses as you rinse your mouth. Goosebumps race across your arms—a strange comfort in the sudden chill.

You turn to leave, and your foot slips on something cold and slimy. You gasp, fumbling for the light switch, pressing it down repeatedly, but it flickers uselessly in the darkness, humming softly without illuminating the room.

Then you hear it—a faint, shifting sound from down the hall, underscored by a low, breathy hiss. Every hair on your body stands up as the primal instinct to flee runs through you.

Slicing through the quiet, a velvety voice says, “Vhagar means no harm.”

It’s coming from the living room.

“Who are you?”

“The one you called. Come and say hello.” Amusement dances in his tone.

In the dim light by the window, you see him. A tall, lean silhouette clad in a black suit. His presence exudes effortless confidence. His profile is striking, with a strong jaw, a long nose, and slightly dishevelled hair that gives him a rebellious look.

As he takes a drag, the tip of the cigarette flares to life with a soft pop. The smoke dissolves into the air like a ghost.

His gaze flickers to you, eyes glinting dark blue like two sapphires.

“Are you...” Your voice trails off, uncertainty hanging between you.

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

A pause lingers, full of tension.

“Oh?” he mocks, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he takes another languid puff. The teasing lilt in his voice sends a shiver down your spine.

A soft hiss from below captures your attention, and you glance down. A long, slender snake slithers past you, its dark green scales glistening as it moves with hypnotic fluidity. As if drawn by an invisible thread, it curls near his legs.

“No! I just… didn’t think you’d actually come,” you stammer, surprised by your own honesty.

He studies you for a long moment. Even in darkness, the intensity of his gaze is ablaze, making you want to hide your naked legs and tug your shirt longer to your knees.

“Hm.” He casually puts out his cigarette on the windowsill.

Your landlady will kill you.

With measured steps, he approaches, and his proximity makes everything inside you tremble. “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he murmurs. His voice works like a calming pill, settling warmth in your chest.

He stops just inches away, and your breath hitches as he lifts your chin, coaxing your gaze to meet his. “Now, tell me—what is it you want?”

Despite the self-preservation instincts yelling inside you to call it off—to resist being lured into the biggest trap—the words come out involuntarily.

“I want… I want my life to get better. I want Cregan back,” you say, your gaze becoming teary. “I want to be better at writing. I want to be happy again.” The words spill from your lips, almost a prayer. For the first time in forever, it feels like God can hear you.

He hums softly, withdrawing his hand. The warmth lingers where his fingers touched your skin. He begins to circle you, his hands clasped behind his back. You hold your breath, waiting for his verdict, as your heart could jump out of your chest.

“You must choose what you want most,” he stresses, “and I shall grant it.”

You blink, caught off guard, as a few tears fall, dispersing into the darkness of the room. Choose?

As if reading your thoughts, he says, “You humans are so insatiable.” Despite the reprimanding nature of his words, his tone feels like an amused chuckle.

Your cheeks flush.

“But it’s understandable.” He stops behind you, his warmth brushing against you, making you want to lean into it. There’s something oddly comforting about his presence. “To have it all is… tempting,” he murmurs, his voice low against your ear, and you swallow hard at the sensation. “But you must choose.”

He brushes a few hair strands aside as if to sense how they feel under his touch before pulling away. Settling into a wide armchair, he sprawls lazily, his eyes locked onto you, as though he’s savouring every flicker of your reaction. The snake crawls beside his foot like a protective guard.

“What will it be?” he asks.

You weren’t ready for this. Cregan or writing. Writing or Cregan. But then, like a beam of sunlight breaking through clouds, the answer crystallizes.

Both Cregan and your editor have left you, unable to find the passion they craved. They couldn’t ignite that spark within themselves and blamed you for not having it, too. You felt as if you should shine like a star—not just any star, but a supernova. That’s what you felt you lacked—a brilliance that could light it up, to make darkness disappear.

“I want passion,” you say. He raises an eyebrow, his gaze glinting with intrigue.

“To be more passionate,” you clarify, “in both my personal life and my writing. Is that possible?”

“Quite so,” he replies, his lips curving into a smirk. “Let’s make a pact and consider it done.”

The ease with which he says this stirs a flicker of suspicion.

“What would you want in return?” you ask cautiously.

“Oh, that’s simple,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “My price is as sweet as you are.”

You stare at him in confusion, the implication is totally lost on you. “And that is…?”

“You. Your body. For one night.”

Your mouth falls open at his brutal honesty.

“It’s very generous of me,” he says, adjusting his maroon tie, “since most demons would demand your soul. Consider this your lucky day.”

You cross your arms as if attempting to shield yourself from his oddly predatory gaze. “No way!” A pang of pride hits you. Demon or not, you won’t trade your body.

“You desire passion, and you’ll get it this way,” he says composedly.

“I don’t know you! I’m not going to… sleep with you!”

He laughs softly. “Who said we’d be sleeping?” The way he easily twists your words sends a shiver down your spine. “No, no, my little dove,” he shakes his head as he speaks, “that’s not part of the arrangement.”

Your cheeks burn, flustered by both his implication and your own reaction.

“It’s Aemond,” he adds smoothly, as though sharing a simple courtesy.

You stare, unsure of what to say or do. Your investment is either going to pay off or be wasted completely. Perhaps there’s a way to reason with him.

“Is there another way…?” you try, desperation creeping into your voice.

“No.” He shrugs, cutting off any hope. “Choose. One night of passion for a life filled with it.”

This is insane. Completely insane.

“It is,” he says, nodding his head.

“Get out of my head,” you snap, and the snake hisses at you, as if warning you not to disrespect its owner.

But Aemond just chuckles. “There’s no need. Everything you feel is written on your lovely face.”

“This isn’t what I want,” you protest, shaking your head.

No, no. You can’t do this. Summoning a demon was one thing, but giving yourself over—no, that’s too far. Madness.

“Have you thought carefully?” His voice rumbles like distant thunder. “There may be no second chance.”

You meet his gaze, your heart pounding. Even if it’s the only way, it’s not right.

“I can’t. It’s not who I am,” you say somewhat hesitantly, feeling ashamed by your lack of confidence. You’re not that woman from your dream, and you’ll never be.

“Hm.” His response holds a note of bitterness. He stands up, shaking off the invisible dust from his jacket.

“Well, you could’ve had it your way.”

You frown in confusion, but before you can respond, he says, “Good night, sweet dove,” and disappears into the shadows. The snake vanishes with him.

The next few days, you spend in a fog. You clean up your flat, collecting the broken glass and mopping the floor from the pomegranate juice. And he… as if he were never present here.

At times, you wonder if you made him up or if it was a sick fever dream caused by the eerie mixture. But the dark stain from the cigarette on the windowsill serves as a reminder that he was not a figment of your imagination.

Searching through job vacancies, you circle a few with a pencil, sometimes biting down on the eraser. Maybe, just maybe, you can piece together a life that feels right if you put in enough effort.

It was so stupid to risk your life and challenge dark powers for the sake of a life you could create on your own. Yes, going back to square one feels shitty, but starting small is still a start.

An Instagram notification pops up on your screen: Cregan shared a story. You haven’t muted his notifications. You tap the link, and his lit-up face appears alongside a stunning blonde in a décolletage that would make one very aware of their movements not to let it slide. Bold chick, that’s what her look screams. Unlike you.

The emptiness and pain clash in your chest, washing over you. Slowly, you put the phone aside, staring blankly at the wall. Has he moved on so quickly? After all the years you’ve had together? Has he found a passionate substitute for you?

In the kitchen, you grab a bottle of dry red wine. The cork goes into the rubbish bin as you pour the dark red liquid to the brim, more than etiquette allows. Fuck it. You gulp it down, letting the alcohol warm your chest. The bile is swallowed for a fleeting moment.

You should’ve made the deal. You could’ve had it all. But here you are, on the same road once again. You fucked it up.

On your way to the bedroom, you slip out of your pants, leaving only a long t-shirt—Cregan’s. At the thought of it, a wave of revulsion washes over you, and you fling it aside with a grunt. You open the wardrobe and slip into a burgundy peignoir, its fabric soft against your skin. At least you’d feel sexy, even if it was just for yourself, alone in the vast bed of this compact room.

You close your eyes, curling into a ball, whispering into the void, “Ad altiora… tendo.” You draw your knees tighter, wrapping your arms around yourself. There’s no way to pull it off without those nasty herbs, without that pomegranate—a desperate attempt, akin to the final words of a condemned man before death.

The temperature drops, your erratic breath disappears like a fleeting puff of vapour in the cold air. No tears are left to shed. Cregan. If only he were here. If only he would offer his warm embrace—just one more time. Yet, in the silence of your grief, another name slips past your cold, blue lips. “Aemond.” The name hangs in the air.

Your eyes fall shut. If you're lucky enough, you'll fall asleep soon. Perhaps the dream will offer you some comfort.

“Changed your mind, little dove?” His question crashes over you like a thunderclap, jolting you upright in bed. In the dim glow from the table lamp, he appears more tangible, dressed in the same dark suit and maroon tie, that familiar glitter dancing in his blue eyes.

“You came,” you whisper in disbelief, your gaze drinking him in as if he were a mirage sitting upon the chair.

“You summoned me,” he replies, tilting his head slightly. “Not that I had much of a choice.”

“But what about the pomegranate and…?”

“Not needed since you have my name.”

“I see.” Suddenly aware of your sheer, lacy gown, you fumble to cover yourself with the blanket. His smirk widens, catching the moment with delight.

His cocky demeanour might have irked you—were he not a demon, potentially the strongest creature around. But there’s also something magnetic about him. The way he tilts his head, the fluidity of his movements, the elegance in each smirk—they’re deliberate, drawing you in against your better judgment. He could easily be one of the characters in your book, no doubt he’d be loved by readers.

“If you haven’t changed your mind, what is it then?” he hums.

You remain still, your eyes falling to your hands. It’s salvation or a curse—this dark creature steps in after the one you loved left you in your darkest hour.

“I accept the offer,” you mutter under your breath. Or maybe those are the remnants of wine speaking on your behalf.

“Interesting,” he says unemotionally. Either he’s foreseen it coming or no longer cares. “What prompted the change, if I may ask?”

You glance at him warily, suspicion creeping in—does he not know everything? But his gaze holds no trace of insincerity.

“Cregan,” the name burns on your tongue, “my ex has already moved on with another girl.”

