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maii777 · 1 year ago

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Omg Im so happy they got their happy together in the end 🥹💕

Napoleonville [Chapter 10: The House Of Saint Honoratus of Amiens] [Series Finale]

Series Summary: The year is 1988. The town is Napoleonville, Louisiana. You are a small business owner in need of some stress relief. Aemond is a stranger with a taste for domination. But as his secrets are revealed, this casual arrangement becomes something more volatile than either of you could have ever imagined.

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, smoking, drinking, drugs, weddings, Willis Warning, infidelity, kids, parenthood, Rice-A-Roni.

Word Count: 6k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @marvelescvpe @toodlesxcuddles @era127 @at-a-rax-ia @0eessirk8 @arcielee @dd122004dd @humanpurposes @taredhunter @tinykryptonitewerewolf @partnerincrime0 @dr-aegon @persephonerinyes @namelesslosers @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @daenysx @gemini-mama @chattylurker @moonlightfoxx @huramuna @britt-mf @myspotofcraziness @padfooteyes @targaryenbarbie @trifoliumviridi @joliettes @darkenchantress @florent1s @babyblue711 @minttea07 @bungalowbear @bluerskiees @herfantasyworldd @elizarbell @urmomsgirlfriend1 @fudge13 @strangersunghoon @wickedfrsgrl

Thank you so much for loving this strange, sexy, sweet story. I hope you enjoy the finale. 🥰🧁

Your bare feet in warm grass, your hands around the ropes of the tree swing, no sounds except the ancient psalms of the earth: cicadas, mourning doves, goldfinches, bumble bees, bullfrogs, wind in the leaves of the dogwoods and southern live oaks. The adolescent alligator is at one end of the front yard, sunbathing up by the mouth of the gravel driveway; in the opposite corner are several nutria nibbling on cattails. The sky is a calm, cloudless blue. It’s hot, mid-80s, even when 5:00 p.m. comes and goes; but the breeze is cool as it evaporates the sweat from your temples, your palms, the nape of your neck. It’s as close as Louisiana ever gets to Heaven. It’s a good day for a wedding.

You remember thinking that it was the end of the world when you found out you were pregnant almost exactly eleven years ago, and then again when you realized you would have to divorce Willis, and so you have lived through enough moments like this—these quiet, infinitesimal apocalypses—to know that there will be a future beyond Aemond marrying Christabel. The sun will rise tomorrow, and then it will set, the lightning bugs will appear and the stars will tell myths in the night sky, and the phone will ring as orders come in for the bakery, and Cadi will be back in her bedroom playing her Nintendo, and life will roll on like currents through the bayou: slow, opaque, inevitable. The world isn’t ending, you know that. It’s just full of beautiful things that aren’t for you.

Out on Route 401, a Plymouth Gran Fury zooms by the house, squeals to a halt, and then reverses until Willis can take another look, squinting through his tinted windows. He turns down the driveway and steps out into golden July daylight. He doesn’t pay any attention to the gator as he strides past her. He belongs here, in a place that is old and strange and savage and full of beasts. You have carved out a home for yourself in the swamplands; Willis was born with veins like the roots of a mangrove tree and ancient silt instead of marrow in his bones.

“Hey, sugar,” he says, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair. The wind ruffles the dark curls of his mullet, the bumble bees flee as he tramples clovers. “Ain’t ya supposed to be at the weddin’?”

“I’m sick.” A lie. “But Cadi’s fine, she’s with Amir. She was so excited she actually wore one of the sundresses my mom bought her and had Amir braid a dogwood flower into her hair to match his. You should have seen it. You would’ve been so proud.”

“I’m always proud of her,” Willis says, smiling. And then: “Ya don’t look sick.”

“I am.”

“Ya got one of your headaches?”

You pause. You don’t, but this is a convenient excuse. “Yeah.”

Willis stalls, his hands on his belt. His pistol is there; you remember how he used it in the bayou, how he helped save your life. But he wasn’t the one who jumped into the water. Aemond was willing to risk his body for me, but not his soul. What kind of sense does that make? “Ya had me scared for a minute there,” Willis says.

“What? When?”

“When I thought ya were goin’ to end up with that Rockefeller boy.”

“Aemond?” you say, like it’s so shocking. “No. Absolutely not. It’s impossible.”

“And why’s that?”

You stare into the trees so Willis can’t see the tears welling up in your eyes, the tension in your throat as embers kindle there, pulsing with heat that could char flesh to the bone. “He can’t marry someone like me.”

“I could,” Willis replies, grinning. You glare at him until he recants. “Alright, alright, oublie ça. Pardonne-moi.”

“Why would you be afraid of me and Aemond being together?”

“An oil tycoon? A millionaire? He would never stay here for long. In a town like Napoleonville? Soon as he was done getting’ those rigs up and runnin’, he’d go jettin’ off to some other corner of the world, and he’d take you with him. And Cadi too. I wouldn’t be able to fight that. What’s a parish sheriff to a Targaryen? Who would listen to me? Cadi would be gone and I’d never get her back. It would kill me. It would rip the heart right outta my chest.”

You look up at Willis from where you sit on the tree swing, the soles of your feet colored with soil and grass. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“No?” he asks, perhaps suspicious, perhaps hopeful.

“No,” you promise. “Cadi loves you. Cadi needs you to be in her life. I would never try to take her away from you, Willis.”

He nods; he seems to believe you. And something relaxes in him, like there’s been a tension in the lines of his spine and shoulders that you didn’t notice for years. “I’m sorry about your petit ami.”

“Yeah. Me too.” It comes out like a whisper, brittle and frail. “I’m sorry about Lake Verret.”

“They might be able to fix it. Talk around town is they got some kind of desalination”—he says this with each syllable enunciated distinctly, like he’s put great effort into memorizing it—“process that can take the salt back outta the water. And if that don’t work…” He shrugs with a sly smile. “I’ll survive somehow. The world’s a big place. There’s always another lake.”

You consider him, and you remember—like a dream from the night before that just returned to you—how Willis can be unexpectedly deep, randomly tender. “They should put that on bumper stickers.”

He chuckles and waves as he heads back to his car. “I’ll pick Cadi up on Tuesday. Back to the usual schedule.”

“Sure.” Back to real life. Back to before I met Aemond. And you find yourself wishing that you could forget what it had felt like to be with him; the absence he left feels so much heavier than the nonspecific longing that existed before. Willis’ Plymouth Gran Fury rolls out of the driveway, and you stay precisely where you are on the tree swing, absentmindedly pushing yourself back and forth with your tiptoes and trying to believe that tomorrow this will feel easier, and then even easier the day after that, and eventually it will cease to be anything but a vague recollection, a relic in a rarely-opened drawer, a whisper, an echo. One day, you will stop missing Aemond. One day, you will stop wondering whether a sliver of his life would have been better than none at all.

Inside what Cadi calls the Fall-Down House, the phone rings. You ignore it; if it’s an order for the bakery, they can leave a message. But then it rings again, and again, and you have to answer it. What if your mother had a heart attack? What if Cadi and Amir were in a car accident? You hurry to the kitchen and grab the phone, pink to match the little Panasonic boombox that is presently silent.

“Hello?”

“Hiiiiiii,” Amir says, slow and something else too. Disoriented? Evasive?

Your forehead wrinkles with confusion. “Where are you calling from?” There are definitely no phonelines running to the Chapel of Saint Honoratus of Amiens, a tiny brick-and-stucco edifice built in the 1830s.

“I’m at a McDonald’s up the road. I’ve paid them $5 to let me use the phone.” And then, because he knows it’s the first place your mind will go: “Cadi’s fine. She’s eating Chicken McNuggets. Everyone’s fine.”

“Okay…?”

“I think you should come over here.”

“What, to the chapel?!”

“Yeah.” He’s talking to someone; you can hear an indistinct tangle of voices through the hand he undoubtedly has clasped over the transmitter.

I can’t see Aemond. I can’t see Christabel. There is a lurching in your guts; you are a fish that swallowed a hook. “I thought we agreed that I wasn’t going to go to the wedding.” I can’t handle it. It might kill me.

“Yes, we did, but now…um…I think you will want to make an appearance.”

“Amir, what happened?”

There is more muffled conversation on the other end of the line. “Look,” he tells you. “Things, uh…things are…occurring. And I think it would be better to explain in person.”

“Did you drop the cake?”

“No,” he says, defensive. “The cake is perfect, thank you for your concern. Not a single frosting wildflower was mutilated in the delivery.”

“Then why—?”

“Do you trust me?” Amir asks.

The answer is obvious. Of course. More than anyone. “You know I do.”

“Then go get in your car.”

You glance at the clock on the wall. “Okay, but you know it’s going to take me like 40 minutes to drive to Belle River.”

“That’s fine.” He confers with someone else. “Yeah, that’s good actually, that will work.”

“Great,” you say uncertainly.

“See you soon!” Then Amir hangs up, leaving you alone in the creaks and groans of your ailing house.

You take Route 70 around Lake Verret, gliding past fields of soybeans and sugarcane, paddocks of cattle and horses, marshes of cordgrass occupied by blue herons and white egrets and prowling alligators, stirring awake as the sun begins its descent into the west. More than once, you notice that your Chevy Celebrity’s odometer reports you are travelling well below the speed limit. You aren’t in any hurry to reach the chapel; you don’t want to carry the weight of what you will see there, Christabel in her wedding dress, Aemond in his suit, Alicent anxiously fidgeting and gnawing at her fingernails, Viserys parading around triumphantly. You can’t imagine that there is anything less than torturous for you there. You don’t remember what you’re wearing until you reach Belle River, a small, old town full of double-wide trailers and jetties that run far out into the lake: a simple cotton sundress you threw on this morning without much thought, modest but white and therefore forbidden for a wedding guest. The sky is turning from a sun-drenched cerulean blue to something more soft, more muted, as dusk lurks just a few hours away. The radio is playing Tracy Chapman’s Fast Car.

The Chapel of Saint Honoratus of Amiens was built by a man in extremis. An acclaimed mason by trade, he had been born in France and settled in the New World in Louisiana when it was still in the possession of Napoleon. The mason had a wife and children—some people say 5, others say 8 or 10, though details always seem to grow more elaborate in the retelling, don’t they?—and he loved them dearly. But tragedy struck when every single member of the family, except for the mason himself, fell ill with tuberculosis. When healers of the earth failed to offer sufficient remedies, the mason appealed to a higher power. He built the chapel to implore Honoratus of Amiens, his wife’s favorite saint—she was a baker and a florist, both professions that Honoratus presides over—to intercede with the Almighty on their behalf. This effort proved futile, and as each member of the family died, the mason interred them in a brick vault beneath the altar where they would spend eternity together. Perhaps this makes for a peculiar wedding venue, yet for over a century couples rich and poor, religious and secular have traveled to the chapel to exchange their vows. Perhaps there are few things more romantic than loving someone in the face of total futility: illness, distance, unrequitedness, prohibitions, death.

The chapel sits in a clearing surrounded by live oak trees, massive, hundreds of years old, hanging with Spanish moss, blotting out the sunlight as aisles cascade through gaps in the leaves. As you park in the grass—joining an army of Lexuses, Audis, limousines, Porsches, Ferraris, Cadillacs, Aston Martins, Alfa Romeos, and Amir’s blue Ford Escort—you observe that there are perhaps fifty guests in formal attire milling aimlessly around the building. You peer down at your white sundress, frowning. Well, I can’t go naked. The faux pas will have to be forgiven. You step out of your Chevy Celebrity and make your way across the clearing towards the chapel.

There is a long table set up in the shade with a tower of champagne glasses, an ice sculpture of a dragon, and the banana bread cake you and Amir baked for the wedding. Grim-faced servants in black suits are cutting slices and handing them out to guests on green china plates. You recognize Aegon’s wife Stephanie chatting with a flock of young women in extravagant gowns, golds and emeralds and sapphires. Helaena is among them, wearing a shimmering blue-green color like the scales of her chameleon Dreamfyre. Evidently, the Targaryens’ exotic pets have been left at the mansion for this excursion.

“Well,” the princess of Monaco says sardonically as she takes a bite, the white cream cheese frosting covered with a kaleidoscope of wildflowers. “At least the cake is good. What is this, banana? Whoever heard of a banana wedding cake? I mean, it’s delicious, but still. I knew that Christabel girl was daft. Did you see her positively absurd dress? It looks like children doodled all over it…”

Is it over? you think as you weave through the crowd, largely unnoticed. Is the ceremony done already? Why would Aemond want to see me? To try to convince me to be his mistress one last time? To show me what I’m missing by severing ties with him?

But no: something else has happened. Viserys and Christabel’s father the marquess are embroiled in a heated argument; a nun and two priests are trying to haul them apart.

“You’re dead to me, Viserys!” the marquess roars. “And you’ll be dead to everyone back home once I tell them what you’ve done!”

“I did my part! This has nothing to do with me! Wait…wait…we can figure something else out! Wait! Wait! You can have Daeron!”

Wedding guests are gawking and snapping photos with their polaroid cameras. Upon hearing his name, Daeron glances over towards his father wearily. Alicent’s youngest son is kneeling beside where she has collapsed to the grass, patting her encouragingly on the shoulder as she sobs into a green cloth handkerchief. Criston is there too, trying to soothe her with sympathetic murmurs and a flute of pink champagne glittering with bubbles of carbonation.

“How did this happen?” she wails, peering up at Criston with her vast, dark, glassy eyes. The gold rings on her fingers clang and glint; they match the single hoop earring that Criston wears. Alicent’s gown is purple like royalty, but Criston is dressed in a suit of pale pink; it’s the exact same one Daeron has on. Groomsmen? you wonder. “He knows better than this! We raised him better than this!”

You think, stunned and petrified: Aemond, what the hell did you do?

As you approach the chapel, you note that it appears empty inside; you don’t spot anyone in the pews. Somewhere, a boombox is thundering Higher Love. At the entrance of the building, Christabel is sitting on the brick walkway in her wedding dress. It’s the one you told her to choose: elegant and timeless, long train and short flowing sleeves, silk wildflowers sewn into the white lace. Her bouquet is lying forgotten on the ground beside her. Her lips are a deep, lovely pink; her eyeshadow is gold. She’s smoking, something you’ve never seen her do before. There is a half-crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds and a lighter in her left hand, a single lit cigarette in her right.

“Um, hi, Christabel,” you say. And then, something equally brainless: “Is everything okay?”

“I should have known.” She’s staring out at the crowd, not at you. Her large blue eyes are dull, vacant.

“You should have known what?” Your heart is in your throat; blood pounds in your ears like the hooves of a racehorse.

“That he didn’t care,” she says listlessly. “I could tell that he didn’t. I could feel it. But I didn’t want it to be true, so I told myself it wasn’t. Isn’t that interesting? How we can lie to ourselves? Not that it was entirely my error. Other people meddled plenty. ‘Oh no, Christabel.’ ‘He’s just emotionally stunted, Christabel.’ ‘He’s busy with work, Christabel.’ What man is too busy with work to handle a five-minute phone call? It’s not like he was on the moon. He could have made time if he wanted to. I bet he made lots of time for you.”

“Uh.” You try to decide what to say. “I broke up with him, if that’s what you’re asking. I didn’t want to be his mistress. I didn’t think that was fair to you.” Or me, obviously, but right now doesn’t seem to be the opportune time to voice my own grievances.

“Next time, I’m going to choose who I marry,” Christabel insists, puffing on her cigarette. “He has to talk to me. He has to like me.”

Aemond called it off? What did he say? What is he going to do now? “Christabel…do you know where Aemond is? Or Amir and Cadi?”

“Alicent is so upset,” she says instead. “Poor woman. She’s sweet, in her own way. But I don’t want to end up like her.” Christabel holds up the pack of Marlboros and the lighter. “She feels guilty, I think. She gave me these. She had them in her purse, she has so many neurotic little habits, doesn’t she? It’s not very ladylike to smoke, but it’s not ladylike to get left at the altar either, so fuck it.”

You ask, afraid to know the answer: “Do you hate me? I didn’t know Aemond was engaged when I met him. And then…” Why lie now? What’s the point? “Then I was in love with him and it was kind of…too late to try not to be. But I’m sorry.”

“I don’t hate you,” Christabel replies immediately. “I know he would never be allowed to marry…someone like you. Your options were limited.”

You don’t know if this is meant to be an insult or not. “Thanks.”

“I don’t think I ever loved him either,” Christabel realizes, exhaling smoke. “I think I idolized him. I think I loved my fantasy of what our marriage would be like. But I didn’t love Aemond. I didn’t even know Aemond. You did, I suspect. Good luck with him. He’s a bit…complex.”

“I’m sorry,” you say again, rather compulsively. You aren’t sure what she expects from you. Abruptly, from wherever it’s coming from, Higher Love is cut off. “So, is Aemond, like…around, or…?”

“I don’t regret the sex part.”

“Okay.” You examine the crowd in the clearing again. You still don’t see Aemond.

“That went well,” Christabel muses. “I’m glad my first time is over and done with. I was terrified it would hurt like hell. And so few people know, so it’s almost like it never happened, right?”

“Right,” you say obediently.

“I think I’ll have a new rule. I won’t marry anyone unless he likes me and we sleep together first. Life is too long to spend it with the wrong person, don’t you agree?”

“I totally do.”

“He’s waiting for you inside,” Christabel says, flicking ashes towards the gaping doorway of the chapel.

“Really?” you peer into the shadows; there is indeed a solitary figure standing at the altar. “So…what exactly is happening…?”

“Go,” Christabel urges, and takes a drag on her cigarette. You leave her and cross through the doorway into the chapel.

The light is dim and gentle; fading sunbeams slant in through the glass of the cathedral-style windows. The mason’s inspiration was Gothic architecture, imposing, cavernous. Two candlelit iron chandeliers hang from the high ceiling; the floor is made of tiles of black and white marble. Small stone sculptures of angels watch over their realm like benevolent gargoyles. There is a single stained glass window above the altar: circular like a ring, red and gold like the sun.

He’s waiting for you in a pale pink suit, long disheveled hair, thin mustache with flecks of white powder in it, mischievous smirk. “Hey cake lady,” Aegon says.

“Um. I’m not marrying you.”

“No, you’re definitely not.” Aegon offers you his hand and you take it with some hesitation. “I’m here to be your guide. Just like on the Oregon Trail.”

“What…?”

“Let’s go.” He pulls you out of the chapel, past where Christabel is still sitting at the entranceway, and across the clearing towards the trees. When you look to the crowd, Otto is elbowing his way through disgruntled guests towards a limousine, already idling.

Viserys bellows at him: “Where the hell are you going?!”

“Back to Kiribati!” Otto shouts back, not breaking his stride. He vanishes into the limo.

“Hurry,” Aegon says. He leads you into the forest, a thick canopy of verdant leaves and Spanish moss and the narrow rays of sunshine that tumble down through the gaps.

“Aegon, I don’t think we should be in the woods, it could be dangerous—”

“No, this part is fine. We already checked.”

“Who’s ‘we’?!” You’re wearing flip flops that catch on gnarled roots; the shrieking of cicadas grows loud. One of them buzzes towards Aegon and he screams as he backhands it away.

“You good?” Amir’s voice calls from farther within the trees.

“Yeah. I’m fine. We made it.”

You turn to Aegon. “What’s going on—?”

Suddenly, there is booming music that startles you: “Ooh, baby, do you know what that’s worth? Ooh, Heaven is a place on Earth! They say in Heaven, love comes first, we’ll make Heaven a place on Earth! Ooh, Heaven is a place on Earth!”

“Aegon, what is that?”

“Uh, I think it’s Heaven Is A Place On Earth.”

“Yes, okay, but why?”

“Ask that guy.” You round a thicket and there under a colossal southern live oak tree, surrounded by hundred-year-old branches that twist down to the earth, is Aemond; but he’s not looking at you. He and Cadi are lighting the last of the candles. She picks them up, he ignites the wick with the same lighter he uses to smoke his Marlboros, and then Cadi places them back on the ground or on top of a branch. Amir is standing by the large black boombox, the same one Aegon always listens to by the Targaryens’ pool. Amir grins craftily, pushing his tortoiseshell glasses up the bridge of his nose. His suit is orange, the single dogwood flower in his hair white.

“Did we get them all?” Aemond asks Cadi.

“Yeah, I think so. Wait, no, there’s one over there!” Cadi darts to it and Aemond lights the candle, then spins around and sees you. He smiles. “Hi, Cupcake.”

“Hi,” you say, so shellshocked you can’t form any of your very vital questions.

“Okay, so we have the candles,” Aemond informs you as Cadi and Aegon go to join Amir. “White with wildflower patterns.” And you recall how Alicent mentioned needing to pick out candles with Christabel, and how you didn’t see any scattered around the chapel. They brought them here. They did it for me. “And we have some actual wildflowers.” He takes the boutonniere off the lapel of his white suit and tucks it into your hair behind your left ear. “And we have Heaven Is A Place On Earth.” He gestures to the boombox. “And I think those were the three things you said you wanted if you were ever going to get married again.”

I did say that. Just once, months ago, the first time he ever came over, the first time he ever touched me. “You remembered.”

“Of course I remembered.” He takes both of your hands in his own. Amir lets out a little squeal and covers his mouth as his eyes begin to glisten. Aemond takes a deep breath. “So, I don’t have a speech, because this is very last-minute. I mean extremely last-minute. But you were right about everything. And I realized I couldn’t live that way. It wouldn’t be fair to you or to me, but it wouldn’t be fair to Christabel either. So I broke it off.”

“Literally at the altar,” Aegon says. “In front of everybody. It was so fucking awkward.”

“Those are not necessary details!” Aemond snaps, then looks back to you and is smiling again. “I know what I want. I’ve known it for as long as I’ve known you. But I wasn’t a strong enough person to make it happen. I’m so sorry. I should have done things differently. I can’t change the past. But everything is going to be different now.”

You gaze up at him as Belinda Carlisle sings, thinking: This can’t be real. I’m going to wake up now.

“On the night we met, you told me you’d never felt chosen,” Aemond says. “I’m choosing you. And, you know.” He nods to her. “Cadi too. And Amir. And the bakery. And dealing with Willis too, I guess. All of it. I’m choosing you and your whole life and that’s exactly where I want to be.”

You can feel the warmth in your face, beaming and hopeful and full of possibilities. Under the shade of the southern live oak, the first lightning bugs are blooming in the air like stars. “What about your family?”

“I’ll figure it out. I don’t think my father can entirely disown me…turns out I’m the only one who understands how the stock market works. But no matter what, you and Cadi are the priority. And my father will have to learn to live with that.”

“Or he can drop dead,” Aegon says. “Whichever.”

It’s possible? We can be together? Not just for a night, an afternoon, a stolen moment, but forever?

“I said I don’t have a speech.” Aemond tells you. His right eye is bright, elated, gleaming like a mirror. “I don’t have a ring either. But I’m going to get you one, if you’ll let me. So I’m asking you, Cupcake: Will you marry me?”

“Say yes, Mom!” Cadi yells, and Amir bursts out laughing.

“Say yes, cake lady!” Aegon adds. “Unlimited Cap’n Crunch Treats!”

When am I going to wake up? When is this going to end?

But it’s not a dream. It’s real. And Aemond reads the answer on your face before you can say it, and so it’s only a murmur as he kisses you, a whisper, a prayer: “Yes.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The three of you drive from the new house all the way to San Francisco; you still call it the new house, even though you’ve owned it for a full year. The journey takes seven days, with overnight stops in Dallas, Wonderland Amusement Park in Amarillo, Albuquerque, Flagstaff, Las Vegas, and Bakersfield. Aemond sold his Audi Quattro and replaced it with a Dodge Caravan. It’s July 1989, and Tom Petty’s brand new single Runnin’ Down A Dream is strumming from the radio. It’s always temperate in San Fran, in the 60s even at the height of summer. The sky is overcast and grey. When Cadi complains that she’s cold despite the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles hoodie you packed for her, Aemond gives her his Marlboro jacket.

Amir, his boyfriend, and two other roommates share a sunshine yellow Italianate townhouse in the Castro District. Aemond parks his wood-paneled Caravan on the steep, inclined street—he narrowly misses colliding with a whooshing cable car, which he blames on poor depth perception—and then helps you carry the luggage inside. There are no alligators on the front porch, but there are neighborhood cats that Amir puts out Friskies for; there are no screaming cicadas, but there are swooping seagulls and the melodies of sidewalk musicians. When Amir opens the door, he nearly tackles you with enthusiasm. He still wears his loud colors and short shorts, but he’s traded in the dogwood flowers he once wove into his hair for dahlias.

Amir’s boyfriend is named Don, but everyone calls him Donald Schwarzenegger because he looks so much like the Austrian bodybuilder turned actor. When Amir first arrived in the city, he got a job as a cake decorator for a very popular bakery, and quickly segued into handling much of their marketing as well. He’s thinking of getting a degree in advertising and trying his luck in corporate America. You very much enjoy teasing him for being a sellout; what would socialist Bayard Rustin say?

“Call your Daddy and let him know we made it safely to the West Coast,” you tell Cadi once her things are unpacked in the guest room she’ll get all to herself; you and Aemond are consigned to the living room futon. Cadi chats with Willis for a while, then says he wants to talk to you. You take the phone, slightly concerned; you hope nothing is amiss with the house. “Hello?”

“What the hell is wrong with this horse?” he demands. “That ain’t no pet. That’s a demon. It’s a goddamn Rougarou.”

“I told you not to try to touch him,” you say, amused.

“I feed him and water him, don’t I? Ain’t that the least he can do? Lettin’ me scratch his big ol’ idiot head?”

“Patches is not very well-behaved. But Cadi loves him.”

“And don’t even get me started on the dog. Ugliest fuckin’ dog I ever saw. Growls every time I show up. Shows its teeth and everythin’. I’d take twenty gators over that son of a bitch any day.”

“Vhagar is a girl,” you say. “Thanks for watching them while we’re out of town.”

“Sure thing, sugar. Although I still don’t understand why the bon a rien can’t do it.”

“Aegon isn’t always…reliable.” But he does seem to be improving. He’s cut back to mostly just booze and marijuana, because otherwise he and Sunfyre aren't allowed to stay at the new house for sleepovers. There’s a guest bedroom, but Aegon prefers the sunken conversation pit in the mauve pink living room. He likes to be where anyone can stumble across him if they wake up in the middle of the night for pancakes or ice cream. He likes to be where people are; he likes to be included. “Anyway, I gotta go. Cadi will call again tomorrow. Enjoy your fishing.”

“Will do. Maybe I’ll toss your accursed animals in as bait.” Lake Verret is still a bit too brackish for a proper freshwater lake, but that’s changing gradually with Daeron’s desalination efforts and a subaquatic plug affixed to the opening of the breached salt dome. He views it as a pioneering experiment in reversing such drilling accidents, potentially for application globally. Now there are more bass and lampreys and catfish, and less breams and gars, but life goes on in Napoleonville’s 14,000-acre lake. Daeron has replaced Aemond as Viserys’ heir apparent, and he is thriving in the role. He is bookish yet empathetic, focused but never ruthless. Furthermore, he happens to be genuinely in love with his aristocratic fiancée: Princess Alexandra of Denmark.

Aemond was right; Viserys didn’t disown him, but he did fire him, ban him from the mansion, and reduce his available funds to a modest living stipend. Fortunately, Viserys has a very limited comprehension of how money works for normal people, and he considers $200,000 per year to be “modest.” With that plus your bakery earnings and a paid-off house, you, Cadi, and Aemond will be living comfortably for the remainder of your lives. Also fortunately, no one else will enforce the no-Aemond rule at The Last Desire, so anytime Viserys is out of town—which is far more often than not—you get to visit the Targaryens at the mansion as much as you please. Cadi loves the water slide and the koi pond. She’s named the fish after Greek deities, her latest obsession: Zeus, Narcissus, Athena, Dionysus, Artemis, Apollo, Echo. Viserys will not acknowledge you, but the rest of the family is polite enough now that the drama of the broken engagement has blown over. When you finish the cookbook of Southern baked goods that you’ve been working on, Alicent had pledged to mail copies to all her friends and relatives back in the U.K. Otto has offered to take a box of them with him next time he jets off for Kiribati; the wealthy housewives marooned in paradise are always on the hunt for new reading material.

On your first night in San Francisco, Amir serves a dinner of cioppino, sourdough bread, and (not homemade) Rice-A-Roni. You provide dessert, a recipe you’re still perfecting: Saint Honoratus cake, a pastry that dates back to Paris in the 1800s. You want to be able to include it in your cookbook, along with photographs from your wedding in the chapel this past May, almost exactly a year from when you and Aemond first met. Your engagement ring has a gold band and pink diamonds arranged to resemble a rockrose, a dauntless little wildflower native to Aemond’s ancestral homeland of Greece. For over a decade you have loved that wildflowers are grown and not bought, small but tenacious, humble yet untamed. They do not wait for other hands to tell them where and how to grow. They are the architects of their own fortune.

When everyone is finished with dessert and gathers around the tv to watch The Golden Girls, Aemond says he’s going outside for a smoke break; but you know he’s trying to quit. You follow him into the small backyard and as soon as your bare feet touch the grass, he’s pushed you against the wall of the house, forced your thighs apart, slipped his hand down the front of your shorts as he watches the amazed, electrified desire rise in your face like heat from a stove. “It’s been a week, and I need you,” Aemond murmurs, his lips ghosting across your throat, his hips braced insistently against yours, and then he kisses you to stifle your moans as you bury your fingers in his hair, to swallow down the vicarious ecstasy of every wondrous thing he’s ever done to you and ever will. “I don’t even need you to get me off. I just need to see you like this.”

Trusting him, wanting him, letting him make me come.

Aemond has been accepted into UC Berkeley’s History PhD program and will start there at the end of August. He wants to write books about underrecognized heroes, extraordinary and yet unassuming people like Bayard Rustin and Bobbi Campbell and Phillis Wheatley. You’ll miss him of course, but there will be breaks for holidays and summers when he can return to Napoleonville, and you can fly out to visit him too, and there are phone calls, and postcards, and one day you’ll be able to go anywhere together—

You gasp, a shaky, starving breath, your lips grinning into Aemond’s. You’re close, you’re so close.

There is a shrill whistle from the back porch of a townhouse from the row behind Amir’s. “Get it, honey!” a man in a leopard-print robe cheers, waving the newspaper he’d been reading. You and Aemond unravel from each other, laughing hysterically.

“Okay,” you tell him, still panting. “Bad plan. We are clearly not accustomed to city life.”

“Tonight,” Aemond says, low and commanding. He returns to you, kissing the side of your face: temple, cheekbone, the curve of your jaw. His voice is dark, jagged glass; his lips are soft like kind dreams. “On the futon, on the floor, anywhere.”

You want it too, but you know the game. “No.”

He pins you to the wall again, powerful, irresistible, his hardness grinding against you through his jeans, everything about him—voice, flesh, rhythm, soul—promising you the peace only he has ever given you, proving that being at the right person’s mercy can make you free. “I’m in charge now. Let me take care of you.” And for a split second you almost beg: Just do it, Aemond, right now, please touch me again, I don’t care if a stranger sees. I want you now, I want you forever.

Instead you smile up at him, the whirls of your fingerprints skating harmlessly over his scarred left cheek as you answer: “Yes sir.”

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maii777 · 1 year ago

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@ewanmitchellcrumbs suggested they should have put pool noodles on the swords to stop Vissy T from cutting himself to ribbons and I think it would have worked tbh

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maii777 · 1 year ago

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THIS

from twitter

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maii777 · 1 year ago

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maii777 · 1 year ago

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Omg that’s so Beautiful with the soulmates !!

Rip It Up And Start Again

For @targaryen-dynasty’s sleepover challenge ✨ Modern!Aegon II Targaryen x Reader

Prompts: Meet Ugly I Soulmate AU I “Make me”

Summary: Growing up on the perilous streets of Flea Bottom, you’d learned that in King’s Landing it’s either eat or be eaten. When you hear from a friend that a posh rehab centre just outside of town is hosting an open AA meeting, you see your chance to infiltrate the elite of Westeros, hoping to swipe something of value from one of the rich snobs there. Unfortunately, it seems like the wristwatch you attempt to nick belongs to a man you share an unexplainable bond with.

Warnings: 18+, AFAB reader, mind the tags, story takes place at a rehab, AA/NA meeting, theft, alcoholism, referenced driving under the influence and car crashes, alcohol consumption in rehab, (slight) dubcon, fingering, dirty talk, degradation, pussy slapping, choking, dry humping, cuming untouched (m), fluffy twist at the end

Word Count: 3650

Special thanks to my darling @venmondiese for being my beta reader 🫶

Sometimes it’s almost too easy.

Nowadays, even the most expensive rehabs centres have social media pages, posting open invitations to the AA and NA meetings they sporadically organise. Though the cost of staying and receiving treatment at these centres require far more gold dragons than you’ve seen throughout your lifetime, some meetings are free and open to any former addicts, a ‘charity’ event of sorts you’re sure they only put on for publicity.

This is one of the places you’ve heard of before. Bessa, one of your childhood friends from Flea Bottom, told you about how she attended a meeting here last month. Not only did she walk away with a belly full of honey cake and aged cheese, she also managed to swipe a designer handbag with Valyrian steel details.

You hadn’t seen her around much since.

The bus stop is located a 30 minute walk from the rehab, giving you plenty of time to internally go over how you’ll best stay undetected while sniffing out the easiest, most valuable thing to nick.

Ideally, you’ll be able to grab something small enough to fit in your pocket. A pair of expensive headphones, or even an unattended diamond ring.

Worst case scenario, you’ll get to leave full.

That’s still not bad.

Staying undetected means hiding in plain sight. Feign shyness, make up some bullshit story about relying on alcohol to ‘feel better’, and only speak when spoken to.

Be as unmemorable as possible, so that whichever rich kid’s stuff you steal doesn't remember you.

They probably won’t even miss it. They’ll just ask mummy or daddy to buy them another. Even if it’s a diamond ring.

The rehab looks more like a luxury resort, or a professional athlete's gaudy home, than a place for people to go through addiction treatment. It’s newly built in that typical sleek design that’s so plain only rich snobs could appreciate it.

Enveloped by beautiful greenery, tall, lush trees provide the residence with enough seclusion for a fence to feel redundant.

And there’s a fucking pool.

The meeting is the epitome of rich people desperately trying to ‘connect’ with themselves again.