“And?” he cocks an eyebrow at you.

“And I think I shall be moving on too.”

“The wish is still the same?”

You nod.

“Let me think,” he murmurs thoughtfully, a calculating glint in his eyes. “You summoned me once and refused the most generous deal. Now you summon me again over your lousy ex. Given the circumstances, I shall increase the price.”

A chill runs through your veins. “How much higher?”

With that question, you feel yourself shrink beneath his piercing gaze.

“You’ll be running errands for me every three weeks for the next seven years.”

You swallow hard.

“That’s still very generous of me,” he adds.

“What kind of errands?” you ask hesitantly.

“Minor stuff. I’m sure you’ll manage,” he says, shrugging.

“Not connected to…?” Your voice trails off, hoping he’ll catch your meaning, but he simply continues to watch you in question.

You bite your lip before adding, “to my body?”

“Unless you want to.” The devilish spark in his eyes dances.

Heat rushes to your face, an uncomfortable mix of embarrassment and something else—something darker.

Alright, think. What’s at stake? A few minor errands or ending up in the ditch? But can you trust him? The demon, the dark creature?

“You’re not going to trick me?” you ask, your voice shaking slightly as you realize the absurdity of the question.

“Me? Never,” he replies, raising his hands in mock innocence. “Seventeen minor errands per year doesn’t sound that much, does it?”

It’s hella much. But it certainly sounds better than a ditch.

Then he adds nonchalantly, “Oh, and of course, one night is still the key to all of it.”

A chilling horror passes through your body.

“Would you… hurt me?”

“No.” His gaze remains steady, unflinching.

“I will not be in pain?”

His lips tug upward. “I believe quite the contrary.”

Something within you burns—tugs at your core, like a siren song. Enticing, yet lethal.

“Come on, little dove. Just one night and a few errands a year—the key to your dream life.”

“Alright.” Your voice sounds distant, as if it belongs to someone else entirely. “I agree.”

You hardly blink as his tall figure looms over you.

“Stand up,” he commands, extending his hand toward you.

It feels warm and mighty, the way his veins curl upon his hand like intricate geometric patterns.

Your legs feel wobbly as you stand.

“I shall grant you never-ending passion in return for your service every three weeks for eight years. Deal?”

“Deal.” The word feels heavy on your tongue.

“You shall not resist completing any errand I ask of you. Understand?”

“Yes.” The answer is automatic now.

“As validation of the trust and service, you shall be all mine tonight.”

“Tonight?” you gasp, the reality of it sinking in.

“Any problem?” The way his eyes narrow sends a shiver down your spine.

“No,” you shake your head. “No problem.”

“Good.” Then, out of nowhere, a paper appears, along with a pen.

The contract is written in capital maroon letters, bold and commanding.

“Everything I’ve just said and you’ve confirmed is written here. Sign, and we have a deal.” He stretches the pen toward you.

You scan the lines, seeing all the requirements he just named. Biting the inside of your cheek, you wince at the metallic taste on your tongue.

It’s now or never.

With a shaky hand, you take the pen and scrawl your signature in burdungy colours just as your peignoir.

The paper disappears as quickly as it appeared.

The light flickers unsteadily a few times before settling into a steady glow.

Aemond is nowhere to be seen. Turning around, a silent question burns on your tongue.

What has just happened? Didn’t it work?

Then your body tenses as you feel the heat radiating from behind you, as if something unknown and thick is about to wrap around you. His voice is a gentle whisper in your ear.

“Well, well, little dove.” His voice strikes you like an electric shock. “What shall I do with you now?”

Your head turns slightly, and fear drips into your veins.

“So many ideas, and only one night.” His face dips toward your neck, inhaling deeply as though you’re not flesh and blood but a feast meant to be savoured. Your body tenses, betraying you as his hands land on your waist, his touch both featherlight and unyielding. His fingers drift down to your hips, gripping firmly through the hem of your nightgown.

“Did you put it on for me?” he murmurs.

“No,” you reply, squeezing your thighs together.

A puff of warm breath trails past your ear. “Liar.”

Without warning, he pushes you onto the bed. You land on your elbows, the soft rustle of his clothing close behind. You turn onto your back, propping yourself up to follow his movements. He tosses his jacket onto a nearby chair, his gaze never wavering from you.

“Rule number one,” he begins, loosening his tie, “I set the course, and you obey.” He drops the maroon tie beside you. “Rule number two: no kissing on the lips.”

Your brows knit, but words catch in your throat. He undoes his shirt slowly, button by button, his gaze holding you captive. That small voice inside insists, Just one night—endure, and you’ll have everything you desire.

Your gaze drifts to his torso as his shirt falls away, revealing lean muscle, sculpted and stark. A flicker of shame rises within, but your eyes won’t look away.

“Like what you see?” he asks with a smirk.

You swallow hard, unable to find words.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” His fingers undo his belt, slipping it free with an unhurried rhythm. “Tell me what your ex was like in bed.”

His request makes you blink in confusion.

“He was…” Gods, even in the silence, Cregan’s name feels like an anchor pulling you down. “He was gentle. Sweet.”

“Sounds tedious.” He tosses the belt onto the bed. The unknown chills you to the bone, and the room suddenly feels far too hot.

“No, it was… it was good.” You cling to the words, a shield he sees through with ease. A glimmer of something strange dances in his gaze, but you’re too nervous to understand it.

Barefoot now, he looms at the edge of the bed. His pants remain the last piece of clothing.

“Lie down properly, hands to the headboard,” he commands, picking up the belt once more.

“What… what are you going to do?” The question barely leaves your lips, and something about your wide-eyed, doe-like expression draws out his amusement.

“What your ‘lousy ex’ couldn’t dream of.” He leans in, the tip of his thumb grazing your lower lip. “I’m going to give you everything.”

Swallowing the tension in your throat, you move to the centre of the bed, your head resting against the pillows, arms raised to the headboard.

“Good girl," he praises, wrapping the belt around your wrists, and binding them firmly to the headboard.

“One more little thing, and we’re all set.” He steps away, and you tug at the bonds, a spark of dread trickling down your spine.

His maroon tie appears in his hand as he leans closer.

“What’s that for?”

“Sometimes, true passion requires a bit of darkness.” He slips the tie over your eyes, knotting it securely.

The fabric is soft, yet it plunges you into a cold, sightless world. You shift uneasily.

“Shh,” he soothes, his voice calm. “It’s all for what you want, remember?”

A stillness lingers as he waits for your answer.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice barely your own.

“Good. Now, my little dove will get what she desires most.”

The bed dips under his weight as he moves over you, and with one deliberate tug, the flimsy fabric of your peignoir tears beneath his hands. A gasp escapes you, a reaction to both his brazenness and the cold that trails over your skin. The only thing left to cover your decency is your underwear. Despite your eyes being closed, you sense his gaze roving over your naked body, a brazen exploration that ignites a heat within you.

“Well, well. What a delicious little dove I have all to myself,” he murmurs, his voice a low purr.

Wasting no time, his mouth descends to your nipple, swirling his tongue around the bud before capturing it fully, enveloping it in his warmth and slickness. He devours you as if he’s starving for the act itself. His other hand finds your other breast, massaging it just after his thumb brushes over your sensitive skin.

Your fingers tighten around the belt, a soft rustling filling the room. Your breath catches in your chest as your mind fogs over. The blindness intensifies every sensation, each touch igniting a fire you hadn’t known existed within you.

“Getting excited?” he teases.

“No,” you reply, though "yes" simmers on the tip of your tongue, pride pushing it back.

“Hmm, we’ll see about that.” His tone holds a dangerous challenge as if you’ve ignited something within him. He trails his mouth to your other nipple, teeth grazing the peak just before tugging it into his mouth. A sigh slips past your lips, helpless. His hot tongue swirls around the sensitive peak, licking it like a lollipop.

Your hands twitch, and the belt feels tighter, holding you in place as much as binding you to him. You cling to it like a lifeline, feeling its roughness bite into your palms.

Aemond moves to your neck, leaving a trail of kisses before his lips latch onto your delicate skin, sucking with a possessive intensity that promises to leave marks. Each touch feels like a candle’s flame against your skin, each sensation you can’t see setting you ablaze.

“Is it...ah...necessary?” you ask, your voice cracking, as you wonder how you'll cover all the marks.

But his teeth sink harder into your shoulder, drawing a sharp gasp.

“Aemond!” you squeak, your voice torn between pleasure and pain.

“We’ll work on the way you say my name,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear as he nips your earlobe, sending shivers down your spine. His hands explore your hips, kneading the soft flesh, his thumbs pressing circles against your skin.

He pulls back just slightly, his gaze lingering over your face, a silent study of your expression. Then, he dips his head, his tongue making a slow, wet line from your collarbone to your ear. A moan falls from your lips as your body trembles beneath him, pliant.

“Did he ever tell you how gorgeous you look when that little mouth of yours falls open?”

His words drift over the sensitive skin near your ear, the teasing warmth in his voice melts away the last of your resistance.

“Answer,” he commands, his voice as a hiss, punctuated by the possessive squeeze of your hips.

“No,” you breathe out, a shaky sound that only widens the grin you sense playing across his lips.

Before you can catch your breath, his fingers slip past your lips, gliding against the warm, soft insides of your mouth. You nearly choke on the unexpected intrusion, a startled moan rising in your throat.

“Suck.” One word, and you obey, your lips wrapping around his long, slender fingers as your cheeks flush hot. It’s as if he’s cast a spell, making you cling to him, sucking eagerly as though your life depends on it.

Another moan escapes you as he presses his hardness against your thigh, letting you feel the thick, rigid length of him through his pants.

“Do you feel it?” he murmurs, pulling his fingers free and leaving a wet trail down your chin and breasts. “Do you feel what I’ve generously offered you?” He grinds against you, deepening the sensation, and your head swims.

“Yes,” you gasp, your voice barely above a whisper as you struggle for air.

“Say it properly. ‘Yes, Aemond,’” he breathes against your skin. “Say it like the obedient little dove you are.” His tongue sweeps along your chin, licking away the traces of saliva.

“Yes, Aemond.” His name falls from your lips like a surrendered plea.

“Good.”

He draws back, and the sudden absence of his warmth sends a shiver rushing through you, leaving your skin aching for the return of his touch.

“What do we have here?” he murmurs, pressing his fingers against your heated centre. A soft hum escapes him, content as he notes the wetness soaking through your underwear.

“Was that vanilla sex with Cregan so disappointing, or… are you just desperate for my cock?” His voice drips with amusement.

You bite your lip, shame and regret flaring at the mention of Cregan’s name. Gods, what were you doing? Clarity flickers in your mind, but only briefly.

With one swift motion, he removes your underwear, and his fingers slip into your slickness, coaxing deeper than you ever could on your own.

A moan breaks free as he brushes against your G-spot.

“Tell me, little dove,” he whispers, tapping lightly over the sensitive spot, “where does all that desperation come from? But think carefully.” Menace laces his words.

“I… I don’t know,” you manage to say, breathless.

“Wrong answer.” His fingers curl inside you, forcing your hips to buck forward, and then he swiftly withdraws them, leaving you aching. Your frustrated sigh draws a dark chuckle from him.

“You,” you say softly, biting your lip.

“Me? Full sentence, little dove,” he replies, tracing circles on your lower belly. “I haven’t even started fucking that mind of yours.”

His vulgar words stoke your desire further, and you feel a sting of tears in your eyes behind the fabric.

“I want you. Please.”

“Shall we believe her, Vhagar?” His question catches you off guard.

A hiss near your ear makes you flinch. The idea of a snake terrifies you, and you instinctively try to pull away, but neither the belt nor Aemond’s firm grip on your hips lets you move.

You gasp as the cold, slick creature glides from the top of your head, slithering slowly down your exposed body. Its cool scales trace a shiver down your spine, passing between your breasts, over your belly, and stopping just above the smouldering heat of your core. The juxtaposition of temperatures drives you wild.

Aemond bends your knees, positioning your legs so the snake coils around your right thigh, its grip tightening as though it means to bind you further.

“Aemond,” you say, his name slipping from your lips in a desperate whisper. You know you're in no position to beg, but the creature’s presence sends panic racing through you.

“Shh, little dove. You’ll enjoy this,” he whispers softly, his tone laced with promise. Suddenly, the silence of the room feels deafening.

“Enjoy… what?” you ask, confusion mingling with dread as his hands remain still upon your hips.

In response, the creature inches toward your heated centre, its head pressing into your wetness with a soft slide, slowly easing itself inside. The cool, slender sensation twisting inside you makes you writhe, your body instinctively arching toward the pleasure. Aemond’s grip on your hips tightens, steadying you as the world blurs around you.

“Aemond, what—? Ahh,” you gasp, a raw moan slipping from your lips as the creature burrows deeper, filling you in a way that steals your breath. Your core spasms around it, overwhelmed by the relentless sensation, caught between fear and pleasure.

“Shh, let her have her fill. She just wants a taste of you,” he murmurs.

“It’s… too much,” you pant, tugging at the belt with all your strength, the leather biting into your wrists, amazed it hasn’t snapped beneath the strain.

Inside you, the creature twists and coils, its presence impossibly cool against the warmth of your depths, building a relentless tension that grows stronger with each passing second.

“Fuck, I guess we’ll have to share you,” Aemond says, the heat of his breath ghosting over your dripping, spasming cunt. The snake teases one side of your clit, coiling near your pubic bone, while Aemond’s hot tongue plunges into your clenching walls, the lewd licking sounds echoing in the charged air. Every time his tongue goes deeper into you, his nose presses harder against your sensitive bud, sending jolts of pleasure coursing through you.

Your mouth forms a silent 'O' as his hands squeeze your ass cheeks harshly, digging his fingerprints into your body with a possessive force, leaving deep imprints on your skin. You feel a sharp pang of ecstasy within, your body trembling in waves of convulsions that crash over you like relentless tides, flooding you with pleasure you've never experienced before.

“Don’t give her too many kisses unless you want to melt her brain.” His playful words meant for Vhagar fade into the background, lost in the intoxicating haze that envelops you. Your face bears a hedonic expression that any woman could be jealous of.

You don’t know where one orgasm ends and another begins, energy leaving you as you give yourself completely to the sensation. The snake eagerly swirls within you while his pouty lips latch onto your clit, as if they are rivals competing for the prize—you.

“Ae—Aemond,” you gasp, his name trembling on your lips. The fire pools low in your abdomen, making your legs tremble, before it snaps like a firework, exploding through every cell of your body.

You wince as the cool snake withdraws from your dripping centre, dragging your juices down your thighs. Suddenly, it feels achingly empty within you.

You become aware of Aemond only when your hands are finally unclasped, freed from the confines of the belt. Your fingers fumble to untie it, the fabric slipping away as you breathe in the dimly lit room. Your legs glisten with a mix of his saliva, your own wetness, and the snake's presence.

Aemond sits beside you, and your eyes widen as he starts massaging your wrists. His gaze lingers on your dilated pupils, flushed cheeks, and bitten lips, absorbing every detail of your state.

“Sorry, I couldn’t deny Vhagar. She deserved to taste just as much as I do,” he says solemnly. “Besides,” he adds, his gaze sliding down to your breasts, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, “she prepared you so nicely for me.”

The way he says it makes you tense. Both desire and fear clash within you. When no retort comes, Aemond stands up and pulls down his pants, along with his underwear. A dark chuckle rumbles from his chest as he catches sight of your wide eyes, drawn to the impressive girth of his cock, glistening with precum.

“I don’t think it’s gonna—” your voice falters.

“It will,” he assures you, positioning himself between your legs as you fall back, surrendering to the moment. His face inches closer, breath warm against your skin, his whispers brushing your lips like a caress. “I’ll bury myself so deep, so hard”—his cock nudges teasingly toward your entrance, making your mouth dry—“that it’ll wipe his name from your mind forever.”

His promise, or perhaps the threat, sends a shiver down your spine, making you swallow hard. Before you can fully grasp the moment, he plunges into you.

You burn as he thrusts, filling you completely, over and over. As you choke on your sobs, he devours every micro-expression on your face.

“Perfect,” he murmurs into your ear, propping himself on his elbow, his other hand steadying against the headboard, which squeaks in rhythm with your bodies. “I could stay buried inside this perfect cunt forever.”

You shudder at the thought of how it would feel if he started straight away—you’re certain he would slice you in two. As he jackhammers into you, your nails dig into the taut flesh of his back, leaving dark pink scratches.

“Shall I go deeper, mm?” A smirk curves his lips.

Amidst your whimpers and moans, you manage to gasp, “yes,” “yes.” Normally, you’d blush furiously, but today… your desire is insatiable.

His gaze darkens until the blue of his irises disappears, consumed by hunger. He pulls away slightly, slinging your legs over his shoulders. This time, he thrusts slowly, deliberately, but the sensation of his cock pressing against your cervix sends a strangled noise escaping your lips.

“Beg me to fuck you harder,” he teases.

“Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please, fuck me harder.”

His expression twists menacingly, a predatory glint in his eyes. “Who knew the little dove could beg like an elite slut?” he muses, his voice dripping with dark amusement. The angry look on your flushed face only seems to fuel his desire, and he chuckles softly. “Well, since you asked so nicely…”

With a swift, powerful movement, he rolls his hips, establishing a mind-blowing tempo that sends waves of pleasure coursing through you. Sweat glistens on your skin, the heat of your bodies mingling.

His eyes are fixated on your bouncing breasts, the way they sway and ripple with each thrust driving him wild. The sight urges him to deliver even harsher thrusts, as if he’s trying to claim every inch of you.

Incomprehensible words spill from your lips like a desperate prayer, each thrust hitting that sweet spot perfectly. God, you’ve never felt so alive, so consumed by pleasure.

“Your tight little pussy is fucking loving it, isn’t it?” he growls.

The way he phrases it makes your walls clench involuntarily around his thick cock, your body responding to his every word.

“It’s been waiting for a great fuck for a long time, mm?” he taunts, the smugness in his voice only intensifies your arousal.

“Yes, yes,” you whimper, feeling the pressure of an impending orgasm build like a tidal wave, ready to crash over you. “Aemond!”

“Good girl. That’s the right way to say my name,” he praises, his voice rich with satisfaction as he senses you starting to unravel beneath him. “There’s so much passion within you. You just needed to be fucked properly.”

He continues thrusting, each powerful stroke intensifying your overstimulation, pulling you further into a dizzying spiral of pleasure, making you see stars in the darkness. The world around you blurs as he becomes your sole focus.

The demon who gives you heaven.

You crave to clasp his hair, to feel its softness, but he grasps your fingers, intertwining them as he cums inside you with a low growl like an animal. His warmth spreads deep within you like molten gold, filling you with an exquisite heat.

Is it merely a sign of your fantasy, or does someone press a kiss against your forehead? You’d never know, lost in the haze of desire, quickly captured by a dream that lures you further into another world.

The following morning, you wake up to the gentle warmth of sunlight caressing your face. A thin gap between the curtains allows the sun to greet you. Sitting up in bed, you wince, forcing yourself to remember what day it is and what the hell has happened. Your mind feels like an empty canvas.

On wobbly feet, you make your way to the bathroom.

Since when do I sleep naked? you wonder.

But as you see your reflection in the mirror, your mouth falls open. The memories flood back with intensity as you witness numerous purple marks peppered around your neck, chest, and fingertips, marked deep into the flesh of your hips. Yet the most striking change is the intricate tattoo of a sapphire nestled between your breasts, glimmering in the light.

As your gaze darts to the corner of the mirror, you spot a note scrawled in an elegant hand: See you in 3 weeks. Unless you wish to see me earlier. Just call my name.

Your cheeks flush.

Fuck.

Likes, comments, and reblogs are deeply appreciated! Each word you share fuels my passion even more 💋

*Ad altiora tendo - I strive towards higher things.

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citrusdarling7 · 6 months ago

Text

Loyalty (I)

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!reader

summary: the king decides it's time for his brother to produce more targaryen heirs. who better than another hightower daughter to carry them?

warnings: adults only, all characters over 18, dubcon smut in later chapters, arranged marriage, abortion allusion (moon tea), coercion, terrible parenting

word count: 2.3k

dividers

“I won’t allow it.”

“You won’t allow it?” Viserys asks with an air of frigid humor. “Who are you to deny your king what he has commanded?”

Otto seethes, decades of practiced court manners faltering under the demand. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but she is my daughter. I will not have her married off to a man whose love of violence and debauchery trails him like a shadow. She is a pious child. To marry her to Daemon is—“

“A blessing. She will marry a prince and a valiant knight.”