Instead of sitting on non-padded, overused and uncomfortable chairs, you and the other visitors are shown to a room drenched in sunlight, soft, beige flooring adorned by a variety of colourful pillows.

Before entering, everyone’s asked to take off their outer layers and ‘feel like home’. A few attendees even leave their shoes and, unfortunately, socks, in the adjacent cloakroom, looking insufferably self righteous as they talk about ‘staying grounded’.

Your sight’s already set on the door leading there, body almost buzzing from the knowledge that your next meal ticket could be within arms reach, hidden in one of the pockets of the jackets carelessly left unattended.

You inhale slowly, calming yourself as you shift to sit comfortably on one of the cushions on the floor. You don’t want to draw any attention to yourself and opt for playing it cool; pretend to be a bit sad and uncomfortable, but don’t overdo it.

As the meeting commences, one sob story follows another.

“My dad didn’t pay me any attention”

“I had a hard time in school”

Not rolling your eyes feels like a nearly impossible challenge.

Who’s got a dad that pays them attention? In Flea Bottom, most kids don’t even know who their biological father is.

And who didn’t have a hard time in school? At least these people had parents wealthy enough to not only pay for tutors, but to pay tuition to colleges unattainable for most Westerosians.

As the therapist conducting the meeting announces a 10 minute break, you discreetly move towards the cloakroom, slipping in undetected and without anyone on your tail.

You keep your eyes on the door, quickly plunging your hand into the pockets of the row of jackets hanging on the wall.

Receipts, packets of gum, and keys are all you fish out, until you feel around inside the deep pocket of a dirty and worn vintage jean jacket.

Your eyes go wide as you feel the smooth steel cool your skin, gaze carelessly moving to inspect what’s in your hand.

A watch, dark in colour and with ten small rubies nestled into the bezel lay in your hand. The engraving hardly legible inside the crystal looks foreign.

Valyrian.

The rush of excitement ripping through you almost makes it hard to breathe.

A Valyrian steel watch?

You slip the wristwatch into the pocket of the short, black skirt you’re wearing, inhaling deep and slow to calm yourself before turning around, set on making your way back to the meeting room to later swiftly excuse yourself and leave this place for good.

As you turn, an amused grin and a mop of unruly silver hair stops you.

Fuck!

“So that’s why you’re here”, the man before you muses, body casually leaning against the doorframe and arms folded over his chest.

You recognise him from the meeting. He’d spent the hour looking bored, occasionally rolling his eyes at something he found stupid. When it was his turn to speak, he’d casually explained how his fondness of alcohol and sports cars had culminated one night outside of Rook’s Rest, where he crashed so violently his car caught fire, while he was trapped inside.

The sympathetic looks and ‘I’m sorry’-s he garnered didn’t seem to please him much, shrugging as the therapist commended him for his bravery in sharing such a traumatic aspect of his addiction.

“It was all over the news”, he’d said, hand mindlessly rubbing the raised skin of his neck, decorated with tattoos, “At least I’ve been able to hide some of the reminders”

“What do you mean?”, you try to sound as indifferent as possible despite the loud banginging in your chest.

He’s visibly amused by your discomfort, suspiciously eyeing the white button-down shirt, black skirt and stockings you’re clad in, “I know my own kind. You’re not an addict”

Panic washes over you, causing your skin to heat up and hands to feel clammy, “Y-, you don’t know me”, you stutter out, feeling the smooth steel of the watch in your pocket slip in your damp grip.

“Oh, I think I do know you”, he retorts with a smile, “Strange that the girl dressed for a business meeting sneaks away unattended”

Shit!

The stranger’s clearly mocking you, and your failed efforts at fitting in with a crowd you had little to no knowledge of.

“I… came straight from work”

He lets his eyes rake over your frame, an infuriating smirk etched onto his face, “So you’ll sell my watch to buy drugs?”

Of course the Valyrian own a Valyrian steel watch.

“I don’t know what you’re on about”, you grit out, moving to push beside him and leave the room.

A firm grip on your elbow halts your exit, strong fingers pinching painfully into your flesh, “I’ll let you have it if you do me a favour”

You can’t stop yourself from meeting his gaze, intrigue playing in your eyes.

He’ll just give it to you?

Why?

His eyes dart around the room, suddenly losing their self-assured smugness.

He hesitates for a second before leaning in closer, breath tickling the shell of your ear as he whispers conspiratorially, “Come back here after sunset with a bottle of vodka. Meet me by the pool”

“Brand?”, you retort.

“What?”, he asks, voice suddenly irritated, restless gaze still bouncing around the small room.

“The vodka. Which brand?”, you ask matter-of-factly.

“Any, I don’t care. The biggest bottle you can find”

True to your word, you take the bus back to the rehab centre around dusk.

This time, the walk from the stop to the centre feels much longer, giving you plenty of time to ponder the risks of bringing vodka to an alcoholic in rehab.

“Whatever, it’s his life”, you reason, reminding yourself of the fact that if all goes well, you’ll never have to see his obnoxious face again. If he wants to drink himself into an early grave, that’s his decision. You’re just cooperating so he doesn’t call the cops.

Eat or be eaten.

Your fingers fiddle with the Valyrian steel watch still in your pocket. Though you could’ve tried to hide it somewhere in your flat, endless possibilities of someone breaking in and snatching it from you play on loop in your mind, prompting you to keep it close, nervously fidgeting with it every few seconds.

He wouldn’t dare to ask for it back.

He’d be in just as much shit as you if your little arrangement came to light, and that thought is what ultimately relaxes you. Still, as you see the large, modern building loom in front of you, you feel dread pool in your stomach.

You can’t really decipher why the building instils such apprehension within you. Though you know it is risky to bring alcohol here in a devious ploy to get your hands on an exclusive watch, your tumultuous upbringing has led you to far more dangerous situations than this.

You spot his silver hair right away. It’s messy and choppy, almost as if he cut it himself. He’s wearing all black; a t-shirt and joggers. His fingers are adorned with silver rings of varying sizes, matching the silver link around his tattooed neck, and the shimmer of his hair. Valyrians were known for their rare, desirable features, and though you’d guess this was his ‘looking rough’, he still had that ethereal glow about him.

Eager to get the deal over with and return to the safety of your home, you swiftly pull the heavy 1 litre bottle of vodka from the blue tote bag hanging on your shoulder and hand it to him, “There you are”

“Fuck me”, he says in glee, face lightning up as he feels the weight of the glass bottle in his hand, “Thanks! I knew you’d come through”

Not wasting a second, he unscrews the cap and takes a comically long sip, grimacing and smiling at the familiar, bitter taste spreading on his tongue.

Regarding you for a second, his eyes travelling from your face down your body, “Let me try something”

Before you have a chance to answer, he reaches towards your arm and pinches it harshly. You yelp in pain, swatting his hand away with a harsh smack, “What the fuck?”

“I knew it!”, he exclaims triumphantly, rubbing his fingers over his own arm,

“My sister’s been sending me these links about spirituality and shit”

He pauses briefly, taking another sip of vodka, “I read something about lovers in Old Valyria merging their blood with magic in order to share sensations. Real romantic shit”

His gaze burns into you, something dangerous and playful consuming him, “Are you Valyrian too?”

Still determined to leave as quickly as possible, you refuse to meet his eyes, dismissing his nonsense, “Doubt it”

“Ah”, he shrugs, taking another sip. “Strange, I could feel that pinch on my skin, just like my elbow hurt when I grabbed yours earlier today”

You’re not sure what stupid game he’s playing. All you want is to go back home, get a good night's sleep, and find the shadiest pawnshop in Flea Bottom; the kind that won’t ask any questions when someone like you walks in with a lavish wristwatch.

He takes a step closer to you, “Y’know, if you are, it means we’re destined to be”. His free hand reaches towards your thigh, fingers grazing the thin, black nylon covering your legs.

You shake your head at his ungainly attempt at flirting, “Sure. And Targaryens rode dragons”

“We did”, he replies, face awfully smug as his hand begins to caress your thigh, tilting his head to the side so you get a good look at the large, black and white dragon tattoo covering most of the scarred flesh on his neck.

“Whatever”

Pushing him away to leave, he reminds you of his relentless nature, “Come on, stay! Have a sip!”

He shoves the heavy bottle of vodka into your chest, caging you against the smooth concrete wall of the rehab.

What’s the harm?

You give him an ingenuine smile, take the bottle and drink.

God, this is awful.

He laughs at your obvious distaste, still standing so close to you that you can feel his breath on your skin, “How about we…explore our newfound connection together?”

He really is relentless.

“I’m good”, you say, again trying to push beside him to leave, but he keeps blocking your way. He’s still sporting that infuriating grin as he places the bottle of vodka on the ground and pinches his own arm harshly.

You yelp in pain for the second time tonight, hand reflexivity finding and rubbing the burning skin of your arm.

“Told you”, he gloats, grabbing your hand and shaking it lazily, “Aegon. Pleased to meet you”

His attempt at persuading you has the opposite effect. The vodka, his burning gaze, and the fact that you did feel that pinch as if it’d been on your own flesh makes your skin crawl. Desperate to finally get out you push his chest, hoping he’ll just give up and let you go. Instead, he grabs your hand with his, interlacing your fingers over his chest. The unexpectedly gentle gesture causes you to dumbfoundedly freeze again.

What is this guy’s deal?

“Come on, stay”, he repeats, still trapping you between his body and the grey wall behind you.

He slowly ducks his face down towards you, lips ghosting over yours, “What if we can fix each other?”

His lips find yours before you’re able to fully take in his speculation. The kiss is soft and searching for only a second, quickly turning into an impassioned mess of tongues and teeth. You’ve kissed plenty of people before, but this does feel different. The desire usually building slowly in you seems to erupt quicker than ever, your core already aching with want despite the non-existent foreplay.

Aegon comes up for air, pupils blown wide and lips swollen from the demanding way you’d claimed them. His hand still hasn’t left your thigh, and now it roughly moves to cup your cunt over your stockings, impatient fingers quickly tearing the flimsy material to gain access.

“The f-”, you start, voice cut off by the surprised moan spilling out from your mouth as he harshly presses his fingers against your clit.

Apparently, pain isn’t the only sensation you share. Aegon’s mouth falls agape as he sighs in bliss, himself also feeling the satisfying friction to your bundle of nerves.

“You want it, I kno-, ah, know you do”, he moans, bringing his fingers to his mouth to suck on them. He doesn’t even bother to take off the silver rings he’s wearing, surely worth more than everything in your flat combined.

His hand pushes your panties to the side, saliva-coated fingers roughly finding your clit and immediately beginning to rub harsh circles on it. You moan in pain-mixed pleasure at the intense contact, again trying to push his hand away.

“Fuck”, Aegon moans, keeping the relentless pace. It does feel good, and you feel your resolve slipping. Giving into the bliss he’s roughly offering you is so much easier.

Your hips begin to meet his pace. The two of you find a steady, heated rhythm, and you can feel arousal seeping out of you.

Aegon’s fingers trail down to your entrance, touch still too blunt as he pushes two fingers inside.

You whine at the intrusion, the pleasure he’s giving you obscured by the clumsy way he’s offering it. He seems to only sense the gratification, repeatedly moaning as he fucks you with his fingers.

“This how you always finger girls?”, you ask breathlessly, grabbing his hand to make him slow down.

“Feels fucking good”, is all he replies, seemingly lost in the pleasure echoing from your being into his.

You scoff at his dismissal of your question. If a rough touch is all he knows, you’ll offer him the same.

You grab the hand he has between your thighs, locking eyes with him, keeping your expression stern, “Don’t be so forceful”

Moving his thumb so that it touches that part of your clit that makes you squirm, you move to press at the two fingers he’s already got inside you, “Curve your fingers. Match the rhythm of your thumb with your fingers”

The dumbfounded expression on Aegon’s face morphs into one of absolute bliss as he heeds your instructions, a pleasure far more consuming than the rough fingerfucking had coaxed out.

“Oh shit”, he groans, mouth agape and eyes scrunched shut. It does feel fucking amazing; something about the thickness of his fingers, the cold metal of his rings, and the way he instinctively finds your g-spot causes white, hot pleasure to course through your veins.

Aegon grabs the fabric of your shirt roughly, pulling you even closer to him and starts to grind his hard member into your side.

You roll your hips into his hand, throwing your head back as an unstoppable string of pleasured sighs leave your lips. You’re already so close to the edge, much quicker than usual. It’s almost as if the pleasure he’s feeling from satisfying you is bouncing back on you as well.

Aegon lets his head down to rest on your shoulder, still grinding against you and fingers desperately demanding your release.

“I wanna fuck you so fucking bad”, he slurs, hand not between your thighs reaching down to squeeze your ass harshly, “I know you’ll be a good little slut for me”

God, this feels good.

“I’ll fuck you however I want. You’ll fucking love it too”, he continues to murmur against the skin of your neck, making you feel hot all over. Your hips meet his fingers faster, unabashedly chasing your release.

“Feels so fucking good you’d beg me for it”, he continues, tilting his head up to lock eyes with you.

You scoff, hips still meet every thrust of his fingers, “Dream on”

He grins at your unwillingness to surrender, “I know you’re close”

You ignore him, hands grabbing his shoulders for balance as you feel your peak hurtle towards you, causing you to grind against his hand faster. The sounds of his fingers diving into your dripping centre are obscene and you’re close, so close.

And then, he stills.

“Beg me to finish you”

Eyes narrowing, your glare back at him, “Make me”

It’s like he’s permanently got a smug, enraging expression etched on his face.

The hand he has between your thighs travels up your torso, briefly stopping to squeeze one of your tits before finding home around your neck, pushing slightly on the sides.

“Come on, beg”

You answer his demand with an unimpressed look, the slight loss of oxygen enhancing the vigorous pounding in your core.

He looks utterly amused, releasing your neck and moving down to land a harsh slap to your cunt, “Beg”

The sting from his palm colliding with your clit almost pushes you over the edge, but it’s not enough. You’re so close you almost feel overwhelmed, almost certain you’ll black out when your peak finally rips through you, “Please, Aegon”

A delighted grin spreads over his lips as he lands another harsh slap to your exposed pussy, causing you to groan in pleasured pain. He bites his lip to stifle his own grunt of stinging satisfaction before pushing three fingers inside your dripping hole again.

Not even a full second passes before your walls trap his fingers inside you, clamping down on them forcefully.

Your vision turns blurry, the pleasure possessing your body causes your legs to feel weak and muscles to convulse. Next to your ear, you can hear Aegon whimper, voice almost broken.

You both moan, grunt and whine in unison, slowly coming down together. Aegon removes his hand between your legs and lets go of the cramp-like grip he’s had on your ass.

“Shit”, he weakly exclaims, knees seemingly giving in when he clumsily plops down on one of the grey sunbeds overlooking the pool. His laboured breathing matches yours, lilac eyes staring out over the green landscape partially obscured by darkness.

As the overwhelming bliss of your peak mellows out, you feel a bitter-sweet sensation spread in your chest; a longing for something familiar.

A longing for home.

It’s nostalgic, and you know you’ve felt this before, but never as potent as it is now.

Time seems to stop, as if you’re not breathing anymore, eyes stuck on the intimidating, neverending crowns of green before you.

It’s just you and him, existing together, sharing unexplainable melancholy.

The enchanting moment doesn’t last long.

Aegon reaches for the bottle of vodka on the ground, gulping down as much as he can stomach in one go before handing it to you, wiping a few remnant drops from his chin with the back of his hand,

“Vodka’s always been the best at numbing”

You hum in reply, bring the heavy glass bottle to your lips and take a long sip. It tastes like when you accidentally inhale hairspray and you cough at the foul flavour. Aegon cackles loudly.

He takes the bottle from you, swinging it towards his mouth for another sip and then places it back on the ground, features morphing into a state of carefree satisfaction.

It’s quiet again for a while, but this time, you don’t feel much.

It’s nice.

“What’s this?”, he suddenly asks, fingers tracing the embroidered letters on the tote bag you’d carelessly discarded on the ground next to the bottle of vodka.

“Oh, just a silly nickname my uncle used to call me”, you shrug, feeling far more intoxicated than you normally would from just a sip of liquor.

I guess that’s another ‘sensation’ we share.

Over the indigo fabric of your worn tote bag, bright yellow and pink hand-stitched letters read:

‘Sunfyre’

A/N: Thank you for reading 🫶 I got the trope Meet Ugly and couldn’t not think of Aegon, haha! I hope the fluff at the end wasn’t too cheesy, I just love the idea of Aegon’s soulmate being Sunfyre 🥲

The bane of my existence… titles. I never know what the fuck to put and so today’s title is brought to you by the song I’m currently obsessed with. Kisses! 🎷🩵

Everything taglist: @humanpurposes @theoneeyedprince @valeskafics

HotD taglist: @xcinnamonmalfoyx

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maii777 · 1 year ago

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his majesty's faithful dog

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maii777 · 1 year ago

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Mechanic!Sihtric NSFW alphabet

Note: HCs based on my mechanic fic: part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5 - part 6 - part 7 - part 8 - part 9 - part 10 - part 11 - part 12

This was actually so fun, because not much is known about him in this fic in this regard yet, so here you have it...

template source.

Warnings: 18+!! smut.

pairing: Modern!Sihtric x you (f)

summary: -

wordcount: 2k

Masterlist

A=Aftercare - What they do/act like after sex.