The other men at the table are silent. They'd expected talks of reinforcing the kingdom's claim on the Stepstones or of quelling rumors that had cropped up of Daemon corrupting his young niece in a brothel a year prior. The king commanding a marriage between Otto Hightower's youngest daughter—his only child from a tragically short second marriage—is an unpleasant surprise.

"He is already married."

Viserys gives a taut smile. "Daemon's marriage to Lady Royce has been annulled. By royal decree and with the blessing of the High Septon. It is in the best interest of Westeros that the Targaryen line remains vast and strong and it has been decided your daughter will do what Lady Royce did not."

Otto's face falls in disbelief. He's heard nothing of it. This had been set up to corner him. "She is a child."

"She is nearly four years older than Alicent was when we wed. The queen has proven your daughters are strong vessels for Targaryen children."

"It is different. She is different. She is not as strong as Alicent."

The king shakes his head. "I will hear no more discussion of this. She will wed Daemon and this feud between the two of you shall end once and for all.”

Alicent’s touch is feather-light as she takes hold of your hands. Her eyes wander across your form, taking in the exquisite ivory gown. Its crimson embroidered dragon along the skirt a special request from your soon-to-be husband. “You look beautiful, sister.”

You can say nothing to your half-sister, barely able to retain the tears brimming in silence. A fortnight was all you’d been given to prepare to wed the vilest creature in Westeros. Daemon Targaryen was all you could have ever hoped against in a husband.

Your father stands tall behind Alicent, head held high. "The image of the Maiden herself."

A choked sob escapes you at his words. This marriage was punishment by the Seven for every sin you'd ever committed. For the impure thoughts you'd had of knights. The white lies you'd spoken to save yourself the wrath of Septa Agerrea. The gambling you'd participated in when you’d bet your favorite embroidery needle in a game of cards with Lysa Tyrell. Had you only followed the Faith more faithfully, this torture would not be yours to endure.

“I believe it is time to take your place with the king, Your Grace,” your father says.

Alicent hesitates with glossy eyes. She draws you into a tight hug and whispers an apology and how much she loves you. You have the faintest memory of her wedding to the king a few years before. The happy sister who’d spent hours braiding your hair when the handmaidens failed to do it properly disappeared into a hardened queen round with child seemingly overnight. The smiles and giggles you’d shared daily turned to fond, distant memories. She withdraws a moment later, wiping at her face.

When the door shuts your father moves behind you. You watch in the ornate mirror as he drapes the green maidencloak of House Hightower across your shoulders. The new burden's weight feels uncomfortable.

He returns to stand before you, his expression sorrowful. "I am sorry, my sweet child, for this atrocity. You deserve far better.”

“I could have saved myself this fate had I been less worldly and become a Septa.” Your palm wipes at the tear that had fallen.

He cups your cheek. “Perhaps. But we cannot lament on what we could have done. Indeed we must focus instead on your duty to the realm.”

“To be a good wife,” you state. It was what he had raised you to be.

“No, sweet child,” he says softly, “I fear that I must ask something far more difficult of you. For your duty to the realm must supplant your duty in marriage.”

The wedding takes place in a haze. You tremble, stumble over words, and can not meet the eyes of your now husband nor the Septon. Soon you would betray them both.

For the good of the realm.

You do not eat or drink through the feast. You barely speak. You think you might have danced, though all you remember of it is a blurring background and an embroidered dragon that matches your own. It had stared at you accusingly.

“Shall I call for the bedding ceremony to begin, brother?” the king slurs loudly. If there had been anything in your stomach, it surely would have come out now. It was one vile thought to have him touch you. But to have other men undress you as well?

Your hand is pulled from your lap, enclosed in another twice its size, callous and rough against your skin. For the first time that day you look at your husband. You’d never seen him this close. The lavender gaze cannot have been of this world. It’s too vibrant, too knowing. “Too many of the men here have wandering hands. I’d hate to spill blood on such a blessed day.” His lips brush against your hand. “My sweet wife should not have to endure such tragedy.”

The king responds dismissively. Something of disappointing guests, but to do as he pleases. Daemon takes it as a dismissal and pulls you from your seat. The last thing you hear is the call from many about bloody sheets.

Perhaps the Mother has decided to take mercy on you. For you cannot breathe as the doors to the prince’s chambers close behind you. Death can take you before he can.

He stands in front of the fire, pouring some drink into a goblet. The flickering orange light suits him. Like he was born for flames. “You must relax. There is nothing for you to fear from me.” A lie. There was much to fear from him.

A booming knock echoes through the room.

“Enter.”

Two servants carrying trays of bread and fruit enter. Then they are gone just as swiftly. The door closes once more.

“You must eat,” he says, taking your hand once more and leading you to a small table. You sit and a piece of bread is offered. You take it and, after an expectant nod, take a bite. It’s still warm and soft. You take another bite. And another.

It’s gone quickly. Too quickly for a lady. A bowl of berries clatters softly in front of you. You pick at it slower, though not as slowly as you’d like. They are sweet. Perfectly ripe.

“Would you like some wine?”

Despite the juice of berries coating your tongue, your mouth is dry as you speak for the first time since you’d said your vows. “Yes, please.”

“So well mannered.” A smug smile spreads across his face as he raises his goblet and sips. He reaches over and sets it down beside the half-empty bowl. “I forgot to have them retrieve another cup.”

The crimson red liquid ripples. A challenge.

“You are very gracious, my Prince. Thank you.” You lift it by the stem and drink. It was stronger than you’ve ever had before. The taste takes you aback, coughing as it soaks your tongue. Hastily you set the cup back down.

"I take it you don't often indulge in Dornish Reds."

"No, never."

His head cocks to the side appraisingly. "I suppose such a thing has never been offered to you before. Not within the confines of your father's authority. He has given you a rather sheltered life."

A prickly heat seeps up your neck. "My father did not confine or shelter me. He has only ever guided me to live as virtuously as the Seven wished for all their children to live.”

“How very kind of him to not let you endure the same vices as himself.”

You blink, his words sinking in. The implication that your father is a drunkard stings. He isn't, but you don’t fight his accusation. Selfishly, you do not wish to defend your father. Instead, you pluck a berry from the bowl, hoping to end the conversation entirely.

"Are the berries quite good?"

You nod, not wanting to speak again.

"Might I have one?" When you go to pick up the bowl, he stops you. "Pick me out the best one."

The best one? The bowl is still half full. Which berry was the best? Would he be disappointed if you picked one he did not like? Or one that was not ripe enough? Not sweet enough? What would he do to you if he disliked the one you chose?

It was the largest blackberry that you finally settle on, prepared to hear how terrible the choice had been as you hold it out to him. He doesn't simply take it. He leans over the table, taking the berry and your fingers into his mouth.

The act is heinously intimate. It leaves you frozen and breathless as he pulls away, his eyes alight in devious amusement. "I'm not sure which taste I prefer. The berry's or your's."

Fire spreads across your cheeks. You flinch away, embarrassed. In the escape effort your arm knocks against the goblet. To your horror, it clatters against the table. The liquid sloshes across your front, staining the white gown.

The crimson seems to seep from your womb, condemning you for something you had yet to do. You paw at the stain as the chair clatters on the ground from the force with which you'd stood.

Tears brim in your eyes as it continues to spread.

“There's no need to fret. It is only wine.”

“I have desecrated it.” The tears have not stopped falling and your hands have not stopped scrubbing at it with your fingers. “The stain will never come out.”

“It is only a dress.” He cups your face, encouraging you to meet his gaze. It searches for some understanding.

He would never understand.

“I am so sorry, my Prince.”

He shushes you softly and places a kiss against your forehead. This was the monster? The vile, unholy beast whose every action was an affront to the Seven? This man who had shown you nothing but kindness?

You cry harder.

He is not the monster.

You are.

You aren’t sure how long you cry. But he holds you through it all. He speaks little more than a few consoling phrases, but it is more than you deserve. His presence, arms around you, kisses on your hair. All of it more than you deserve.

You’re finally calm, only left with sniffles, when he says, “We should get the dress to the washwomen before the stain sets.” What good would it do? The stain can never be removed from your soul. Still you agree and turn for him.

His fingers are swift as they loosen the strings of your bodice. Practiced. He is practiced. Behind closed doors you assume, but there were numerous tales of his public debauchery. It has been gossiped that he prefers the thrill of open affairs and touches of multiple women.

“Why did you refuse the bedding ceremony?”

He pauses. “Did you wish to have one?”

“No,” you say quickly. “But given your…tendencies I…I thought…” A quiet hum has your words trailing off.

His work continues, though slower. “You are not a whore in a brothel.”

“Neither is your niece and yet...”

Air blows across your neck as he chuckles. “Has my pious little wife been gossiping about the chastity of the Crowned Princess?”

Your lungs seize at the realization of what you’d just said. It’s treason. Questioning her virtue is treason.

“Relax, jaesa.” His hands slip between the shoulders of your shift and the loose gown, pushing the sleeves down your arms. “I took you under my protection today. You may speak freely to me.”

“I,” you hesitate, freeing your hands of the garment, “I had heard that a year ago you snuck the princess from the castle and—“

He bunches the fabric at your waist and tugs. “Had my way with her in some brothel?”

“Yes.”

The gown struggles for a moment, snagging on the curve of your behind. Another tug and it is a pile around your feet. “My niece wished to see King’s Landing. I showed her and returned her to the castle, still a fair maiden like yourself.”

“Of course.”

“You doubt me?”

“No, my Prince.”

"It would do a great disservice to our union to begin it with lies." He prompts you to turn and hesitantly you do. He is shorter than your father, yet his presence is as commanding. More so. It makes you aware of how thin the fabrics of your shifts were when his gaze drifts down. "My niece's heart belongs elsewhere. As do my desires."

His touch is gentle as he cups your cheek, but the feeling's it stirred are rough and uncertain. Bordering on traitorous.

“Shall I call a servant to fetch the dress?” The words waver. You wonder if they’re comprehensible at all.

They are, it seems as he rejects the offer and slips out the door himself with the dress. The reprieve from his watchful, astute eye is welcome. You fall to your knees at the edge of the bed and recite the prayer your father had taught you minutes before you’d been led down the aisle.

Warrior, give me strength for what I must do. It is for the good of the realm.

Mother, forgive me for what I must do. It is for the good of your faithful servants.

Stranger, lead my children to peace. It is for the good of their innocent souls.

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citrusdarling7 · 6 months ago

Text

"My Sweet Little Niece" - Daemon Targaryen

Summary: You foolishly thought that no one would find you pleasuring yourself in the midnight hours...

Warnings: SMUT; typical targcest (reader is Daemon's niece and it is mentioned a LOT); use of the terms 'uncle' and 'niece' during sex; degradation (slut, whore etc.); light spanking (like one/two spanks); doggy style; quite rough sex (but both like it); breeding kink (Daemon finishes inside reader); dirty talk (use of the words cunt and such)

Notes: Reader is Daemon's niece (Rhaenyra's sister) and has white hair, but nothing else is specified. No specific time frame or mention of marriages/other relationships.

Words: 4.2k

-- aera xx

As Daemon Targaryen paces the cold, stone floors of the council room in Dragonstone, his footsteps echo softly against the walls, a rhythmic cadence that punctuates the heavy silence of the chamber. The room is austere yet grand, its walls adorned with tapestries depicting the sigil of House Targaryen — a three-headed dragon — woven in threads of crimson and gold. Tall windows line one side of the chamber, their panes frosted with a thin layer of ice, allowing slivers of pale winter moonlight to filter into the room and cast ethereal patterns upon the floor.

As Daemon's thoughts whirl in the chill air, his attention is suddenly drawn to quiet sighs and moans from a nearby bedchamber.

The castle was asleep at this hour, and it possibly couldn’t be a maid. Curiousness got the better of Daemon, and he went to investigate against his better judgment.

Once he reached the source of the sound, he smirked to himself. Of course. Who else could it be besides his sweet niece? Acting all innocent and loving before the eyes of the court and making sounds like a whore from the Silk Streets during the night.

He wondered who the lucky man between her plush thighs could be. Was it Aemond, or perhaps Aegon? What if it was Helaena, and this was the only time the two girls could show their desire for one another?

Already starting to walk away, something stopped him. The hardness in his breeches made it uncomfortable to move. He sighed and wiped across his face to compose himself.

Daemon needed to see. He needed to see his niece being pleasured by whoever it was. Be it a knight or a maid. Agonisingly slowly, he pulled open your door. Making sure no sounds betrayed his presence.

At first, you didn’t even notice his intrusion, too lost in the pleasure of two fingers circling your clit and two in your tight hole knuckles deep. But once you heard the familiar creak of the venerable wooden door, its aged hinges announcing a timeless entrance, your head instinctively snapped up. The air around you shifted, thick with expectation.

"Uncle Daemon!" you exclaimed, hastily pulling the sheets up to cover your bare form beneath. "I…I didn't expect you!"

You could feel the heat of embarrassment rising to your cheeks, mixed with a twinge of annoyance at having your private moment interrupted. Your long silver-white hair was tousled against the pillow, strands clinging to your sweat-dampened skin.

"I was just…" you fumbled for an excuse, your voice trailing off lamely. There was no hiding the truth - you had been caught in the throes of self-indulgence, fingers buried knuckle-deep inside your dripping cunny as you imagined being taken roughly by one of the handsome young knights in service to the crown.

Your mind raced as you tried to find the right words to explain yourself, but your tongue felt heavy and clumsy in your mouth. You knew that your actions were scandalous, especially for a highborn lady of House Targaryen, but you couldn't help the thrill of excitement that ran down your spine at the thought of being caught in such a compromising position.

Your fingers were still buried deep inside your sopping wet cunny, the evidence of your shameful desires dripping down your thighs and staining the fine silk sheets beneath you. The air was thick with the musky scent of your arousal, mingling with the faint smell of lavender that clung to your skin from your earlier bath.

Daemon's eyes widened slightly at the sight before him, his gaze flickering over your dishevelled form and the obvious signs of your recent activities. For a moment, he was struck dumb, caught off guard by the raw, primal desire that radiated from his niece's body like a physical force. He could feel his cock stirring to life in his breeches, thickening and hardening as he drank at the sight of you.

But then his training kicked in, and Daemon schooled his features into a mask of stern disapproval. He crossed the room in a few long strides, the heavy tread of his boots muffled by the plush carpet. Leaning down, he grasped your wrist firmly and withdrew your fingers from between your thighs, ignoring the way you gasped at the sudden loss of stimulation.

"Darling," he said, his voice low and cold. "What in the seven hells are you doing, girl? Playing with yourself like some common whore? Is this how you spend your nights, indulging in base carnal desires?"

His grip on your wrist tightened, and he brought your hand up to his face, pressing your fingers against his lips. The taste of your arousal exploded on his tongue, sweet and musky and utterly intoxicating. Daemon's eyes fluttered closed for a moment, savouring the flavour of his niece's essence.

"You're a Targaryen," he growled, releasing her wrist and straightening up. "You should know better than to give in to such shameful appetites. Especially not with your uncle standing right outside your door."

Despite his harsh words, there was an undercurrent of something else in Daemon's tone - a dark, simmering heat that belied his stern exterior. He could feel the pulse of his own need, throbbing in his loins and demanding to be satisfied. The sight of you sprawled out across her bed, flushed and wanton and ready to be taken, was almost more than he could bear.

Daemon took a step back, putting some distance between them. He raked a hand through his golden locks, trying to calm his growing hunger for you.

Your heart raced as you watched Daemon lick your essence from his fingers, his eyes closing in bliss as he savoured the taste. The sight sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through your veins, and you couldn't help but spread your thighs wider, inviting him to take a closer look at your dripping cunny.

The guilt that churned in your stomach was nothing compared to the raw, primal desire that consumed you. You had done far worse things behind closed doors, indulged in darker, more forbidden pleasures. This was merely a taste of the debauchery that coursed through your veins.

“Daemon," you breathed, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and anticipation. "Please, don't be angry with me. I… I couldn't help myself. The need was too great, too overwhelming to ignore."

You batted your eyelashes at him, hoping to soften his stern demeanour with an innocent, pleading look. You knew the power of your beauty, the way men were drawn to you like moths to a flame. It was a gift, one you had learned to wield like a weapon.

"You're the only one who truly understands me," you continued, your words dripping with honey.

As you spoke, you reached out with trembling fingers, tracing the hard planes of Daemon's chest through his shirt. You could feel the heat of his skin beneath the fabric, the steady thrum of his heartbeat. It called to you, urging you to press herself against him.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you awaited Daemon's response, your dripping sex exposed to his piercing gaze. You could feel the weight of his stare like a physical touch, sending shivers of anticipation down your spine. The vulnerability you felt at that moment was both terrifying and exhilarating, a heady mix of fear and desire that made your head spin.

Daemon's eyes darkened as he drank in the sight of your glistening folds, his nostrils flaring as he caught the intoxicating scent of your arousal. He could feel his cock straining against the confines of his breeches, throbbing with the need to bury itself inside your tight, wet heat.

He took a step closer, looming over your prone form on the bed. "You're playing a dangerous game, little one," he growled, his voice low and rough with barely contained lust. "Teasing me like this, exposing yourself to me. Do you have any idea what you're doing to me?"

Your breath caught in your throat as Daemon reached out, his fingers grazing along the soft skin of your inner thigh. You could feel the calluses on his hands, the strength in his grasp as he slowly inched higher and higher, until his touch was mere inches away from your aching core.

"I… I wanted you to see," you whispered, your voice trembling with need. Although it wasn’t entirely true, you did still however want him to take you. And with these sweet words, he would cave in no time.

Daemon's eyes flashed with a dangerous light, his jaw clenching as he fought to maintain control over his raging desires. He knew that what he was about to do was wrong, a betrayal of every moral code. But the temptation was too great to resist, the allure of his niece's forbidden fruit too powerful to deny.

With a low, animalistic growl, Daemon surged forward, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss. He plundered your mouth with his tongue, claiming you, possessing you, marking you as his own. One hand tangled in your long, silver hair, tugging it.

You moaned into the kiss. It was like a siren's call, luring Daemon further into the depths of depravity. With a growl, he allowed himself to be pulled onto the bed, his muscular body covering yours as he claimed your mouth with renewed hunger. His hands roamed over your curves, squeezing and kneading the soft flesh like a man possessed.

Your fingers scrabbled at Daemon's linen shirt, desperate to feel the heat of his skin. You tugged impatiently at the fabric, breaking the kiss just long enough to yank the garment over his head and toss it aside. Your eyes widened at the sight of his toned chest, marred only by a few silvery scars from battles long past.

"By the gods, Uncle," she gasped, your hands greedily exploring the planes of his back and shoulders. "You're so strong."

Daemon's lips curled into a smirk as he ground his hips against yours, letting you feel the hard length of his cock straining against the confines of his breeches. "And you, my little girl, are a temptress beyond compare," he growled, nipping at your earlobe. "So soft, so ripe, so ready to be plucked."

Your back arched off the bed as Daemon trailed his lips down the column of your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just above your collarbone. You could feel the heat pooling in your belly, the ache between your thighs growing more intense with each passing second.

"Please, Daemon," you whimpered, your hips rocking against his in a primal rhythm. "I need you, I need to feel you inside me, filling me, claiming me."

Daemon's eyes flashed with a dangerous light, his control hanging by a thread. With a low growl, he captured your lips once more, swallowing your moans as he reached down and tore at the laces of his breeches. His cock sprang free, thick and hard and throbbing with need.

Your eyes widened as you took in the impressive sight of Daemon's manhood, your breath catching in your throat at the sheer size of him. You had always known that your uncle was a proud, confident man, but now you understood the true source of his cockiness. His cock was a work of art, thick and veiny and pulsing with an almost palpable hunger.

Unable to resist, you reached out with a shaking hand, wrapping your fingers around the hot, velvety length. You licked your palm, spitting into it to provide some lubrication as you began to stroke him slowly, marvelling at the weight of him in your grasp.

Daemon let out a low, guttural moan as your hand moved along his shaft, his hips rocking into your touch. "Fuck, that's it," he growled, his voice rough with desire. "Stroke me, princess. Show me what that clever little hand can do."

You smiled up at him, your eyes shining with wicked delight. You shimmied closer to him on the bed, watching with rapt attention as Daemon stood before you, his cock extending out obscenely from between his legs.