Sihtric will always immediately pull you in his arms and hold you tight while peppering you with soft kisses. He will check in with you, asking if you are feeling good and/or satisfied and then he will simply praise you by telling you how good you were for him. He will always apply some cooling lotion to ease your bruised buttocks after a spanking, and furthermore he'll provide you with anything you want; snacks, drinks, cuddles, watching a movie or simply reading to you from your favourite book while you're all snuggled up. It doesn't matter what time of the day it is, whatever his princess wants, he'll get for you (or something close to it). However, Sihtric also needs the reassurance himself that he has been good to you and didn't unintentionally cross a boundary.

B=Bondage - Are they into BDSM, and how far they’ll go if they have a green light.

Sihtric is open to the idea of bondage (and BDSM activities in general, apart from the things you already do) if you would be willing to try something and bring it up yourself. His priority is to make you feel safe and loved, so he would set clear boundaries for anything new you'd want to try and he also wants to know why you want to try certain things. Sihtric doesn't really have many limits when it comes to making you happy.

C=Cum - pretty self explanatory.

He'll cum preferably inside you. Sihtric thinks you're so breedable and he loves it. That doesn't mean he wants to get you pregnant as soon as possible though, but he just loves to see his cum run down your thighs when he helps you clean up.

D=Dom - Are they dominant, submissive, a switch?

Sihtric is a dom. A soft dom… a soft daddy dom to be more precise. He'll always keep you on your toes, because one moment he'll talk all sweetly to you and the next you'll be bent over his knee, made to count his spankings because you "broke" a rule or acted like a brat. And he'll talk sweetly to you during those punishments.

'Does that hurt, princess? Shh, I know, darling. But you forgot to keep counting, sweetheart, so now daddy has to start all over again.'

E=Edgeplay - Similar to ‘Kinks’ except it’s a lot riskier than usual kinks (knifeplay, breathplay, etc.).

Sihtric is not into edgeplay, but will consider it if you'd ask him. He'd do a ton of research beforehand to make sure he knows exactly how to perform it safely. And once again he will set clear boundaries, because he would never want to put his princess in danger or cause any serious discomfort.

F=Fantasy - A fantasy of theirs (ex: a teacher/student fantasy).

Sihtric would really like it if you'd put on some of those fluffy cat ears and a cute mini skirt for him, just because he thinks you'd look adorable wearing that while he gives you a good spanking, before teasing and edging you until you cry. And then he'll fuck you while you're still wearing those ears and that short skirt.

G=Got Caught - How they react when they get caught having sex.

He would lose his shit. For real. He'd go feral. Sihtric does not like to take risks like that. He is protective and a little possessive, although he tries to tone that down as much as he can. But he would never want anyone to see you in the act of having sex with him; because seeing you like that is only for his eyes and ears.

H=Hot Spots - A place that drives them crazy when stimulated (EX: neck).

He's a guy, of course he gets aroused when you touch or kiss his neck. He also loves it when you hold and kiss his hands, because his hands are so big compared to yours and he likes that. He likes that you're smaller to him, so he can easily pick you up and throw you in bed.

I=Intimacy - How romantic they are, or can be, before, during, or after sex.

Sihtric is quite romantic in general (loves to buy you flowers for example and take you on bike rides during a nice sunset), but during sex there's not much romance going on. Your dom/sub dynamic doesn't really call for that, but that doesn't mean it's not an intimate feeling, because it truly is romantic in a different way.

J=Journey - Their ideal way of leading up to sex.

Once your dom/sub relationship is fully established, Sihtric wants you to behave in order for you to get rewarded. He has an app which he shares with you where you can tick off things you've done during the day in order to show good behaviour, for example; drinking enough water and eating enough. He loves seeing you cross off the "tasks" you did, knowing you're taking care of yourself, and it makes his oil smudged overalls fit rather tightly around his crotch area when he knows you're being a good girl for him. However, Sihtric also gets aroused when you did not do what he asked you to take care of yourself, because he knows he'll get to punish his princess next time he sees you, and that arouses him too.

K=Kinks - I’ll list a few of their kinks, be they the normalized ones or kinkier kinks.

He loves spanking, edging and hair pulling. But the spanking and edging he only enjoys performing on you, he doesn't mind getting his hair pulled. Sihtric is a bit of a sadist too as he gets off by seeing the tears roll down your face when you're being punished for your "bad behaviour". He only enjoys it because he knows there is a safeword agreed upon and that you will use it when you are truly not having fun anymore. But he's very careful to not cross that line. He enjoys his daddy dom role with you, as it's more a lifestyle; a secret lifestyle between the two of you actually. He simply loves to praise you and to be your dominant, taking care of you and making you feel loved, but he also needs to feel that you are always there for him too when needed.

L=Location - Where they like to have sex at, do they like risky locations, etc.

Anywhere private is fine. He doesn't mind a more public place, like the repair shop for example, but he'll only have sex with you there when he's sure you won't get caught and the place is locked up.

M=Masturbation - How they are when they get themselves off, what they get themselves off to.

You and Sihtric eventually agreed to have a rule that you won't touch yourselves, and will only be pleased by each other. However, sometimes you break this rule and that means spankings (Sihtric always finds out because you can't lie… and because he may or may not walk in on you touching yourself from time to time. He'll watch you silently in the door, only to clear his throat and startle you when you just finished). Sihtric is good at keeping his hands off himself, because he knows it'll feel so much better when he's with you than doing it himself. The only exception is if you two are apart for a long time for whatever reason, but then you'll still facetime each other in the process.

N=NO - A few things that they will absolutely, under no circumstances, ever do.

He would never cross a boundary you have set and he would never ignore a safeword. Sihtric is all about wanting to make you feel safe.

O=On’s - Their top turn on’s that they have (things that’ll get them super horny super quickly).

Sihtric is easily turned on, it really doesn't take much, a simple touch will do it. A maybe more strange turn on is that he also loves it when you ask him for help, for example with simple tasks around the house, or when you ask him to order food for you. Knowing his girl needs his help and trusts him is a big turn on for him.

P=Position - Their favourite position to have sex in.

Sihtric doesn't really have a favourite position, he enjoys it in every possible way. He does prefer to be able to see your face when you're on the verge of tears though, because he likes to see you enjoy him so thoroughly.

Q=Quickie - Do they like it, do they prefer quickies over actual sex, etc.

Sihtric prefers actual sex over a quickie, but he'll never say no to a quickie in the morning just before he heads off to work. It'll surely put him in a good mood.

R=Rough - How rough they are, or get, when in bed.

Sihtric can be pretty rough, but all within the agreed upon boundaries though.

'Remember I love you, princess, because I'll fuck you like I don't love you.'

S=Stamina - How long they can go before they tap out.

Sihtric lasts surprisingly long for someone who mainly lifts weights in the gym and doesn't always do much cardio. He can go for several rounds, but he'll need a moment to recover obviously. If anyone taps out it's you, because you're overstimulated.

T=Toys - Do use toys, do they own them, what kind, etc.

Sihtric loves using toys on you, but not on himself. He loves to tease you with a vibrator until you can't take it anymore, only to then fuck you until you're screaming his name. And after that he'll wipe your tears and take you out for an ice cream.

U=Unfair - How much they tease you, how they tease you, etc.

He loves to tease you with risky texts during the day, but he also loves teasing you when you're with him just to see how worked up you get. It doesn't matter if it's in public, he'll tease you discretely until you're begging him to go home and take care of it. He'll whisper praises to you about how pretty you look and how he can't wait to take off your clothes later, while lightly trailing his fingers over your arms and back while you're out having a drink somewhere or are simply waiting in line at the grocery store.

V=Volume - How loud they get when having sex, things they might say, etc.

As a soft dom, Sihtric mainly wants to hear the pretty sounds you make for him, therefore he will try to bite back his own moans. Instead of shouting out how good you feel or how well you're taking him, he will whisper it all in your ear, knowing that it will only make you louder.

W=Wild Card - a random letter for the character of your choice.

Sihtric is totally into hentai.

X=X-Ray - How they look with their clothes off.

His body is scarred, but he looks perfect regardless, and luckily nothing down there got damaged in that crash ;)

Y=Yearning - How often they need to have sex.

Sihtric needs at least one quickie every day, he's horny like that. However, if you haven't behaved for him he is willing to torture himself for a day or two, just to punish you and make you beg for him eventually. But don't be fooled, because he is a needy dom too, and when he is desperate for you he'll let you know.

Z=ZZZ - How quickly they fall asleep after having sex.

He's absolutely awake after a quickie in the morning, but after longer sex in the evening he'll doze off rather fast. Only after making sure you are all cleaned up and feeling okay of course. He will never fall asleep without making sure you are feeling happy and safe.

taglist: @foxyanon @alexagirlie @sihtricsafin @neonhairspray @gemini-mama @lexwolfhale @sigtryggrswifey @skyofficialxx @djarinsgirl27 @m-a-s-h-k-a @verenahx @mrsarnasdelicious @diiickbrainn @little-diable @maii777 @urmomsgirlfriend1 @dixie-elocin @elle4404 @bubblyabs @ylvie50 @succnfuccubus @hb8301 @willowbrookesblog @apolloanddaphnis @jennifer0305 @carnationworld

If you want to be added/removed from the taglist, message me 🖤

#i love him

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maii777 · 1 year ago

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having a moment of realization in the middle of my modern!aemond phase that i am really out here obsessing over a fictional version of an already fictional character… it cant get any lower than this

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maii777 · 1 year ago

Text

finally part3 of hotd modern AU - grandpa's favourite - favourite of the local police station

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maii777 · 1 year ago

Text

Omg this was really scary at the beginning

But I love the story so much and I LOVE the mood board you do for every chapter!!💕

Napoleonville [Chapter 7: The House Of Cards]

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, smoking, drinking, drugs, infidelity, kids, parenthood, bodily injury, ANGST!!!!!!

Word Count: 5.8k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @marvelescvpe @toodlesxcuddles @era127 @at-a-rax-ia @0eessirk8 @arcielee @dd122004dd @humanpurposes @taredhunter @tinykryptonitewerewolf @partnerincrime0 @dr-aegon @persephonerinyes @namelesslosers @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @gemini-mama @daenysx @chattylurker @moonlightfoxx @huramuna @britt-mf @myspotofcraziness @padfooteyes @targaryenbarbie @trifoliumviridi @joliettes @darkenchantress @florent1s @babyblue711 @minttea07 @libroparaiso @bluerskiees @herfantasyworldd @elizarbell @urmomsgirlfriend1 @fudge13 @strangersunghoon

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 🥰🧁

Under blue light like the gleam of sapphires, Aemond is standing shirtless at his bathroom sink and cleaning blood and grime from his face with a wet washcloth that has turned from white to a muddy maroon. His missing left eye is angled towards you; his scar looks black beneath the cobalt glow. He’s gingerly manipulating his eyelids so he can wipe away the filth, leaning in close to the mirror. Then his hands begin to shake and he throws the washcloth to the dark tile floor. The walls are painted like Van Gogh’s Starry Night; you remember learning about it in your 8th grade art class. The bathtub is deep, spacious. You think of Aemond filling it and sinking into the water with you, misty with soap and steam. You wonder how long it will be until Christabel is lolling in this tub, clean before she ever touched the water: no scars, no history, blue blood and pure fantasies.

He hears when the floorboards creak under your bare feet. He turns his face so he can see you, an intruder lurking in the doorway of his bedroom, soaked clothes beneath the warm, dry, smoke-smelling Marlboro jacket he gave you. “Get out.”

“Aemond, let me help—”

“Get the fuck out.”

But he hasn’t said the right word, and you both know it. He hasn’t told you to stop. You go to him and ignore it when he tries to push you away, when he tries to yank his hands away from yours.

“Don’t touch me—!”

But you aren’t trying to grab him. You’re trying to give yourself to him. You force your wrists into his grasp and then he understands, then he feels the desperate hunger flare up in him like a lighter flicked to life.

His fingers tighten; he drags you closer. Then he says, low and husky: “I’m in charge now.”

“I know, I know. I want you to be.”

“You’re going to do exactly what I tell you to.”

“Yes,” you whisper, perfect obedience, helpless need. You gaze up into his glinting, savage right eye. You do not allow yourself to glance at the empty socket of the left. That would be disastrous, ruinous, an irredeemable betrayal.

Aemond takes you to his bed: thick wooden bedposts and a navy blue velvet canopy swimming with koi fish built of silver stars, celestial fins and constellation tails. He tears off the Marlboro jacket, your drenched Pepsi t-shirt, your simple cotton bra. “Don’t move,” he growls, and momentarily leaves you. Moonlight streams in through the stained glass windows of fractured, kaleidoscopic blue. Goosebumps rise on your bare skin. You can hear the friction of a drawer opening and then closing again. Aemond returns. Every move of his hands is rough, insistent. You don’t care if he hurts you, if he scrapes or bruises you. You wish he could bruise you down to the bone, stay trapped there in an indigo pool too deep for anyone to cut out, remind you of his closeness with every ache, never leave you.

Aemond clicks a handcuff around your right wrist; not a silk scarf, not the weight of his own hands, but cold metal that he tightens until it bites into your flesh. You should tell him to loosen it, but you don’t. You want to help Aemond. You want him to keep going; you want him to touch you until you forget about Jade Dragon Energy, Lake Verret, The Last Desire, Christabel.

He loops the short chain around one of the posts at the foot of the canopy bed and then fastens your left wrist as well. The handcuffs are secured in an indentation between ornate carvings of the sun and the moon; you cannot slide them up or down more than a few inches. Your arms are trapped above your head. You are facing the bed—the one he’ll soon be sharing with Christabel—and cannot turn around. Behind you, you can hear Aemond unzipping his jeans that are still dripping with brackish lake water. Now he’s yanking off your shorts and panties, so hurriedly you almost trip when he wrenches them past your ankles. Aemond kicks your feet apart—farther, farther—and then pushes you down until your back is bent as low as possible. You moan, just as much in pain as ravenous anticipation: your wrists burn, your shoulders stretch until you can imagine them splitting open and spilling blood like a river, knots of ivory bone peeking through the gore.

He’s touching you, but it doesn’t feel like much. He’s saying things, but you can’t hear him over the hurricane raging in your skull, thrashing waves of fear, dread, agony, heartache.

Has he brought other women here? Who will distract him when he’s done with me?

Aemond’s hips are braced against yours, his fingers are between your legs. He’s making you wet, but you know you aren’t ready. Inside, you are tense, uneasy, unable to surrender yourself to him. You close your eyes and try to remember what it was like the first time you were together, or the second, or the third time in the back of his Audi Quattro. Those memories feel so far away now, like they happened a hundred years ago or in a different galaxy or at the bottom of the ocean. Aemond’s teeth nip territorially at your throat. He’s tearing open a condom wrapper.

He’s not mine, he’s not mine, he’ll never be mine.

Now he’s forcing his way into you, and he has no way of knowing that it feels like gasoline on a fire, like scissors and knives, like the first time Willis convinced you to sleep with him again after Cadi was born. And Aemond is so big that the discomfort doesn’t fade into a vaguely unpleasant numbness but swells like gales as a storm rolls in. You’re facing away from him, so Aemond can’t see when you wince or squeeze your eyes shut. You don’t try to slow his rhythm, you don’t ask him to be more gentle, you don’t tell him to stop. You want to help him and he needs this, even if he doesn’t need you.

Aemond twists your hair in his fist and tugs your head back, and when you whimper he mistakes it for kindling passion, for something approaching euphoria. His thrusts are hammering, merciless. He’s panting as he battles against his own climax. And he’s beginning to get impatient, too; his fingers stroke you relentlessly, when you glance back at him his brow is creased with thinly-veiled frustration, confusion, disappointment.

I have to finish, you realize, horrified. If I don’t, he’s going to think it’s because of him, his face, his eye, his weakness, his unworthiness.

You’re nowhere close to finishing. You know you won’t be able to; there’s too much pain in your body, too much torment in your mind.

I’ve faked it plenty of times before, on other nights with other men. I can fake it again.

You breathe in gasps, you moan, you beg, you arch your back, and then—

Aemond strikes the bedpost with an open palm, hard and loud enough to make you yelp. He hisses through your hair, fever-red, hateful: “Don’t fucking lie to me.”

“Aemond, it’s not you, it’s not your fault, it’s me, I’m so sorry, I’m just—”

“I want you out.” He disentangles himself from you, snaps off the condom, snatches a set of tiny keys off the floor where he must have left them.

“Don’t do this,” you plead as he unlocks the handcuffs, cold rattling metal. “Don’t make this about something it isn’t. Aemond? Aemond, please, it’s my fault—”

“Get out,” he says, stepping away from you. “Right now. Go.”

You reach for him, your fingertips settling on his bare chest, damp with sweat and still tarnished with the ancient silt of Lake Verret, with streaks of his own blood. “Aemond, listen to me—”

“Stop!” he roars, and your hands fall away. He points to the door that leads to the hallway. “Get out. Get the fuck out. Find someone else. I’m done.”

“What? No!”

He picks up your denim shorts and hurls them at you, then your Pepsi t-shirt and bra and panties. You fumble to catch them, and as your hands are occupied Aemond leans in close, grabs your face roughly by the jaw, forces you to look at him. The gory void of his left eye socket is close enough that you can see the flecks of dark grit from the lake that he will have to wash out of it. And you flinch—not at the wound itself, but for the child who was once maimed—and now you’ve proved him right.