The blood coursed hot and heavy through Daemon's veins as you worked his shaft, your delicate fingers gliding over his throbbing flesh in a slow, torturous rhythm. He could feel every nerve ending screaming for more, for the tight, wet heat of your cunt wrapped around him.

"You like that, don't you?" You purred, your hand pumping faster, twisting your wrist on the upstroke. "You like feeling my hand on your big, hard cock. I bet you've dreamed of this, of fucking your sweet little niece, filling her up with your seed."

Daemon let out a feral snarl, his hips snapping forward as he fucked your hand, chasing the pleasure that only you could give him. "You have no idea what I've dreamed of," he growled, his eyes burning into yours. "What I've planned, what I'm going to do to this tight little body of yours."

"Mmh, yeah? Why don’t you tell me then?” Your words and actions grew bolder as you saw his reaction to your touch, your arousal gushing out of you at the erotic sight.

Your daring words and bold actions ignited a fire in Daemon's loins that threatened to consume you both. His cock throbbed and pulsed in your grasp as you started to tease the tip with your tongue, your lips forming a tight seal around his engorged head. The sight of his niece's pretty mouth stretched obscenely around his shaft sent a fresh surge of heat straight to his groin.

"Fuck, you filthy little minx," Daemon growled, his fingers tangling in your long silver hair. He tugged at it roughly, forcing you to take more of him into your hot, wet mouth. "You want to know what I'm going to do to you? I'm going to ruin you for any other man. I'm going to fuck you so hard, so deep, that you'll never be able to forget the feel of my cock inside you."

You moaned around his length, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through Daemon's body. You could feel the sticky wetness of her arousal coating your thighs, the musky scent of her desire mingling with the taste of his pre-cum on her tongue.

"Mmmph, yes Uncle Daemon," you slurred, your words muffled by his thick cock filling your mouth. "Ruin me, use me, make me yours. I want to feel you in every inch of me."

"That's it," he growled, his hips snapping forward, driving his cock deeper into your warm mouth, throbbing. "Take it all, baby girl. Take every inch of your uncle's big, hard cock."

You moaned around him, the sound sending shivers down Daemon's spine. You relaxed your throat, allowing him to slide deeper until the head of his cock was bumping against the back of your throat. Your nose nestled in the thick, wiry curls at the base of his shaft, inhaling the musky, masculine scent of him.

"Gods, you're a natural," Daemon praised, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his release. "Such a good little cocksucker, so eager to please your uncle."

Your eyes fluttered closed, lost in the haze of pleasure as you worked Daemon's cock with your mouth and hand. You could feel the heavy weight of it on your tongue, the pulsing heat of it against the roof of your mouth.

Daemon's eyes flashed with a dangerous light, his breath coming in short, sharp pants as he fought to maintain control. He could feel the pressure building in his balls, the urge to bury himself to the hilt in your tight, dripping cunt becoming more and more overwhelming with each passing second.

"Enough," he snarled, yanking you off his cock with a lewd pop. "I can't take it anymore. I need to be inside you, need to feel you wrapped around me like a vice."

With a swift, brutal movement, Daemon flipped you onto your hands and knees, kicking your legs apart to expose the glistening folds of your sex.

The sudden shift in position caused you to let out a surprised yelp. You felt Daemon's strong hands grip your hips, lifting your rear end high in the air. You instinctively arched your back, presenting yourself to him like a bitch in heat. The cool air of the bedchamber kissed your bare flesh, sending goosebumps racing across your skin.

The depraved display sent a bolt of pure lust through Daemon's veins, his cock twitching with the need to claim you, to make you his in the most primal way possible.

"Gods, you're a vision," Daemon growled appreciatively, his emerald eyes roaming hungrily over your upturned ass and dripping cunny. "So wet and ready for me already."

He gave you a sharp smack on the rump, relishing the way you jolted and let out a gasp. The reddening handprint on your skin looked deliciously obscene.

"That's it, present yourself to your uncle like a good little whore," he commanded, lining up his swollen cockhead with your entrance. "Show me how much you need my cock filling this greedy little cunt."

You moaned wantonly, reaching back with one hand to spread herself open for him. Your puffy folds glistened with arousal, practically begging to be stuffed full. The shame of what you were doing only served to heighten your arousal, the taboo nature of your relationship sending electric thrills down your spine.

"Please, Uncle Daemon," you begged, your voice high and needy. "I need you inside me, stretching me, filling me up. I'll do anything, be anything you want me to be."

Daemon let out a low, appreciative chuckle as he stepped up behind you, his large hands gripping your hips with bruising force. "Anything, hmm? We'll see about that."

Without warning, he slammed his cock into you, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. You screamed in ecstasy, your walls clenching around him like a vice as he filled you.

"Fuck, you're tight," Daemon grunted, his hips snapping against your ass as he set a punishing pace. "So fucking tight and wet for me, baby girl. Your little cunt was made for my cock."

You could only moan in response, your body rocking forward with each powerful thrust of Daemon's hips. The obscene sound of flesh slapping against flesh filled the room, mingling with your cries of pleasure and Daemon's grunts of exertion.

As Daemon pounded into you, one hand snaked around your waist, his fingers finding your swollen clit. He rubbed it roughly, the calloused pads of his fingers sending jolts of electricity through your body.

A broken sob escaped your lips as you felt his fingers rub tight circles around your swollen clit. Hips jerking from the stimulation.

"There she goes," Daemon growled, his fingers working your clit with merciless precision. "My sweet little niece, so responsive, so desperate for her uncle's touch."

You could only moan in response, your head hanging down, your long silver hair cascading over your shoulders. The wet, obscene sounds of your coupling filled the room, a lewd symphony of flesh slapping against flesh and the squelch of your dripping arousal.

You shivered at his praise, your body still humming with pleasure. Despite the shame that threatened to overwhelm you, you couldn't deny how much you had enjoyed being used so thoroughly.

Daemon angled his hips, hitting that sweet spot inside you with each powerful thrust. He could feel your velvety walls rippling around him, milking his cock for all it was worth.

As he looked down he could see a ring of white cream coating the base of his cock, your arousal so evident. He smirked to himself and sped up his pace, fucking you almost brutally.

Daemon's brutal pace showed no signs of slowing, his hips pistoning in and out of your tight heat with relentless force. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh echoed off the stone walls, mingling with your wanton moans and whimpers.

"Look at you," Daemon growled, his voice rough with lust. "My sweet little niece reduced to a mewling, cock-hungry slut. You love this, don't you? Love being used like a cheap whore, love having your uncle's cock stuffing your needy cunt."

You couldn't deny it, not with the way your body was responding to his harsh words and even harsher thrusts. Your back arched, pushing your hips back to meet him thrust for thrust, your nails digging into the fine linens beneath you.

Daemon's hand left your clit, moving up to fist a handful of your long silver hair. He yanked your head back, forcing you to look at him over your shoulder. His eyes were wild, burning with a primal hunger that sent shivers down your spine.

"Who does this cunt belong to?" he snarled, his voice a dark promise. "Who owns your pretty little body, baby girl?"

"You do," you gasped out, the words spilling from your lips unbidden. "It's all yours, Uncle Daemon. I'm yours."

"Damn right, you are," Daemon growled, releasing his grip on your hair to wrap his arms around your waist. He pushed you down onto your stomach and lifted your hips, shifting the angle of his thrusts to strike even deeper, harder, faster.

The new position had you seeing stars, your cries of pleasure resonating off the stone walls. Each thrust sent ripples of ecstasy through your body, your muscles clenching around him like a vice.

"Say it again," Daemon demanded, his voice strained. "Tell me who this pussy belongs to."

"You," you sobbed, your voice high and breathy. "It's yours, Daemon. All yours."

"That's right, baby girl," Daemon growled, his hips slamming into you with renewed vigour.

Your body was trembling beneath him on the silky sheets of your bed. Your tight hole spasming around Daemon's big cock, creaming all over his length. Like a bitch in heat you screamed in pleasure below him, cunt gripping him in a vice.

Daemon's grip tightened on your hips as he drove into you with pure animalistic lust, your cries of pleasure mixing with his grunts of exertion. Bed creaking beneath you, the headboard slamming against the wall with each violent thrust. The feeling of your tight, dripping cunt spasming around him was almost too much to bear. Daemon could feel his release barreling towards him like a freight train, his balls drawing up tight against his body. The filthy sounds of your cries and the obscene squelch of your arousal filling the room only served to heighten his lust.

"That's it, princess," Daemon growled, his hand coming down on your ass in a sharp smack. "Take it all, take every inch of your uncle's big, hard cock."

You moaned wantonly, your hips bucking as he hit that sweet spot deep inside you. Your juices coated his shaft, easing the way as he pounded into you relentlessly.

"Uncle Daemon," you gasped, your voice strained with pleasure. "It's so good, so deep. Don't stop, please don't stop."

Daemon grinned savagely, his hips snapping forward with renewed vigour. He could feel the tension building in his lower belly, the tell-tale tingle in his spine that signalled his impending release.

"Oh, Gods! I'm gonna cum!" You managed to squeal into the sheets, tears starting to stream down your face from the intensity of his thrusts.

"Aw, fuck yes, you are," Daemon growled, his voice a dark promise. "Cum for me, baby girl. Cum all over your uncle's big, hard cock."

His hips snapped forward, driving his cock deep into your convulsing channel. Your cries of ecstasy filled the room, your body shaking with the force of your release.

You could feel your juices squirting out around Daemon's shaft, your inner muscles clenching and fluttering as you rode out the waves of your orgasm. It seemed to go on forever, your vision blurring at the edges, your mind numb from the sheer intensity of it all.

Daemon held you close, his arms wrapping around your trembling form as he continued to thrust into you, prolonging your pleasure. His release was fast approaching, his balls drawing up tight against his body.

"Fuck," he gasped, his voice strained. "Gonna fill you up, gonna pump you full of my seed. Gonna make you mine in every fucking way."

With a final, brutal thrust, Daemon buried himself to the hilt inside you, his cock pulsing as he spilt his hot seed deep within your womb. You could feel it, the way his thick, potent cum coated your inner walls, marking you as his.

As you both came down from your high, Daemon pulled out of you with a lewd pop. He flopped down onto the bed beside you, gathering you into his arms and pulling you close.

You rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat as you basked in the afterglow. Despite the taboo nature of your relationship, there was a rightness to being here with Daemon, a sense of belonging that you had never felt with anyone else.