Something flashes across Aemond’s scarred face, so animalistic in its mindless fury that for a sliver of a second you actually think he might hit you. Then he turns away without a word, walks into the bathroom, slams the door shut. As you pull on your clothes, you can hear his knuckles striking the mirror with sick thumps until it shatters. You bolt from the bedroom, through the hallway, down the staircase, surrounded by portraits of blonde strangers with foreign names, and whatever world they lived in wasn’t yours. Their world was made of gold and marble, contracts and lineage, chandeliers and champagne and coins sticky with some anonymous worker’s blood, and it was beautiful but it was cold, hollow, lonely, everything that would have made them human peeled away like a snake’s skin. You don’t belong here. You will never belong here. Your world is sloping floors and cracked paint and sun and salt and struggle, but it is real.

In the grand foyer, Vhagar is guarding the front door. The blue merle Great Dane bares her teeth as you approach. There is a rumble from low in her chest, a ferocity in her reptilian green-gold eyes.

“I really can’t deal with you right now,” you say, voice breaking as tears spill down your cheeks.

Vhagar trots towards you and you look around for a rescuer, Alicent or Criston or Daeron; but the house is hushed and still. You recall how Alicent once shoved Vhagar’s face away to fend her off. You don’t feel brave enough to attempt that.

“No!” you try instead. “Bad dog! Go terrorize someone else!”

The Great Dane snarls, ropy strands of drool dribbling from her jowls, and you fall silent. Vhagar sniffs at your ankles and then your fingers as you stand frozen. She seems to discover something that intrigues her. I smell like Aemond, you think, and almost start crying again. For the second time, your eyes search for a champion and find none. The dog nudges your right hand with her muzzle, licks at your palm, and then—bizarrely, shockingly—pushes her head under it and blinks up at you expectantly.

“What?” you say, confounded. Vhagar waits, suddenly cordial. Her long tail swishes; her floppy ears hang limp and relaxed. She doesn’t leave until you pet the top of her colossal head—once, twice, three times—and then she stalks off into the shadows of the kitchen. You hurry to the front door before Vhagar can return to second-guess your newfound alliance.

You step out onto the front porch, white paint and towering columns, lightning bugs and screeching cicadas. It is only when you survey the flock of Audis, Porsches, Alfa Romeos, and Lexuses in the cobblestone driveway that you remember you didn’t drive yourself here.

“Goddammit.” Then you catch a whiff of marijuana.

You turn to your left. Aegon is slumped in a rocking chair and smoking a joint. He has just showered. His long hair is wet and messy; he wears a tie-dye tank top, purple gym shorts, and neon yellow flip flops. Sunfyre is curled up in his lap. “You need a ride, cake lady?”

“Not from you.”

“It’s just weed. Weed isn’t a drug.”

“The Reagan administration would disagree.”

He rolls his eyes. “Those miserable fascists. They’d outlaw orgasms and ice cream if they could.” He slips his car keys out of his shorts pocket and spins them around with his index finger. “Come on. Let’s go for a drive.”

Aegon’s Porsche 911 has a custom paint job, glittering gold with pale pink accents. It’s even smaller than Aemond’s Audi; the back seats are impossibly tiny, and in any case they are filled to the windows with empty McDonald’s cups, Taco Bell bags, and Popeyes boxes.

“Here, hold him,” Aegon says, and tosses the ferret to where you sit in the passenger seat. The weasel-like creature scrabbles over your thighs, circling, burrowing, making some deranged gleeful sound halfway between a clicking and a chuckle.

“Um…?!”

“It’s fine, it’s fine, he’ll settle down.” Aegon starts the car and pitches the remains of his joint out the open window. “Where do you live?”

The directions are simple, a straight shot east on Route 401. But it’s going to be a long ride. Aegon is only driving 15 miles per hour.

“So,” he says, noting your bloodshot eyes and dazed preoccupation. “It didn’t go well. With Aemond, I mean.”

“I don’t want to talk about him.”

“Sure you do.”

You stare out your window, night wind in your hair and your lungs, stinging in your watery eyes. The southern live oaks—vague, monstrous shapes with branches like prehistoric claws—block out much of the moon, the stars. Distractedly, you rest a hand on Sunfyre’s small, furry back. “What happened to his face?” And then, remembering what Aegon told Viserys in the foyer: “What’s the North Sea?”

“It’s on the east coast of the U.K. It starts down by France and the Netherlands and goes all the way up to Norway. Jade Dragon has a bunch of North Sea rigs. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen offshore oil rigs, maybe on the news or something?”

“I haven’t.” When you look down at your wrists, beneath the dim silvery moonlight you can still see the indentations that the handcuffs left in your flesh.

“Well they’re fucking terrifying. You’re on a metal platform in the middle of the goddamn ocean, and the waves are smacking into it, and the whole rig is lurching back and forth. You’re standing maybe 200 feet above sea level. From that height, the water’s like concrete. If a man falls off, they never find the body. The sharks eat him, or the waves rip him apart, or if his gear is heavy enough he just sinks to the bottom and implodes like a crushed can when the pressure gets too strong. I hate those things. I hate them. And of course Viserys was always trying to drag me along when he’d fly up there to inspect the company property. Gotta parade the heir around. Gotta turn me into a real man somehow. I’d be doing lines in the helicopter the whole way there, trying to work up the nerve to step out onto the deck when we landed.” Aegon gives you a wry smirk, shadowy beneath the obstructed moonlight. “This was before Viserys gave up on me.”

“Aemond lost his eye on an oil rig?”

“Yeah,” Aegon says. “He was young, eight or nine, something like that. And he begged our father to take him with us. Can you believe that? I’m hiding under the dining room table and Aemond is clawing at Viserys’ feet, promising he can handle it. So Viserys says okay, fine, Aemond can come too. Mum and Criston didn’t want Aemond to go, Helaena didn’t like it, hell, even Otto thought it was too dangerous. But Viserys is God in the Targaryen family religion, so Aemond got to go to the North Sea.”

You’re watching Aegon, eyes wide, heart pounding, appalled. He was a little kid. He wasn’t even Cadi’s age. “Viserys didn’t protect him?”

“Oh yeah, at first he did. He was showing Aemond off to everyone—Look at my son! So brave, so clever!—and meanwhile I’m lying on the floor of the helicopter having a panic attack, I can’t stop thinking I’m about to go plummeting into the ocean, and Criston is kneeling beside me trying to strap an oxygen mask onto my face.” Aegon sighs, gazing at the yellow lines of Route 401. “And then Viserys got to chatting with some of the engineers and forgot all about Aemond. Aemond who? The middle son, the forgotten son, the runt, the backup plan. And Aemond started exploring, poking around in the wrong places, and he ended up watching some of the workers spinning chain, which is how they connect drill pipes together. A chain snapped. It hit Aemond in the face, fractured his skull, and basically liquified his eye upon impact. He was in a coma for two weeks. We all thought he was going to die. But he lived, and Viserys…that bastard was nowhere to be found while Aemond was lying half-dead in Moorfields Hospital. But the day Aemond woke up, you better believe our father waltzed into the room with balloons and Cadbury bars, gushing about how happy he was that Aemond was alright, how proud he was, how relieved. Within a month he was indifferent again. But Aemond’s been chasing that feeling ever since. Being wanted. Being seen.”

“Why do any of you do it?” you ask, nauseous with despair. “Why do you destroy yourselves for Viserys? Why do you listen to him, why don’t you leave?”

“I can’t leave,” Aegon says, stunned. “Do I look employable to you? I’d end up living in the woods with the paranoid schizophrenics.”

“But you’d be free.”

“I don’t want to be free,” Aegon replies. “Freedom? That scares the hell out of me. I don’t know who I am without my family. I don’t have the first fucking clue. I don’t want to be a Targaryen, but I am a Targaryen, you know? And there’s no going back. That’s my gravity. That’s everything I am. Trying to imagine a life without Aemond, Helaena, Daeron, Criston, Alicent, even Otto, even Viserys? I wouldn’t exist. I would blink out of existence like the Big Bang in reverse. They’re my bones, I’m just what grows around them. I’m a jellyfish, I’m a tangle of guts and arteries.”

You stare at Aegon as faint ribbons of moonlight stream in through the open windows, voice choked, tears falling onto Sunfyre’s sand-colored fur. “I don’t know how to help Aemond.”

“Yes you do.” Aegon smiles. “Give him what he wants.”

“I think he’s done with me now.”

“No, no way,” Aegon says. “What did he do, freak out and yell at you? Break things, tell you to fuck off? That happens sometimes. He doesn’t mean it. He’ll be back on your doorstep in a week.”

“He always has to have a girl. But that girl doesn’t have to be me.”

Aegon laughs, his blonde hair flying in the wind. “New girl, new rules. You ruined him.”

“What?”

Aegon grins. “He’s in love with you.”

You pet Sunfyre with one hand while you swipe tears from your cheeks with the other, sniffling, shaking your head. “I can’t be his mistress. It will kill me.” I want more than that. I want all of him.

“You’ll get used to it,” Aegon says encouragingly. “Criston did. Camilla did.”

“Please shut up about Camilla Parker Bowles.” You point as the mouth of your short gravel driveway comes into view. “That’s it. We’re here.”

Inside, the house is dark and quiet and cold; you were in such a rush to meet Willis and help Aemond find his ever-errant brother that you accidentally left the air conditioner on all day. You shut off the whirring machine in the kitchen window—Aemond put that there, he did it for me—and then turn on the little pink Panasonic boombox so it feels like someone else is here. Roxette’s Listen To Your Heart plucks mournfully from the speakers.

You draw yourself a bath, descend into the hot water, scrub Aemond off of you. The walls are adorned with no Van Gogh’s Starry Night, no stately portraits, no grandeur or glitter or marble or gold. They are only a pale, listless blue lined with thin cracks through the paint like the sinking house’s veins.

~~~~~~~~~~

Seven sunsets, six dusks, and then it is Friday all over again. You help Amir close up the bakery and then crawl into bed: head pounding, room spinning, that endless late-afternoon light of the summer flooding in through the window blinds. You unplug the phone on the nightstand and nestle into the pillows, hiding your face from the world. Cadi is fine, she’s blissfully playing her Nintendo and she knows there’s some of Amir’s leftover ribs and rice in the refrigerator. She doesn’t need you, and this will only become more true with each passing year. There was a time when you yearned for Cadi to become more independent. Now you’re beginning to see the horror in it, that bittersweetness that parents always talk about.

One day she’ll be gone. And she’ll get to choose whether she ever comes back.

No one has ever chosen you. It seems unwise to assume there will be exceptions to the rule.

You doze off for a while. There are distant noises you try to ignore: the kitchen phone ringing, the humming of the air conditioner, the drone of the microwave, the Super Mario Bros. theme. When you wake, it is because you hear the bedroom door creaking open. Through blinking, bleary eyes, you see Aemond’s silhouette in the doorway. You know it’s him; you would know even if he wasn’t wearing his familiar Marlboro jacket and red Converses and teal duffle bag slung over one shoulder. You would know him anywhere.

You say, unsure if you’re more angry or depressed: “I thought you were done.”

He ignores this. He has two eyes again, one real and one a lie, and this seems to be becoming a recurring theme in his life. “I called. Cadi said you were sick.”

“It’s just a headache. I’ll be fine.”

“Do you get them a lot?”

“Yeah.” When I’m stressed. When I’m sad.

There’s a palm on your forehead, cool and gentle, feeling for fever. “Have you taken anything for it?”

“Nothing ever works.”

You recoil from the thud of the duffle bag against the sloping wooden floor; every sound is too loud. You have your eyes pinched shut, but you can hear Aemond unzipping the bag and then opening some sort of container. “Try this,” he says, pushing a pill between your lips. “They knock out my nerve pain when it flares up.” Then he passes you the glass of sweet tea you left on your nightstand. You sit up to swallow the pill and collapse back onto the bed. The wildflower-patterned duvet covers you up to your chest. You moan softly, touching your fingertips to your temple.

There are small thumps as Aemond quietly kicks off his Converses, and then his weight settles onto the mattress. He waits to see if you’ll tell him to stop. You don’t. He folds around you, blood and bones and muscle and warmth. His lips brush against the shell of your ear. One of his hands interlaces with yours and settles on your waist. You inhale his smoke, his cologne, his strange intermittent tenderness. He murmurs: “I’m sorry I’m doing this to you.”

“I wish I could stop,” you answer through a thick fog.

“Stop what?”

“Wishing it was possible. Wishing we were different people.”

Aemond doesn’t reply. Perhaps there’s nothing more to say. Within minutes, you are unconscious again.

When your eyes flutter open—painless, glass-clear—the room is dark and you are alone. The flashing red numbers on your alarm clock read 10:14 p.m.

“What?!” you gasp, scrambling out of bed. You rarely nap, and never for that long.

You hurry to Cadi’s room, expecting to find her bored or irritated or prepared to launch a formal complaint. Instead, she and Aemond are sitting on the floor and watching Ferris Bueller’s Day Off; Ferris is currently singing Twist And Shout on top of a parade float. There are several Pizza Hut boxes scattered around them; Cadi is eating a slice of pepperoni and mushroom. She and Aemond are mid-conversation. She is asking him as you walk in: “Wow, so Bobbi was on the news and everything?”

“He sure was. But they made him sit in this glass box because the CBS Evening News staff were so scared of AIDS they wouldn’t go anywhere near him, not even to wire him up with a microphone.”

“That’s totally bogus.”

“Yeah. Yeah it is.”

“How old was he when he died?”

“Thirty-two.”

“Really?” Cadi says, alarmed. “Grownups can die that young?”

“Sure. It’s rare, but it happens.”

Cadi looks to where you stand in the doorway. “Mom, aren’t you like thirty?”

“Almost. I’m a few years away from it.”

“Still,” Cadi says; and you witness something unfold on her face that you can’t remember seeing since she was a toddler. She is shocked, she is afraid. Her eyes shimmer; she’s forgotten all about her pizza. Aemond is watching her, realizing he’s made her aware of something that didn’t exist in her mind before.

“Oh no, love, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Aemond tells Cadi, resting a hand on her tiny shoulder. “Bobbi Campbell had a very serious disease, he wasn’t your average person. Most grownups live a long time. Your mum is going to live to be a hundred, okay? Maybe even a hundred and ten. Maybe even a hundred and twenty. It depends on how many cupcakes she eats.”

“Okay,” Cadi says, somewhat pacified but still shaken up.

“Do you want any pizza?” Aemond asks you. “We got cheese, pepperoni and mushroom, and supreme.”

“No, I’m not really hungry, thanks though.”

“Are you feeling better?”

“I am. What did you give me?”

Aemond smiles. “Percocet.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “No wonder it worked so well.”

“I left a bottle with about ten pills in your bathroom cabinet. But don’t start liking it too much. You’ll end up like Aegon.” He staggers to his feet.

“You’re leaving?” Cadi asks, openly disappointed.

“It had to happen sooner or later. It’s long past your bedtime. And I don’t live here. You couldn’t pay me to either, not with that dinosaur that lives in your front yard. I’m in fear for my life every time I visit.”

“The gator wouldn’t hurt you,” Cadi objects. “She’s too small. She’s just a baby. Next time, can you bring Gremlins?”

“Sure. I think I’ve got that VHS. Daeron might have borrowed it.” Aemond gives Cadi’s hair an affectionate ruffle and she tolerates this, something you would not have believed was possible. “I’m going to go talk to your mum for a few minutes and then head out, alright?”

“Okay. Goodnight.”

“Cheers, love.” Then Aemond follows you to the kitchen.

You pour yourself a fresh glass of sweet tea as Aemond helps himself to a snickerdoodle cupcake from one of the cake plates on the kitchen table. He licks off the frosting as he gazes at you, and you try not to feel anything. “You didn’t have to stay.”

“I know. I wanted to.” His right eye flicks down to the copy of the Bayou Journal that lies on the counter. The headline proclaims: Early tests reveal increased salinity of Lake Verret; breach of underground salt dome is suspected. “I’m sorry about that,” Aemond says awkwardly.

“Sorry about what? Ruining our lake?”

“Well, it’s not ruined, technically. It’s just…salty.”

“Aemond, almost all of the fish are going to die.”

“Will the alligators die too?” he asks hopefully.

“No. They won’t.”

“Oh.” He takes an evasive bite of his cupcake then changes the subject. “Come to my house tomorrow. After Willis picks up Cadi.”

“We’ve had this conversation before.”

“Yes, and now we’re having it again.”

“I don’t think this situation is good for either of us,” you say, but with pitifully little conviction.

Aemond places his snickerdoodle cupcake on the counter and steps towards you. And for a moment you think he’s going to order you, to command you, and you know if he does you’ll obey. But that’s not what Aemond is doing. He cradles your face in his hands and kisses you deeply, unexpectedly, without any roughness to it. Then he touches his forehead to yours as he whispers: “I was wrong. I shouldn’t have done that. I was wrong, I was wrong. I was fucked up. But I’m better now.”

“Why did you jump into the water for me?”

“Come over tomorrow,” he pleads again without answering you.

“Aemond…I don’t think I can.” I think this is destroying me. I think it’s flaying me alive, carving me away piece by piece.

“I don’t have to fuck you. I don’t even have to touch you. I just want you to be there.”

“Can I bring a friend?”

This catches Aemond off-guard. “Amir?”

“Have you not yet memorized my long, long, long list of friends?”

“Of course you can bring Amir,” Aemond says. “He’s always welcome. The only reason I haven’t invited Cadi is because Aegon leaves coke all over the house and I don’t think a kid should be exposed to that.”

“Yeah, I mean obviously I agree.”

Aemond kisses you again, a swift parting token, kind and weightless. “Bye, Cupcake. See you tomorrow.” He wolfs down the last of the snickerdoodle cupcake, grabs his teal duffle bag from the living room couch and is gone, the off-kilter front porch steps groaning under his Converses. You stand in the kitchen sipping your sweet tea for a while, listening to the air conditioner purring and the cicadas shrieking and the long-eared owl hooting as it swoops for prey. Then you begin pulling bowls and baking pans out of the cabinets.

Cadi appears, helps herself to a beignet, and turns on the little pink boombox on the kitchen counter. “Hey Mom, listen, it’s your favorite song!” She cranks up the volume: Heaven Is A Place On Earth.

You force a smile. “Yeah, it is.”

And you wait until Cadi dashes off to the bathroom to take her shower before you change the station.