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citrusdarling7 · 9 months ago

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Snow in the Vale ❄️

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citrusdarling7 · 11 months ago

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i have a sneaky feeling that the incest levels will become overwhelming when aemond takes harrenhal

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citrusdarling7 · 1 year ago

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aemond targaryen would genuinely be the closest thing that house targaryen has to a cool character if he wasn’t also a chronically cringy edgelord. imagine the worst, most pretentious teenaged middle child in the world with both mommy AND daddy issues. he was severely bullied and maimed as a kid. he claimed the largest and oldest senile dragon alive. he wears a cunty little eyepatch over the goose-egg sized sapphire jammed inside his eye socket. he’s a renowned kinslayer who kicked off a dynastic civil war. he sat on the iron throne for a year as the interim king. he pulled the baddest witchy milf since visenya herself. he torched the riverlands for funsies. he’s a member of the Harrenhal curse club. he died from an acute case of dark sister to the frontal lobe via double murder-suicide with his uncle. unreal

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citrusdarling7 · 1 year ago

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They removed Maelor so there can be drama between Aegon and Aemond. I truly don't believe Ewan when he says Aemond is loyal. They set up way too much. Aemond is very likely going to attack Aegon at RR or consider killing him when it's over.

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citrusdarling7 · 1 year ago

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So.... House of the Dragon fans...how are we doing after tonight's episode? Are we ok? Do we need hugs? I have Squishmallows if anyone needs a Squishmallow....

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citrusdarling7 · 1 year ago

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Valyrian Dragons (PART 1)

How cool are these? What do you guys think their names would be?

I do not know who the original artist is - if you know, please let me know so I can credit.

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citrusdarling7 · 1 year ago

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He was having a great time and they just had to ruin his vibe at the end

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citrusdarling7 · 1 year ago

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A guy recently complimented my blowjob skills, and I hate to say it but smutty fanfiction is definitely the reason for that

#lol

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citrusdarling7 · 1 year ago

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THE CURSE OF CURIOSITY.

Aemond Targaryen x twin sister!reader

"While your brother searches the library of the Dragonkeeper Elder for something new to read, you come in contact with some unlabeled fluid. You both learn that it's something meant to aid in the breeding of dragons, however, it also has a unique effect on humans. But lucky for you, your twin is there to help you through the ordeal."

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT—MINORS DNI; canon typical incest/targcest, dub con, sex pollen (rather fluid lol), p in v, breeding kink

WORDS: 4 K

NOTES: Hope you enjoy me having literally zero grasp on English. 🤭

❗️𝐚𝐝𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!

“It’s far too late for us to be here,” you huff, almost annoyed, as you watch Aemond graze his fingers along the spines of the several books kept in the currently deserted chambers of the Dragonkeeper Elder. “What are we looking for here anyways?”

The room is barely lit by anything else than just a handful of candles. Your twin holds a lantern of some sort in one hand, using it to make out the writings that are carved on the books backs.

When there doesn’t immediately come an answer from him, you start to slowly walk around the room, inspecting its decor. “I have exhausted the castle’s libraries, and hope to take something of their collection for my own,” he murmurs, carefully selecting two books.

You stop in your tracks and turn to look at him. Although you’re just a few moments younger than him, sharing the same attributes with your long, silver hair and lilac eyes, you have a much gentler nature than he does, one that doesn’t lend itself to the same mischief you had pursued together as children anymore.

“And you couldn’t have just taken Floris with you? You ought to wed, and doing something together would do no harm to your future union. One sparsely sees you two around court,” you note, slightly annoyed your brother chose to wake you instead of his betrothed.

Knowing all too well that just the mention of the betrothal is going to set him off, you choose to play with fire. If your brother wants your company, he’ll have to put up with your teasing. And just like expected, the notion of being forced into a marriage he doesn’t want to be in irritates him, audible in the sigh he releases. His resentment of the situation has become worse over time as he feels more and more suffocated by the ordeal.

“The girl is as dull as stones. Besides,” he replies with a shrug, “she knows nothing about our family’s history, much less about dragons.” The topic of dragons is something your twin is very passionate about, and you know that the fact that his wife-to-be cares so little about his passion infuriates him. It might be one of the main reasons for his dislike of her. “I have no desire to have Floris at my side any more than she does me.”

His annoyance is palpable, but you don’t feel bad about making it worse. For all the hours he has spent teasing, taunting and annoying you while you grew up together, he gets it back twice and three times over. And although he hasn’t spoken it out loud, you know you’re one of the few people he trusts blindly to be himself around.

“That aside, it would be foolish to read with Floris,” he continues, your silence coaxing him to speak more, “as all she does is gossip with her friends and prattle on about pointless nonsense. You of all people know best how I feel about this match.”

“Floris isn’t so bad, you know,” you defend with a low voice. “And you’ve barely tried to get to know her. Surely you can find at least one thing to like about her. If you did, you might just see she’s not as terrible as you’ve decided.” If you both have to spend your days withering away in marriages sealed by your father and mother, you at least could find a little solace knowing your twin wasn’t as miserable in his.

Aemond sighs in frustration. “You sound just like mother,” he comments dryly, finally moving to look at you from over his shoulder. “Can you really say that you like her? She is dull and naive. I am certain I couldn’t find anything to like about her even if I had all night. There is nothing for me to like about her. Nothing at all.”

Finding yourself at somewhat of a loss of words at this, you open and close your mouth without any words leaving it. Part of you wants to disagree with your twin, as Floris hasn’t been entirely unpleasant to spend time with at court, which makes Aemond’s dislike for her appear entirely without reason to you. On the other hand, you’ve known your brother long and well enough to know when he is resolute about something.

“Just promise me that you won’t be a terrible husband to her. Even if you don’t like her, don’t make your lifes awful,” you finally blurt out.

As you allow your gaze to trail through the chambers once more, you spot some small vessels standing lined up on the desk in the far corner with books and scrolls littered around them. You don’t wait for Aemond to reply as you make your way over, determined to inspect the small containers. The liquid inside of them resembles milk of the poppy, although it’s slightly more permeable to light when you hold it to one of the candles.

You hardly think about the dangers coming with it when you open the lid to inhale a whiff of the fluid. Not smelling entirely unpleasant, it still has you scrunching your nose as a slight burning grows prominent in your nose and throat.

Placing the vessel back down rather quickly, it stands too close to the edge of the desk. You’re not quick enough as it falls to the ground with a clatter, the vessel shattering into pieces and the pale liquid spreading across the floor.

“By the Seven,” you mumble, sinking to the ground to collect some of the larger shards.

The sound of breaking glass and your sighing is enough to catch your brother's attention again. Where he has read the spines of the books before, he makes his way over to the source of the commodation now. “You shouldn’t have dropped that,” he comments dryly, which prompts you to shoot him a heated glare. “Oh, you don’t say, mh?” you reply, your voice laced with sarcasm.

Reaching for another shard, you pull your hand back with a hiss when it cuts your finger. “Ouch!” you exclaim and rise to your feet, soon enough spotting the crimson oozing out of the cut.

Despite his annoyance at your clumsiness, Aemond’s good eye is drawn to the cut you have given yourself. It’s no deep wound, but even the hint of your blood makes something akin to guilt bubble in his stomach. “What were you doing with that?” he inquires, as he takes your hand to inspect your finger, nodding towards the vessels still standing on the desk.

You watch him twist and turn your hand to have the perfect look of the wound, the stinging pain suddenly not too bad with his warm skin on yours. “I… I just wanted to see what they keep here. It is unusual for anyone other than the maesters to store unmarked liquids,” you reply, hissing as Aemond pinches the cut finger a tad too tightly. “I shall see Maester Mellos. Mayhaps this needs stitching.”

“That’s an excellent idea.”

Aemond fetches the books he has chosen from the collection, holding them under his arm as he brings the other to you to place a hand to the small of your back, guiding you out of the Dragonpit.

On your request, the cut on your finger is stitched by Maester Mellos, although he has voiced that it wasn’t quite necessary. But something tells you the opposite, especially when you catch him staring at your face and checking your temperature more than once. “Is everything alright, maester?” you ask him with a soft voice, a yawn following.

Aemond towers over the both of you, carefully watching each move of the needle in the elder’s hands, just waiting for him to make a wrong move that’s meant to hurt you – he’s familiar with being stitched up after all.

The maester seems to be out of his mind, and only reacts as he hears you say his name. “Maester Mellos?”

His eyes are wide, but he nods quickly. “Yes… yes, princess. The wound should be able to heal calmly now.”

He is quick to pack his utensils up again, and even faster to leave your chambers at once. And while Aemond hurries after the old man, trying to catch up on him outside of your chambers, you don’t wait for any of them to return again with sleep coming over you.

The crackling of the fireplace is the only thing audible when you stir awake, a sheen of sweat covering your skin, making your nightgown cling to it uncomfortably. Your body feels as though it’s on fire when you squirm from one side to the other, not finding back to sleep. A tingling spreads in your loins, and each time your thighs squeeze together, it surges up your spine.

“Gods be good,” you whine, utterly bewildered with the feeling of liquid fire coursing through your veins.

Aemond not so silently rises from one of the chairs close to the fireplace, and comes closer to the bed, though, careful not to startle or frighten you as you regain your bearings. He has hoped you’d sleep through the entire ordeal and wake up as if nothing has happened, but that hope slowly dissipates with each passing moment.

“How are you feeling?” your twin asks, concern in his voice. Suddenly, hearing his voice allures you, and doesn’t diminish the burning at the apex of your legs.

As you clench your thighs together again, it releases some of the tension your body holds, and makes you whine in despair. “Aemond…” you pant, your chest rising and falling with your heavy breaths. “What are you doing here?”

The thin sheets covering your body do little to conceal what is happening beneath, and your brother just assumes it’s your way of trying to suppress your bodily urges ignited by the pale liquid you came in contact with before.

“I…” his usual confidence and boldness completely deserts him at the state you’re in, and he can barely find the words to tell you what he’s been told by Maester Mellos.

As he watches you writhe and writhe about on the bed, he’s unsure of how much longer he can just stand there and do nothing. But his concern and love for you cause him to make the decision to act, approaching you and reaching out to grasp your hands.