~~~~~~~~~~

“What the…?” Amir squints at Sunfyre, who is floating by himself on a neon green inflatable raft in the middle of the swimming pool. “What the fuck is that? A Chernobyl hamster?”

You laugh. You’re wearing denim shorts and an unceremonious white t-shirt over your swimsuit, Kmart sneakers, hair assailed by wind and humidity, a tiny bouquet of wildflowers that Amir picked for you tucked into your back pocket. “It’s a ferret.”

“It’s a freak of nature. This is how you know the Bible isn’t real, why would Noah have let that mutant on the Ark?”

“Oh, my very favorite Napoleonville residents!” Alicent calls, beckoning you and Amir over to where she, Criston, and Daeron are gathered around a dark green beach towel littered with playing cards, gambling chips, strawberry daiquiris, and Marlboro cigarettes. Apparently, they run in the family. Alicent puffs anxiously on one, rings gleaming on her elegant fingers. “Come play with us. Do you have good poker faces?”

“I certainly hope so,” Amir replies as he pushes his tortoiseshell glasses up the bridge of his nose. He’s wearing swim trunks patterned with bright, multicolored geometric shapes. “I suspect we can’t afford to lose.”

“Can’t afford to lose,” Daeron’s blue macaw squawks from where she is perched on a nearby lounge chair, and Amir gapes at it, startled.

“Quiet, Tessarion,” Daeron soothes the bird.

“If you incur any debts, Aemond can pay them.” Alicent smiles warmly, then takes notice of the two white bakery boxes you’re carrying. “Have you brought us more of your scrumptiously authentic Southern desserts? I’ve been raving about them to all my friends back home in London. I ring them and they’re mesmerized by the notion of hummingbird cake and sweet tea. They’re even having their own kitchen staff try to replicate them.”

How antebellum. “It’s nothing too special. Just a blueberry custard pie. And some Cap’n Crunch Treats for Aegon.”

“Wonderful!” Alicent chimes. “Criston? You must get us plates and silverware immediately. We must sample this new delicacy straight away.”

Criston dutifully rises and disappears into the house they call The Last Desire. Helaena—with her chameleon Dreamfyre clinging to her shoulder—is absorbed in a conversation with Otto as they wade in the shallow end of the pool. Aegon has fallen asleep on a lounge chair and is snoring loudly; the boombox beside him is playing She Blinded Me With Science. Aegon is turning lobster red beneath the sun, but no one has bothered to wake him up. Before you can do it, Aemond walks through the French doors of the living room and out onto the cobblestones, wearing his black swim trunks. He beams when he sees you, then kicks Aegon’s chair as hard as he can.

“What?!” Aegon shouts as he jolts awake. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

“You fell asleep and you look like a Twizzler.”

“A chunky Twizzler,” Daeron adds.

“You want a palm reading?” Aegon asks. He grabs Aemond’s hand and flips it over. “It says you’re a bitch.”

“Aemond, phone for you,” Criston says as he breezes out of the house holding a stack of plates, forks, and knives. “I left it off the hook in the kitchen.”

“Thanks. Got it.” Then Aemond tells you: “I’ll be back in five minutes.”

When he vanishes, you and Amir join the poker game. Aegon splashes into the pool to grab Sunfyre, collects his bakery box of Cap’n Crunch Treats, and then pads into the house to presumably slather himself in Noxzema. Criston cuts everyone a slice of blueberry custard pie, which Alicent raves about. You can’t bear to have Criston inconvenienced once again to prepare daiquiris for you and Amir; before Alicent can think of it, you jog to the kitchen to grab two cans of Pepsi from the fridge. But just as you reach the doorway, Aemond’s voice stops you. It isn’t a phone call about the rigs or the stock market. It isn’t family, it isn’t friends.

“Yes, dearest,” Aemond is saying, and you peek into the kitchen to get a better look. He’s got the handset of a blue phone to his ear and is turned away from you. His back is straight and rigid; his voice is steady but dispassionate. “Right. I understand. Yes, completely. Don’t be ridiculous, of course I miss you. All the time. Yes, and we’ll discuss it then. I can’t wait either. I’ll see you soon. Yes, yes. And you as well. Cheers, darling.” There is a pause. “I love you too.”

Aemond hangs up the phone, sighs deeply, rubs his scarred forehead. You slip away before he knows you’re there.

234 notes · View notes

maii777 · 2 years ago

Text

omg I love that happy ending 😭💕

This was such a good story I loved it!

Rumours I modern!Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Prev I Series Masterlist

Chapter VII: Rumours (Final)

Summary: As your band, Dragon Dreamers, start to take off, you find yourself in the middle of a foul divorce with one of your bandmates; guitarist, singer and songwriter Aemond. After spending 3 months apart, only communicating through solicitors, you reunite to go on your first ever national tour of Westeros. To boost sales, your management suggest you perform some of the new songs from your upcoming album Rumours. Heartbroken, you've channeled your grief into writing. So has Aemond.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI. AFAB reader, she/her pronouns, angst, smut, tags to be added for each chapter;

Word Count: 4100

Dividers by Saradika

Three months later.

The tour went on for over two months, finishing with a sold-out show back home in King’s Landing. Thanks to management bringing in some highly skilled people to work on finalising the songs on Rumours, the event doubled as the release day of your second album.

You sold twice as many records in the first three days than your first album did since its release last year.

Though you were sure some of the attention your album got was due to the dramatic ending of your and Aemond’s marriage, you’d convinced yourself that your fans wouldn’t be buying it if they didn’t enjoy the music. And the reviews you’d gathered so far were raving about the immense talent your band had displayed.

With the holidays closing in, your label has asked you to create some type of bonus material to put on a limited edition LP version of Rumours.

All band members decided that an additional song would be added as the bonus material, deciding to meet up at the studio for a recording session. It was meant to be a straight-forward and quick procedure due to the time restraint your label had put on the band.

You had a few ideas for new songs that you’d played around with, but nothing substantial that was ready to be turned into a song just yet. Lucky for you, Helaena had posted in your group chat that she had been working on a song you could use as the bonus material.

You’d listened to the demo she’d shared and the song had great potential, being somewhat fast-paced with Helaenas dreamy vocals adding to the originality of the piece.

You step out of the taxi, thanking the driver over your shoulder as you pull your coat tighter around yourself.

It’s only the last week of November but winter seems to have come early this year. You hurry to get into the building where the studio is, shaking fingers fidgeting with the key in your cold hand, inflexibility making it difficult for you to get the thin piece of brass into the keyhole.

“Allow me”, echoes a voice behind you and your mouth forms a faint smile at the familiar, gentle tone.

“It’s fucking freezing”, you explain light-heartedly as you move away from the lock to make space for Aemond, who steps forward from right behind you, key already in hand.

He unlocks the door swiftly, giving you a pointed look as he pushes the heavy door open with one large hand.

“Thank you”, you say as you walk into the corridor leading to the studio. He hums in reply behind you as he mumbles, “anytime”.

After the show in Oldtown, your and Aemond’s relationship had improved immensely.

Agreeing that whatever happenes, the band comes first proved to be a good way for the both of you to stay on track. Being on the road and performing several times a week was draining, so focusing wholeheartedly on reconciling made it easier for you to not dwell on the past.

On everything that had happened between the two of you.

Besides, Aemond had put in the effort to be civil as well, even bordering on being friendly at times as he asked you if you’d like anything from the coffee shop as he went to grab a drink.

Not that he needed to ask, he knew perfectly well what you liked. But this felt better, not still acting like you know each other inside out.

Perhaps his change was not entirely due to what occurred in Oldtown. Helaena had let it slip one day over lunch that he’d started seeing a therapist, while also attending an anger management program online.

You were happy for him, truly. It showed on his demeanour that he was doing better; that he knew how to handle situations better. Yet there was a small part of you that still mourned the broken bond between the two of you.

That part felt resentful; annoyed with the fact that he couldn’t have done this before your divorce.

Then you might still be together.

Helaena’s singing voice grows louder as you approach the door of the studio, pushing it open with your stiff, cold hands.

Jace and Erryk are already present, listening intently to Helaena’s instructions as she explains how they’re going to record the song. You and Aemond slip in, eyes focused on Helaena as she nods in greeting, continuing to present her vision of the song to her bandmates.

“The build up has to be captivating! It speeds up towards the outro, which is like the highlight of the song”, she describes, hands coming up to emphasise her passion as she looks at her bandmates.

“That’s what you’d envisioned, right Aemond?”, she asks as her head turns to meet the gaze of her younger brother, searching his face for consensus.

He only hums in reply as he nods at her to continue.

Had Aemond written the song?

You think back to the demo that Helaena had sent of her singing and playing piano. Wasn’t this a love song?

“Finally wrote a song for your girlfriend then?”, Erryk jokes as he lowers himself to take a seat behind his drum set, drumsticks in hands.

You suddenly feel nauseous, heart racing as a sick panic comes over you instantaneously.

You knew this would come; the day Aemond wrote a song for Alys.

You’d mentally prepared for it, told yourself that whenever this day came, you’d be prepared.

But Erryk’s question has left you disoriented, almost dizzy as you hear the furious beat of your heart in your ears.

Now you have to live with your decisions. Allow him to move on and watch him from the sidelines as his colleague.

Sing along to the declaration of love he’d written for his new partner.

“Me and Hel have been working on this song since last spring”, he dismisses Erryk.

Since last spring?

You still feel anxiety weighing heavy on your chest. The band starts to play, Helaena begins to sing as her fingers dance over the keys of the piano.

‘Sweet, wonderful you’

‘You make me happy with the things you do’

‘Oh, can it be so?’

‘This feeling follows me wherever I go’

Besides the demo Helaena had sent you a few days ago, you’d never heard this song before. If Aemond had been working on it since last spring, had he kept it a secret from you?

Maybe he had played a rough edit to you? Maybe he and Helaena had reworked it beyond recognition?

‘I never did believe in miracles’

‘But I’ve a feeling it’s time to try’

‘I never did believe in the ways of magic’

‘But I’m beginning to wonder why’

He’s not the type to write love songs. On your first album, his solo song, titled ‘I’m so Afraid’, was anything but romantic.

‘Don’t break the spell’

‘It would be different and you know it will’

Was it the love he received from Alys that had prompted him to write such an exposing song; heart on display?

Did she make him feel safe?

‘You make loving fun’

‘And I don’t have to tell you but you’re the only one’

You try to keep your voice stable, backing up Helaena’s delicate tone as you sing the outro together.

It hurts, hearing how much he doesn’t miss you; how happy he is with her.

The one that made loving fun.

When you were married, all you seemed capable of was making him miserable.

Loving you wasn’t fun.

‘You make loving fun’

‘It’s all I wanna do’

‘You make loving fun’

‘It’s all I wanna do’

One hour goes by as you record a few different versions of the song; playing around with various sounds. Every time you sing the words, they pierce your heart like a blade.

‘You make loving fun’

You try to appear normal. You try so hard that you can taste metal on your tongue.

You know that it won’t hurt this much forever. One day you’ll wake up and your lungs won’t hurt when you inhale deeply. Your eyes won’t burn from the force in which your trying to prevent tears from falling.

But that day is not here yet.

All you want to do is go home, throw yourself in bed and cry.

You crave release, whether it comes from sorrow-induced dehydration, calling Aly just to yell out your frustrations, or screaming into a pillow.

When Helaena finally wraps up the recording session, asking you to come back again after she’s listened through a few of the takes, you hastily grab your bag and move towards the door, eager to get out.

You call out a rushed farewell over your shoulder as you make your way down the corridor of the building, hand coming up to the door handle to step out into the cold November night.

Before you’re able to leave, a hand gently grabs your shoulder, keeping you in place.

“Wait”, Aemond’s low voice requests behind you. You inhale deeply, breath shaky as you turn around to face him.

“Yes, Aemond?”, you indulge him, doing your absolute best to not let the hurt you feel reflect on your tone.

“I wanted to talk to you”, he begins, tongue coming out to lick his lips.

“Did you like it? The song”, he inquires and you have to fight the urge to roll your eyes at him. He sure made it difficult to be the bigger person, set on tormenting you.

“Yes”, you bite back, patience running thin.

Yes, it was a good song, you can’t deny that. But seeking you out to make you admit that the song he wrote for his new partner is good was a new low.

And to think you thought he’d finally changed for the better.��

Aemond’s good eye flickers over your face as he licks his lips again, seemingly a bit hesitant.

“You do, you know”, he blurts out, eye still looking everywhere on your form except meeting your burning gaze.

“I do what?”, you ask, irritation now evident in your voice.

“Make loving fun”, he answers.

The shock of his sudden confession renders you speechless, and Aemond takes the opportunity to pull you out of the building and into the dark night.

“I wanted to surprise you with the song on our wedding anniversary in June, but obviously..”, his voice dies out as he speaks.

Still lost for words, you’re sure you look ridiculous, mouth agape and eyes wide. Aemond carefully takes in your reaction as he inhales.

“I’ve thought about our relationship recently. A lot.”, he says, eyes flickering down to your trembling hands.

Are they shaking from the cold?

He takes your hands in his warm palms, encapsulating their entirety, “I didn’t treat you right”,

“I just-, I loved you so fucking much, I-, I didn’t know how to handle loving you so fiercely. I still do”. He has that sad look in his eye that you’d grown familiar with; the sorrow that he had made a habit of keeping from you. Now it was on full display as he offered you himself again.

“Please take me back”, he quietly pleads, body moving forward and face coming down so he can rest his cheek on your head, hands still holding yours tightly.

Silent, you stiffly staying in place as you hear Aemond inhale deeply through his nose buried in your hair.

“Aemond”, you sigh, tone thick and unsteady. “I thought we’d agreed to move forward as bandmates”.

“I’ve missed you so much”, he mumbles in reply, unmoving as he rests his head on yours.

“You’re with Alys now”, you breathe out, disbelief making it hard for you to sort out your thoughts.

“I haven’t seen her since Winterfell”, he replies.

“Aem-”, you try to oppose but he cuts you off.

“I’m sorry for ruining everything. I’m sorry for taking my anger out on you. I’m sorry for being selfish”, he murmurs into your hair as he lets go of your hands, bringing his arms around your shoulders to hug you.

“I took your love for granted. I couldn’t imagine a world where we weren’t together”, he confesses as he presses your body against his.

You can’t stop yourself as you lean in to rest your head on his chest, eyes briefly closing to inhale his scent.

It would be so easy to take him back.

The thought so tempting.

You gently pull away to look up at him, eyes locking with his. “Aemond, you know you weren’t happy being with me”.

“I’m going to therapy, I’m trying to be better”, he says lowly, eyes glassy. “For you”.

You swallow the lump lodged in your throat. “That’s great, Aemond, and I’m so proud of you”,

“But I don’t think getting back together would be good for either of us”, you conclude as your gaze carefully examines his expression, anxiously awaiting his reaction.

His eyes narrow, face setting in harsh displeasure. You notice the corners of his mouth twitch downwards as he stares at you in silence, nostrils flaring with each breath.

He steps away from you, face moving to the side to avoid your gaze as he quickly leaves without another word.

You do all three things when you get home.

You cry, you scream into a pillow, and you call Alysanne to yell out your frustrations.

Nothing helps.

Why did he have to do this now?

Why couldn’t he have done this when you were still together?

The wound of your marriage opens up again, sending icy waves of pain through your body. This was supposed to be when things got better; when time had healed the wounds.

It feels more akin to a gash that refuses to stop bleeding.

Behind the veil of tears obstructing your vision, you see your phone light up with a notification. You bring one of your hands up to half-heartedly wipe away the tears that spill out as the other grabs the phone to see who’s texted.

Aemond: “I’m sorry for earlier tonight. If you want to remain friends, I would appreciate that”

For the second time tonight, he astonishes you into silence. The unpredictability of his actions make it hard for you to come up with a response.

Where’s the anger?

You’re unmoving, hand holding your phone in a cramp-like grip as it lights up again.

Aemond: “It’ll be entirely on your conditions”

You take in a deep breath, closing your eyes as you ponder your reply. You exhale slowly, open your eyes again to type out an answer.

You: Okay

Like most things, though it seemed absurd in the beginning, being friends with Aemond has become a normality.

It started slowly, not going further than the two of you chatting during band practice. Then, you started going out to grab coffee together, airly discussing the band, upcoming shows, and what music you’d been listening to recently.

As weeks pass by, your newfound familiarity blooms into a friendship. You start taking more liberties around each other without constantly being on edge; Aemond asks you if you’d like to go see a film by an up-and-coming director, you ask him if he’d like to grab food on the way home from the studio together.

Your marriage, as tumultuous and heartbreaking as it had been, seems a distant memory now. The ashes from what once was have provided soil for the two of you to build a new, healthy friendship on. You feel thankful for that.

Thankful to still have Aemond in your life.

Being friends suits him. He’s opened up far more in these past few weeks to you than he had during the entirety of your futile relationship. He accredits it to the therapy and anger management he’d done, but you sense a real shift within him.

He told you about Alys; how he met her and how they developed a kind of friends with benefits dynamic as she became his manager. Though you can vividly remember him calling her his ‘girlfriend’, he apparently hadn’t made that clear with her, and when he asked her to come on tour with him, she’d patted him on the cheek and explained that though he’d been a fun fuck, she didn’t have time for a partner.

He told you about Aegon, how they hadn’t spoken all summer, until Aemond reached out to properly apologise; a crucial part of the anger management program. Aegon, inspired by Aemond’s dedication to sort out his inner demons, had decided on a fourth trip to rehab. By now, he’d stayed sober for longer than ever before.

Aemond told you that he had made a habit of bringing his brother out hiking, trekking the vast landscape of the Reach together. Sometimes during those long walks, they’d talk over each other, engaging in a passionate discussion. Other times, they walk in comfortable silence, occasionally stopping to share a drink and something to nibble on.

It was nice seeing your ex husband so content. The bitterness you’d first felt at his dilatory introspection had been replaced by admiration; impressed by the long way he’d come and all the work he’d put in.

You’d made the right decision.

Aemond had asked you to come over to your old flat, explaining that he was in the process of subletting the place and consequently needed to remove any personal belonging still there.

It was strange being back, but you’d been through so much absurdity by now, it didn’t feel foreign to find yourself in your old home.

“I’ve put some of your stuff in the guest bedroom”, Aemond says as he gestures for you to follow him.

Like you don’t know where that is.

You follow him, watching as he opens the wardrobe before coming up next to him to inspect everything inside; some clothes, two coats, a vase you’d gotten from Alicent on your birthday, a jewellery box. Mostly gifts you’d received from Aemond, too painful for you to bring with you when you left all those months ago.

Maybe now’s the time when you’re finally ready to look at these items with fondness as you reminisce about the love you once shared.

As you continue to inspect the wardrobe, you notice an old box tucked in one corner, edges worn down and structure almost caving in.

You pick it up and open the lid, surprised to find the picture collage you’d made for him on your six month anniversary inside, along with a few other pieces of memorabilia from your relationship.

Two tickets to the cinema, a pub receipt, an ugly doodle of Aemond you drew as a joke.

“What’s this?”, you ask in amazement as your hands rummage through the contents of the box.

Aemond looks up from the moving box he’d been hunched over, eyes going wide as he sees what’s in your hands.

“You can just put that back”, he quickly replies, face fading into a light pink hue.

“I can just move this to the trash as well”, you explain gently as you shift towards the big, black bin bag Aemond had placed in the corner.

“That’s alright. I-, I want to keep it”, he mumbles as he stands up, towering over you when he takes the box from your hands.

Your eyes dart from the frame with the pictures you’d made for him to his face, not quite sure why he’d want to keep such trivial things.

“I want to keep the memories” he mumbles as he puts the lid back on the box, bending down to place it on the floor, using his foot to push it towards the back of the closet.

“The good old days”, you try to joke lightly as an uncomfortable tension creeps into the room.

Aemond’s standing with his back against you, facing the closet. He hums in reply at your attempted humour.

“Everything was so easy back then”, you sigh as you move to grab one of the coats hanging next to where Aemond stands. He’s stiffly turns his body to face you, watching you as you carefully examine the coat, pondering whether you should keep it or not.

“I-”, Aemond starts before he stops himself, appearing to be lost in thought. “I’d try every day to make it easy for you. To love me, I mean”.

Your head snaps to the side. It’s your turn to dwell in stiff silence, eyes blinking rapidly as you observe him.

“Oh, Aemond”, you choke out as you take in the sad frown his face is set in. “It was never hard loving you. It was hard being loved by you”.

“I know”, he sighs in response, one hand moving carefully towards you. When you don’t move away from him, he takes the opportunity to softly place an unsteady hand on your cheek.

“I can’t promise that it’ll always be easy. But I still love you as much as I did back then. I know I shouldn’t but I need to-” he licks his lips as he’s searching for the right words, “I need to ask you again. Will you take me back?”

His stare is intense as he carefully evaluates your reaction.

“I know I don’t deserve it, but I don’t want anyone-, anything else. I’ll do anything for you. Please take me back”, he begs, voice cracking at the end of his plea.

The hand he’s placed on your cheek feels like it’s burning an imprint onto your skin. You’d never seen him like this before. So open; heart on full display. Offering it to you again.

He’d hurt you so much during your time together.

He’d made life so hard for you.

He’d made you feel alive.

He’d made you feel desired.

Loved.

Would it be worth it; possibly being hurt again?

To feel alive again.

Aemond’s POV

When she tilts her head up, leaning forward to crash her lips against his, he almost lets out a yelp in relief.

Kissing her again feels like coming up for air after being underwater for too long. It’s so relieving it hurts.

Even when he has to leave her lips to inhale, he presses his face against hers, desperate for the contact. He can’t be apart from her warmth for even a second longer.

Her arms meet around his neck, keeping him close as her breath heats up the skin of his face.

He’s robbed himself of this for months, and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever forgive himself for that.

He searches for her mouth again, kissing her as if she could breathe life into his numb heart.

His hands can’t decide if they want to touch every part of her being, or hold her so close their bodies melt into one.

She presses herself against him, kissing him back with just as much vigour. The thought that she’s missed him makes him want to weep.

“I love you”, he breathlessly declare as he moves his lips from hers, trailing down to kiss her neck.

Her hands grab the back of his shirt, moaning as he sucks on that spot that always makes her putty in his hands, right beneath her ear.

She pulls him downwards, onto the floor, and offers him a giggle as she straddles him.

Her fingers come down to help him unbutton his trousers, just as eager for him as he is for her. He feels tears burn behind his eyelids again.

Finally.

He can hardly contain himself as his fingers clumsily search for the buttons of his jeans to aid her in getting them off. He is so impatient, so eager for her, that his hands shake from desire.

His soul is finally soothed when she sinks down on him.

He’s consumed by her as she begins to move, the grip of her cunt around him indicates that this won’t last long. But that’s alright. It won’t be the last time.

He surges forward to kiss her again, to let her know how grateful he is. That she came back to him.

That she’s offered him her warmth once again.

Fin

A/N: Thank you for reading this series babes!!! 🩷 At times I loved writing this series, and at times I hated it. But all your lovely feedback gave me the motivation I needed to continue 🫶 Kisses!

Tag list: @watercolorskyy @nockerin @yazzzmints @mooncalvin @persephonerinyes @bellstwd @toodlesxcuddles @nsr-15 @daenerysqueenofhearts @aquakaris @targaryenmoony @ainhoamunson @wintrr13 @julczimozart @moonlightfoxxx @sweethoneyblossom1 @boofy1998 @snh96 @iloveallmyboys

Bold; couldn't tag!

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maii777 · 2 years ago

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This story was so incredible good and idk but your fics are all so fucking amazing and beautiful I can’t describe it 😭

I swear for me they are live changing lol ❤️

North To The Future [Chapter 15: Drive] [Series Finale]

The year is now 2000. You are just beginning your veterinary practice in Juneau, Alaska. Aegon is a mysterious, troubled newcomer to town. You kind of hate him. You are also kind of obsessed with him. Falling for him might legitimately ruin your life…but can you help it? Oh, and there’s a serial killer on the loose known only as the Ice Fisher.

Chapter warnings: Language, alcoholism, addiction, murder, violence, character deaths.

Word count: 7.3k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @elsolario @ladylannisterxo @doingfondue @tclegane @quartzs-posts @liathelioness @aemcndtargaryen @thelittleswanao3 @burningcoffeetimetravel @poohxlove @borikenlove @myspotofcraziness @travelingmypassion @graykageyama @skythighs @lauraneedstochill @darlingimafangirl @charenlie @thewew @eddies-bat-tattoos @minttea07 @joliettes @trifoliumviridi @bornbetter @flowerpotmage @thewitch-lives @tempt-ress @padfooteyes @teenagecriminalmastermind @chelsey01 @anditsmywholeheart @heliosscribbles @killerqueen-ofwillowgreen @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @tillyt04 @cicaspair418 @fan-goddess

A/N: This is the fic I almost never wrote because I didn’t think anyone would be interested in some random, angsty, 1990s, Alaskan, crime-thriller AU. Thank you for proving me wrong. I hope you enjoy the ending. 💜

Almost everything about your existence is pure chance; it’s the most freeing and horrifying truth imaginable. There’s the genetic lottery and corporate downsizing, revolutions and hurricanes, plagues, asteroids, famines, faulty airplanes and malignant blooms of cells and drunk drivers. There are 100 billion planets in this galaxy and your atoms ended up on the one called Earth. After all that, do you really think what you want matters? So make all the choices you like, all the nail-biting deliberations and promises and vows, weigh costs and benefits, do research, roll dice, ask astrologers and palm readers, start over every New Year because that’s something we tell ourselves is possible. The fact that you exist at all is one big cosmic coin flip. If you think you’re the one driving, you’re dead fucking wrong. You’re the speck of dust on a windshield, the spin of a roulette wheel. You’re a flash of silver in the universe’s pinball machine.

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maii777 · 2 years ago

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Omg this is so interesting and I love reading it!💕 It gives me pain thinking about them, not getting to live a happy life (+ if it sticks to the book knowing what’s coming next) 🥲

Looking forward to the next chapter and thank you for writing this 🫶

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 10: Blame Everyone But Me For This Mess]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), Aemond-induced chaos, death and destruction, witchcraft! 🔮

Series title is a lyrics from: “7 Minutes In Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “I’ve Got a Dark Alley and a Bad Idea That Says You Should Shut Your Mouth” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 6.2k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

Only 3 chapters left! 🥰💜

“Aemond!” he roars into the cerulean midday sky, knowing it is useless, that fate has already spoken.

All his life, fate has proven Criston Cole wrong. He once believed he could not rise above being born to a steward in the Dornish Marches. He once feared he would never be permitted to join the Kingsguard. He once felt in his twisting, self-loathing guts that he would never love any woman but Rhaenyra. And Criston once knew—without reservation, without complexity—that Alicent’s eldest son would never amount to anything worthwhile, could never be courageous, self-sacrificial, competent, a true king. Each time, fate had a different ending in store.

All around him, Green soldiers are dying in what will be known to history as the Butcher’s Ball. They are being slit open, disemboweled, crushed beneath the hooves of warhorses, stabbed and clubbed and speared. The Northmen have scorpions with them as well, with massive bolts to bring down dragons; but they are unnecessary. There are no dragons on the battlefield today.

Criston pictures Aemond as a boy, always so sullen, always so dutiful. He read and he wrote and he sparred in the castle courtyard until the blisters on his palms burst and bled and then turned to callouses, knots of dead-nerved scar tissue that grew over his wounds but never cured them. Criston did not just believe in Aemond’s abilities, his honor; he was certain of these things, he carried them as interminably as the lines in his palms. Criston knew Aemond and Vhagar would be the saviors of the Greens in this war. He knew Aemond would be here.

But he’s not. He’s just not, and there’s nothing I can do to bring him.

Cregan Stark is cutting through the Greens’ men. He is not a soldier, he is a force of nature, he is a thunderstorm or a famine or a rogue wave, he is winter coming to rip the trees bare and bury the weak in frostbitten earth. Arrows are loosed by the Northmen’s archers, lethal hissing rain. One hits Criston in the shoulder of his sword arm. Another pierces him through the small of his back, severing his spinal cord and dropping him to his knees.

Through the fray, Cregan sees the Kingmaker. He wants him, he wants Criston’s blood on his blade, his hands, his face; and what the Warden of the North wants, he is never denied.

Alicent, Criston thinks, and he remembers her lying in bed after giving birth to Aegon. She was a girl, just a girl, pale, sick, in terrible and unspoken pain, never the same in body, forever darker in mind, alone in a room full of tapestries of her husband’s house as the court celebrated her newborn son. She knew she had been used. She knew this was her life and always would be, a wheel that goes around and around and crushes the same bones until they stop mending, until the misery and desperation becomes so much a part of you that you could almost forget it’s there. It’s your shadow, it’s your religion, it’s a sigil or a ring.

I suppose now I have something to live for, Alicent had said, and Criston sat on the edge of the bed took her small, cold hand in his own. He raised her knuckles to his lips and answered: I swear to you that I will always protect him. That I will never let him die.

Here in the Riverlands as Cregan Stark descends upon him, Criston looks up again and sunlight spills over his face, warm and kind and golden; but the sky is still empty.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the gardens of Dragonstone, on a bench carved out of gloom-grey basalt, you pull Aegon’s legs into your lap and roll up his loose cotton trousers to inspect them: scars that have knit shut the gashes bones once cut through, muscle mass that is slowly building itself back again, good circulation, able to carry him if only for short, hard-fought distances. You have bled twice since Aemond flew back to the Riverlands to seize Harrenhal. Here under flinty autumn skies and pine trees that sway in brisk wind that smells like saltwater and metal, you think that perhaps the earth is done giving things. This is the time for harvests, not blooms. This is the season of endings, long nights full of cold stars, firelight, reaping.

“Stop,” Aegon says gently. He’s clutching a thick wool blanket around his shoulders. He’s always cold now, pale and shivering. His silvery hair hangs in untamed waves around his face adored with only a single small braid that you weave for him each day. “I don’t want you to do it.”

No; he only wants the maesters to see his weakness, his suffering. “I like taking care of you. It’s the only thing I’m good at. It’s how we met, remember?”

“Oh, I remember.” Now he smiles. “I have no idea what you saw in me.”

“An exemplary cock, mostly. Better than any in my medical books.”

Aegon laughs, a sound you rarely get to hear anymore. Then he is grave again. His hair blows in the gales that roll in off the ocean; his eyes, a tumultuous blue like waves in a storm, are ringed by shadows. “Angel, listen to me.” He places a hand over yours where it rest on a knot of scar tissue just below his kneecap. “If I don’t…” He pauses, and you think as you look at him: He’s nothing but scars now, he’s nothing but pain that is calloused over but never forgotten. “If I’m not here when the war is over, I want you to know that you’ll still be protected. Aemond knows. Larys knows. You are to be provided for. You will reside only where and with whom you choose to.”

“Why wouldn’t you be here?”

Aegon shrugs, avoiding your gaze. “We should be realistic.”

“You’ll be here. You have to be.”

Aegon stares into a thicket of rose bushes, blood-red petals and twisted thorns. And he says faintly, like something a strong wind could carry away: “I’ll try.”

“We’re winning, Aemond and Criston and Daeron and the Greens’ armies. They might have won already and we’re just waiting to hear the words. Aemond will end the war and then we’ll all be together again in King’s Landing.”

Aegon gives you a wry smirk as you roll back down the legs of his trousers, concealing his roadmap of harm. “A man like Cregan Stark would not be such a disappointment. He would be able to ride into battle. He would not have compelled you to bloody your own hands. He would not be feeble and deformed.”

“It can’t be anyone but you.”

Overhead, half-shrouded in mist, there is an immense reptilian shadow and a rumbling like the earth splitting in two, cracked and forced apart by eruptions of steam, lava, trapped toxic heat. Gingerly, Aegon returns his boots to the earth, stony and barren. He winces and groans before he can bite it back to hide it from you.

“I’ll go,” you tell Aegon, skimming your fingers through his hair and touching your lips to his temple. His wave-blue eyes are watery, grateful. “Stay here. I’ll bring him to you.”

You hurry through corridors and down spiral staircases, watched by dragons of iron and stone with fire burning in their mouths. And of course, there is more than one reason why you want to greet Aemond by yourself. You don’t know what he will say to you; you don’t know if he’s still angry. But when he strides through the entranceway of the castle to meet you—his hair in one long white-blond braid, his black coat billowing around him in the sharp wind—he is not alone.

There is a woman with him.

“…Aemond?” you say, staring at her: hair like onyx, skin like snow. She grins at you beneath eyes that are pools of ink, dark and glassy and with hardly any whites. You do not believe she intends to unnerve you; still, there is a blade-cold shudder that tumbles down the rungs of your spine.

Aemond replies with pride that is hushed, pure: “This is my wife.”

“Your…?” You cannot look away from her. Her gown is black lace with long, dragging sleeves and a train that curls around her like a dragon’s tail. You can see glimpses of her starlight skin through the fabric, her forearms, her waist, her thigh. Isn’t she cold? You are wearing heavy velvet, pine green like Aegon’s banner, and still the impending winter needles at you. “Who…?”

Lord Larys Strong arrives, his cane tapping on the stone floor. When he sees the woman, he jolts to a halt and gawks. “Alys?”

“Hello, brother.” Her voice is deep, smooth, melodic. She speaks the language of ocean currents, roots in dark fertile soil, the revolving of the stars.

You turn to Larys. “Who is this?”