At the contact, the feeling of his warm hands fully engulfing yours, it’s like something overcomes your mind and body, luring you in to move, staring up at him with wide eyes as you sit on your haunches. “Dohaeragon nyke… kostilus,” you whimper, strands of your silver hair clinging to the damp sides of your face. “Ziry ōdrikagon.. sīr bāne. Nyke sepār – dohaeragon nyke, lēkia.” Yet you don’t quite know what exactly you’re begging for. Help me… please. It hurts… so hot. I just – help me, brother.

In the dim light of the candles, you spot his eye widening as you shift and squirm, looking up at him in such a vulnerable state with your innocent eyes, pleading for him to help you through your ordeal although you have no idea of what’s wrong with you right now. He can’t help but notice how your hair clings to your skin, seeming as if you’ve just bathed, and that your movements seem to contribute to its dampness.

“Mellos has told me what the fluid is that the Elder keeps in his chambers,” he states, trying to stay calm and not let your state affect him too much.

But with his proximity, all effort of you to process what he’s saying is fruitless. You pull on his hands, as if you want to encourage him to join you in bed, and when he doesn’t budge, you rise on your knees, and start to fidget with the buttons of his coat – solely driven by your urges. “And that is?” you mumble, not really listening.

His cheeks run hot when you start to undo the buttons, and his hands capture yours once again to put a stop to it, making you pout. With furrowed brows, his grip finally has you looking up at him. “It’s something used to aid in breeding the dragons,” Aemond states. “He told me it’s also used to increase their stamina and to make them more…” he trails off, his body slowly growing tense as the implication of what he’s going to say settles into his mind. “... receptive to breeding.”

“Mh–Mh,” you hum almost nonchalantly, and watch completely mesmerized as your fingers graze along his, the warmth and softness of his skin only intensifying the tingling in your loins. Aemond is hesitant, unsure whether or not what you’re doing is entirely due to the potion’s effect, or if there is genuinely some desire for him on your part.

You lick your lips and free your hands from Aemond’s to shrug the opened coat off his shoulders. The fabric of his tunic is pinched between your fingers as you tug on it once again to beg for him to join you. With him taking his sweet time, you find yourself clenching your thighs every now and then to soothe the aching burning at the apex of them.

“He also informed me that ‘tis necessary for someone to… help you through it,” he murmurs quietly, his voice almost sounding shaky as he speaks, “... for it will burn you from the inside out if not.”

Even though you’re fully acting on your body's desires, you do notice the way his widened eye trails down to your thighs, lingering there for a moment before it returns to yours.

You don’t give a verbal response to his words, and instead, your only reactions are subtle ones. Nodding your head slowly, as if you’ve understood what he is implying, your hands squeeze his tunic further into his chest. He can practically see your body tensing with each movement of your fingers, almost as if you’re trying to hold back.

With your eyes firmly locked with his now, you slowly trail your hands beneath his tunic, pushing it up to remove that as well from his body to get further access to him – if it wasn’t for him not raising his arms.

Exhaling a deep breath, you sit back on your haunches. His reluctance does little to quell the fire raging within you, no, it only fuels to make you even more desperate. The lacey hem of your nightgown rides up your thighs as you spread them, and fully exposes your undergarments the moment you bring your hand between your legs. A breathy whimper falls past your lips as your fingers finally make contact with your clothed cunt, and then something akin to mischief flickers in your lilac eyes.

“And… will you help me, brother? Or shall I ask Jacaerys for help instead? We ought to wed in a moon's turn after all,” your voice is honeyed as you speak, dripping with feigned innocence. “But you don’t want that, do you? That’s why you’ve stayed.”

You spot the exact moment his breath hitches in his throat. He suddenly feels a wave of heat overcoming him, your words triggering something in him that is more than just the usual desire to protect his younger sister, something primal. You sound and look so vulnerable asking for his help, secretly begging for him and him only.

Intertwining your fingers with his, the intensity of your grip increasing as your senses become more heightened, your twin finally moves as you pull him onto the bed. The mattress dips beneath his weight as you watch him come closer, and when he is close enough, you reach and pull him down onto you in a quick motion. You don’t waste a second more and lock your lips with his, your hand slowly traveling down his back. But before you can grab his tunic and pull it over his head, Aemond pushes you back to lie flatly on the bed, pinning your wrists above your head. His eye burns with hunger as he gazes down at you, visible even in the dim light, and it makes you yearn for more.

“Well, if I chose to leave you here to your own devices, would you crawl to your betrothed for help? I do not think so,” he says, his voice taking over a mocking tone. “No, in fact, I’m certain you would come to my chambers instead.”

When he doesn’t touch you, you try to wrap your legs around his body to grind yourself against him, but Aemond is quick to catch your hip with one hand, keeping your body still as it's pinned to the mattress.

“Sir, dohaeragon nyke,” you beg, voice shaky enough it comes close to a whimper. But when you notice that speaking in the tongue of your ancestors is not having any effect on him at all, you choose to coax him to tend to you in the Common Tongue. “Touch me, Aemond. Help me… please.” Now, help me.

Aemond is silent for a moment, visibly dragging his eye over your squirming frame. One hand still holds your wrists above your head, while the other slowly but surely releases your hip. “I shall take care of you,” he reassures you. “But you will have to let me, do you understand?”

You gaze up at him with wide eyes and slowly nod your head, only for you to pounce on him the moment your wrists are released. The tunic is gone as soon as your body collides with his, causing a strained gasp to leave your twin’s lips. While just the thoughts of his warm skin on yours have incite your mind already, seeing his bare chest sets your body alight.

His demeanor changes in the blink of an eye, and he has never treated you as roughly as he does when he pushes you off of him. It leaves you dumbfounded for a moment, more so when he moves between your parted legs, towering over you.

“Look how dull this fluid has made you,” he mocks, the condescending tone of his voice sending a shiver up your spine. Aemond notices that you’re not shying away from him, no, you keen at that. “Just because you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself.”

“If I help you,” he warns, “no one else, let alone that bastard of a nephew, is ever allowed to touch you again, do you understand?”

It might be the liquid-induced state, or the despair to have him do anything to you already, but you’re far too eager to nod at his words.

Aemond’s hand wanders below the hem of your nightgown to heartily fist your undergarments and peel them off of you. He can already feel that the linen is soaked with your arousal, but still can’t stop himself from licking his lips as he sees your now exposed cunt glistening in the light of the candles.

“Now, we do not want you to suffer any longer, hm?” he asks.

And you nod once again. “Gods, yes, please. I need you, Aemond.”

You don’t have to beg him any longer. He undoes the laces in the front of his breeches and pulls out his throbbing cock, painfully hard and aching to be buried inside of you. It’s slightly curved and thick, and if you have to guess, you’d say that you need both hands to pleasure him, and even then there’d still be a bit of him that would be left abandoned.

Aemond wastes no time in lining himself up with your entrance, pushing into you as you both moan in unison. You don’t expect him to set up a merciless pace almost immediately upon fully bottoming out, but you’re not disappointed either.

While you’ve been able to talk before, he’s quickly reduced you to a whimpering and whining mess, relishing in the delicious burning of accommodating his sheer size.

“Does it help?” your twin asks through gritted teeth, desperately trying to keep his sounds of pleasure at bay. But you’ve been fucked into a stupor by him already, not even able to keep your eyes open. “Mh-mh,” you hum.

Putting some of his weight onto you, Aemond’s hand finds your throat like the most treasured necklace you only take off to sleep, taking up the entirety of your neck and leaving no room for you to shift even the slightest.

It was subtle at first, but the merciless pace slowly changes into something more determined, his hips rolling with each thrust as if he wants to make sure the tip of his cock really brushes your sweet spot every time. He’s seemingly spurred on by the way you’ve lost all inhibitions, not that the fluid allowed you to have any in the first place, and the wanton moans that spill past your lips.

One of your hands grabs his wrist, keeping his hand around your throat, while the other finds solace on his shoulder, gripping it tightly. Your nails dig into his alabaster skin, and you’re sure that crescent shaped marks will bloom there not long after, staking your claim on him.

“But you need more,” Aemond grunts, and you can’t do more than whimper a pathetic string of yesses. “The only thing that will truly help you is for me to fill you up with my seed, to breed you.”

Your head tips back in plain bliss, and you’re not sparing one thought to the possible repercussions of him putting a child in you. If anything, there is something buried deeply inside of you that has waited for this moment. You have waited for this moment. You grew up thinking you’d marry your twin one day, only for the rising tensions inside of the family to force you to marry your nephew instead as the final straw to mend the chasm.

Aemond’s stamina doesn’t seem to be able to handle the way your body reacts to him and his words – not when a renewed wave of your arousal drips from your cunt at the mere thought of you carrying his child. It’s running thin, ready to burst at any given moment, hence he brings a deft finger to your pearl, rubbing it with frantic movements that should bring you to peak just in time with him.

The pressure brought to your pearl has your body squirming, not anticipating it and the shiver of pleasure that comes with it. You arch your back and moan, yet a tight squeeze of your throat is enough to bring your attention back to him.

“Do you want that?” he pants, dark blown eyes fixed with yours. “Want me to put a babe in you?” It might be his way to ask for your reassurance, and while your body’s reaction should be enough with your walls clenching around him so tightly, he stills wants to hear your voice.

Your cheeks grow hot as his words finally seem to settle in your hazed mind, a whiny ‘yes’ slipping past your lips. “Fill me up, Aemond… please. I want it,” you all but beg, your voice croaked with him squeezing your throat.

The confession flips a switch inside of you that allows you to let go, your body shattering beneath Aemond with a pathetic whine. He relishes in the way your walls flutter and spasm all over him, utterly mesmerized as relief etches itself into your features.

With a groan, the first wanton sound of pleasure you’ve heard of him, Aemond spends himself inside of you. He connects your lips in a heated kiss that has you swallowing down each grunt and groan he unleashes. Working you both through the blissful highs, his hips only stop once he’s sure he’s fucked his seed as deep as possible, determined to put a child in you.

Aemond topples over into the vacant space next to you, his breeches soaked with your arousal and his chest heaving with his breaths.

The sudden loss of friction makes you whine at first, but is quickly overshadowed by the feeling of relief. “Thank you,” you whisper through heavy breaths, turning your head to look at him.

“I won’t leave now,” he says softly, although there is a linger of mischief in his voice. “I would be remiss not to aid my sister in her hour of utmost desperation… so, I shall stay the night just to make sure you really get through it.”

Aemond Taglist: @persephonerinyes @dr-aegon @schniiipsel @thekinslayed @baizzhu @legitalicat

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