“A bastard daughter of my father,” Larys answers, slow and disbelieving. “Alys Rivers. She…she was at Harrenhal, last I saw her…years ago…”

“And now she is here with me,” Aemond says. “She is precisely where she belongs.”

Silence fills the room, the world, the space that has opened up between you and Aemond. Wife? Bastard? Harrenhal? At last, you manage shakily: “Aegon is in the gardens. He’s waiting for you.”

“Good,” Aemond says. He wears something you have never seen on him before: not just pride but serenity, consolation, contentment. “There is much to discuss.”

As slate-grey wind whistles through rose thorns and cranberry bushes, you and Larys step out into the gardens with your uninvited guests. Aegon’s eyes snag on Alys, widen, and then dart to you. He mouths: Who the fuck is that? You shrug, bewildered.

Aemond says: “Allow me to present my wife, Lady Alys Rivers of Harrenhal.”

“Your wife?!” Aegon exclaims, like he couldn’t possible have heard correctly. “Your wife?!”

“Yes.” Aemond’s arm snakes around Alys’ waist. She folds into him, palm to his chest, lips to his throat, something creeping and boneless like ivy or mist or smoke. “You’ve had two now. I’ve only just found mine.”

“Rivers,” Aegon echoes incredulously. “A bastard from the Riverlands.”

Larys notes: “One of my father’s natural children.”

“A Strong bastard?!” Aegon cackles and looks to Larys. “Where is Daeron presently? Can he be summoned here? He should see this.”

“It is no jest, Your Grace,” Aemond says calmly. “It is a true pairing of souls.”

“And you were not at liberty to give yours. You have to marry Borros Baratheon’s daughter. That was the deal, that’s why he has pledged his army to us.”

“Daeron can do it.”

“Daeron won’t be old enough to marry for years, and that’s not the point! This is a slight, an egregious slight, to reject a Baratheon noblewoman in favor of a…a…what was she, a serving wench? A wetnurse? What happened to your pathological obsession with self-righteous duty? And why aren’t you and Vhagar with Criston?! Is this what you’ve been doing for the past six weeks while I was trapped here, suffering and useless? You’ve been hiding in the crumbling towers of Harrenhal with your so-called wife? What was so fucking crucial that it kept you from the battlefield—?!”

“She carries my son,” Aemond says.

A gasp spills from you before you can silence it; Lord Larys covers his mouth with one hand. Aegon stares numbly at his brother, not warring with envy or spite but raw astonishment. This is an asset to the Greens, it is a detriment, it lifts a burden from his shoulders, it imperils all of you. “You have no way of knowing what it is yet.”

“I know. We know.”

“And why have you flown to Dragonstone?” Aegon demands. “To torment me with your disobedience, to illustrate so vividly how all that relentless, calculated striving has finally cracked your brain in half—?!”

“No.” Aemond glances to you. “Something has happened. And I wanted to be here in person to deliver the news and…express my condolences.”

“Condolences?” you say, fearful, alarmed.

“Lord Larys will not have received word yet,” Aemond continues. “It has only just transpired. But Alys has seen it.”

Aegon shakes his head. He doesn’t understand. “Seen it…?”

“She sees things. The future, the past. Not every detail, but some of them. She’s seen Mother in the Red Keep, a prisoner but still alive. She’s seen Jaehaera safe and well at Storm’s End. The child has a protector, though Alys isn’t sure who.”

“She’s a witch?” Aegon says flatly. “This bastard Strong woman that you have taken to wife is, among all her other deficiencies, a witch?”

And Alys answers in a voice like the night sky, dark but threaded with glimmers of stars, moonshine, comets: “I am a woman who lives between two worlds. Your Angel is much the same, I think.”

Aegon blinks at her, not entranced or awed but fighting the instinct to flinch away.

“There have been riots in King’s Landing,” Aemond says.

“Yes, obviously. Everyone is aware of that. I think the Wildlings north of the Wall have heard.”

Aemond ignores the jab. “The Master of Coin, Lord Bartimos Celtigar, was travelling through the city in a carriage when…” He trails off, uneasy. He glances at you again. His sole remaining eye—river-blue and without any malice—shimmers with grim compassion.

“What?” you say. “What happened?”

Aemond speaks to Aegon in words you cannot comprehend, swift ageless High Valyrian.

Aegon sighs testily. “Slower. Enunciate.”

Aemond tries again. Aegon repeats a certain word, unable to decipher it. Aemond offers him several others, what you can only assume are synonyms.

Aegon’s face goes even paler, the last of the blood draining out of his cheeks. Then he reaches out a hand to you. “Come here,” he beckons softly.

“Why?”

“Angel, come here now.”

“They killed him, didn’t they?” you ask Aemond. Your voice is trembling, icy, choked. He was an architect of Rhaenyra’s war effort, but he was your father first. He was a beast with blood on his hands, but now you are too. “The common people hate Rhaenyra and they hate my family. So they murdered him.”

Alys says: “They did not just murder him.” And she is not taunting you, though she grins like she might be; she has lost pieces of what it means to be human. She is no longer fluent in anything as trite as sympathy or decorum. Her obsidian eyes gleam, polished, glowing. Her long black hair blows in the wind. There are raven feathers in it, you notice now, and twigs, pine needles, earth, sand, ashes. “They bound and tortured him, they sliced off parts of him to keep as relics, they rode on horseback through the streets swinging his severed head and cock as they celebrated an end to all taxes—”

“Will you shut the fuck up?!” Aegon shouts at her. “Angel, please, come here.”

“Your brother was there too,” Aemond says solemnly.

Yes, of course he would be. He was always Father’s favorite. “Clement,” you whimper, pressing a palm to your chest. Your lungs burn as they drink down chill autumn air that cuts like a blade.

“No,” Aemond says. “The other one.”

“What?” No. No, that can’t be true.

“Not Clement,” Aemond insists. “It was the other brother. The burned man.”

No. No no no. I can’t believe it, I won’t believe it.

“Angel,” Aegon pleads, still reaching for you.

“Everett,” Alys says, dreamy, not knowing how cruel it feels, like splinters of glass beneath your skin instead of arteries and muscle, like shattered bones. “He was not difficult for them to catch. He could not run.”

Your words escape in a hoarse whisper. “I don’t believe you.”

Alys offers her hands. They are long, lithe, white like a skeleton’s. “Would you like to see?”

“No.”

“I can show you. Then you will trust what I say.”

“Alys, my love,” Aemond warns.

“No, you’re a liar,” you snarl at her. “You’re not a witch, you’re not some prophet, you’re just a liar and I don’t believe you—!”

And before you can flee she’s crossed the space between you, she’s gripped your wrist with those slender claw-like fingers, she’s pouring her magic into you like poison down a prisoner’s throat. The vision surges into your skull and fills it, sight and sound and scent: Everett screaming as he is dragged from the carriage, the hoard ripping at his clothes and his eyes, dull kitchen knives pulled from pockets, the coppery ether of blood in the air. You can feel the feverish heat of the crowd. You can feel their boiling-over animal rage. You can feel everything, but you can’t stop it.

Beyond the grisly mirage, you can hear yourself shrieking, muffled and distant; and you can hear someone else bellowing for Alys to let you go. Her hand is yanked off of your wrist and you are abruptly back in the gardens of Dragonstone surrounded by indomitable flora that warps and tangles and endures. You are kneeling on the cobblestones, tears flooding from your eyes. Aegon is on the ground with you, his arms circling around your waist. He is calling Alys a bitch, a monster, a demon. He is threatening to feed her to his dragon.

“Forgive me,” Alys says to you, peering down with a vague sort of regret etching lines into her brow. “I did not intend to cause any distress. I only meant to help you understand.”

Aegon seethes at Aemond: “Take your witch back to Harrenhal.”

“No,” you protest; and Aegon studies you, puzzled, as you gaze up at Alys, this half-human phantom that dwells between realms, something like a dark mirror image of an angel. “What else have you seen?” Tell me Aegon lives. Tell me the Greens win and we have a chance at a better world one day. Tell me this was all worth it.

“She has seen Daemon and Caraxes meeting me at the Gods Eye,” Aemond says. “She has seen me taking flight to join them in battle.”

Aegon is stunned. “When?”

“Soon. Three days from now.”

You sob, thinking of Everett; and Autumn too, wherever she is, who will reappear when the war is over searching for home but forever unable to find it. Aegon holds you and you pull yourself into him, arms slung around his neck. His silver hair brushes your face; his scarred right cheek is rough against yours. When you breathe in violent hitches, you inhale rose oil and wine and salt and warmth and misery, you taste the war that built him and now has returned to claim the debt.

“It’s Rhaenyra’s fault,” Aegon whispers, fierce and merciless. “We will kill Daemon and Cregan Stark. We will retake King’s Landing and capture Rhaenyra. And I swear to you that she will burn.”

Aemond is saying: “Do we have permission to stay the night or not? We’ve traveled a long way. My wife is tired, and so is Vhagar. Another flight so soon would tax her.”

“You can swim,” Aegon pitches back.

Lord Larys Strong—ever servile, ever composed—clears his throat, both hands resting on the handle of his cane. “Would anyone care for some soft-shelled crabs?”

~~~~~~~~~~

Mist hangs heavy over the castle the next morning, a cool metallic grey like steel; the sun is muted, only a wisp of itself, a memory that is swiftly fading. Alys Rivers stands in the surf fetching seashells and stones that she plinks into a basket. Locks of her long, wild hair dip into the roiling water and emerge sopping and heavy, sticking to her ink-black gown. Aegon is curled up with Sunfyre at the edge of the beach. The dragon breathes with rattling, labored heaves and Aegon pets his golden face, wishing the beast’s wings to knit themselves back together and his own legs to be strong again, murmuring to Sunfyre in some clumsy patchwork of High Valyrian and the Common Tongue to assure him that he’s served his king well.

You and Aemond walk down the windswept beach together, your boots sinking in wet sand and leaving imprints like bruises on flesh. Your gown is a deep, vibrant red like the sigil of the newly decimated House Celtigar; Aemond’s hair is wavy and damp and blows loose in the breeze. You are reminded of the night you shared with him six weeks ago, though you don’t want to be. Neither of you have mentioned that indiscretion. You believe you have silently agreed to forget it. You ask the prince regent: “How many people do you think you’ve burned in the Riverlands?”

“Why do you care? They’re not you. They’re not me.”

“Perhaps each life we take robs something from us as well. It carves a piece of the soul away and leaves it less than it was before.”

Aemond raises his eyebrow, intrigued.

“I am less than I once was,” you explain. “Acts of love feel like violence, violence is mistaken for love. Things that horrified me a year ago are now what give me solace when I dream of them. Vengeance, slaughter, fire and blood. Aegon grows more bitter, more ruthless. And so do you.”

“We will have the luxury of reforming ourselves when the war is won and Aegon is the undisputed king of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“If there’s any part of us that remembers who we were supposed to be.”

“I remember exactly who you were.” Aemond grins. “Fawning over Aegon, weaving braids into his hair. Scurrying around with your bandages and vinegar and honey. Always seeking to take his pain away. Always waging your own little war against the agony of mankind.”

“That feels like a different person,” you say, peering out over the ocean.

“We will build monuments to those we’ve lost,” Aemond promises. “Jaehaerys, Maelor, Otto. Your brother and my sister. You say you dream of fire and blood? I often find myself dreaming of Helaena.”

You turn to him, startled. And you recall the warnings her ghost gave Aegon before Baela and Moondancer arrived on Dragonstone: Don’t fall, don’t fall. “Does she say anything?”

“She keeps telling me I’ll lose my left eye.” Aemond smiles wistfully. “And I answer: Helaena, that’s happened already. But when I try to comfort her, when I try to embrace her, she turns away from me and says it’s too late. That I’ve ruined myself.” He walks with his hands linked behind his back, his face thoughtful but not brooding. “I still miss her,” he says. “And I still feel responsible. But things are easier now.”

You follow his eyeline to where Alys is plucking a starfish from the frothing waves and placing it in her basket. And doesn’t it make some strange bit of sense that Aemond’s match would be someone rare, bizarre, gifted in ways that are in equal parts mesmerizing and fearsome? “I’m glad you found someone who eases your burdens.”

“She has suffered tremendously. She knows what it is to be unloved and overlooked. She had to reinvent herself, just like I did. She had to shed her skin and step into a new one that she stitched together herself.”

“Perpetual Resurrection,” you say softly.

“Perpetual Resurrection,” Aemond agrees.

Now Alys is trekking up the beach to join you, her soaked hair whipping in the wind and her basket slung over one arm. From where he sits with Sunfyre, Aegon watches her with narrowed, disapproving eyes. “This belongs to the king,” Alys says to you, opening her hand. In her palm rests the ring of gold wings and jade eyes. “You should return it to him. He does not like me.”

You gasp and take the ring that you last saw before Aegon fell from the sky and shattered his legs, his spirit. “How did you find this?”

“It spoke to me. I spoke to it.” She smiles, more like a leer, though she does not mean it to be. Her eyes—onyx, jet, black moonstone—are bright with amusement. “See? You do not understand. Sometimes it is best not to ask.”

You slip the ring onto one of your fingers for safekeeping until you deliver it to Aegon. From the stone staircase that leads up to the castle’s main entrance, Larys waves Aemond over to him. Aemond kisses the woman he calls his wife farewell—a deep, burning kiss—and then departs. You say to Alys: “How did you become…like this?”

“I surrendered to it. Anyone can, if your life is hell and you are willing to burn it down to the foundations. You go deep into the swamp and then it goes into you. It grows through your skin and into your veins. It tangles up with you, vines climbing your ribcage and spine like ivy on a trellis. It changes you. It makes you greater than you were before. The victim becomes the victor. The weak turn watchful and wise.” She is gazing at where Aemond stands with Larys, exchanging theories and plots. Aemond shakes his head at something Larys says. “I always knew he would find me. The man whose fractured pieces fit with mine. Yet each time I thought I glimpsed him only to realize he wasn’t the one, I would think: How long must I wait? I have buried so many children. Will I ever have more? Will he come to me before it is too late? Is it too late already? But no, he flew to Harrenhal just as my hopes were giving out like a dry well. And Aemond was worth every second, minute, month, year. He was worth the beatings and the contempt, the rapes and the blood. He was worth all of it.”

Alys reaches out to touch your cheek and you recoil; but she is not giving you a revelation this time. She is merely tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear with a fond, maternal smile. There are mottled plumes of violet and indigo on the side of her throat, you notice only now. Alys catches you staring.

“Aemond can be rough, domineering,” she says with a sly smirk. “You know how he is.”

You know how he is. You know how he is. Horror strikes you like lightning; you imagine what other visions she has swimming in her changed blood. “It was a mistake. Aegon must never learn of it.”

“Of course not. That would kill him.” And you are gutted by a blade of cool serrated treason. Alys does not appear to be aware of it. “If I can ever be of service, please do not hesitate to summon me. I can appear and speak to you briefly, perhaps for five or ten minutes. I will be like a mirage, a ghost. Find a closed door and write my name upon it in blood. Then knock three times and open the door. I will be there.”

“A door? Which door?”

“Any door.”

You contemplate her. “Why would you believe that you owe me loyalty?”

“Because of Aemond,” Alys says simply, without any trace of resentment. “You mean something to him. So you mean something to me.”

He doesn’t crave me anymore. He has his own prize now. “I think you’re mistaken.”

“I never am.” Then Alys glides off to rejoin her husband.

Hours later as you are helping Aegon into bed—he must be carried up and down the castle steps by his guards in a litter, something he considers mortifying—you weave a new braid for him and then pour him a cup of milk of the poppy when his glazed eyes keep listing to the glass bottle of pearlescent relief, deadened nerves, liquid dreams. You crawl into bed beside him, curl up against his scarred chest, listen to the slowing thud of his heartbeat as his arms enfold you and draw you in ever-closer. His dragon ring glints on his hand, returned to its rightful place.

“Your legs?” you ask, kissing the gnarled scar tissue that has grown over his collarbones like climbing roses, like ivy. He can’t really feel your touch there, that’s not why you do it. You do it to show that you aren’t repulsed by his wounds and could never be, could never think of any part of him as something less than wondrous.

“That’s most of it,” Aegon murmurs drowsily. “I’ve started getting this ache in my back too. It won’t go away.”

“What?” You bolt upright in bed. “Show me where.”

He gestures: the curve of his spine, just above his hips. Panicked, you begin pressing lightly over where his kidneys are.

“Here? Aegon? Does that hurt?”

But now he’s realized how frantic you are, how upset. “Oh, no, never mind,” he says, clutching his pillow and feigning being too tired to speak on the subject for even a moment longer. He yawns dramatically. “It’s just a sprained muscle, I think. You know I’m always crawling around now like some kind of vermin. It’s nothing serious. It will heal in time.”

“Aegon—”

“I’m alright.” He grabs your hand and pulls you back down to him, buries his face in your hair, nuzzles and sighs contently as he whispers: “Shh. I’m alright. Stay, stay.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“You left him!” you hear Aegon yelling from his rooms, and you drop the book you had been reading in the castle library, an anthology of illnesses of the body, the mind, the soul. You sprint through the shadowy corridors towards the noise, the hem of your sapphire gown fluttering around your ankles. You are always dressed in jewel tones these days. You are anything but neutral.

In Aegon’s bedchamber, Larys has pressed himself to one stone wall like he wishes to disappear. Alys is observing with her strange, impassive, void-dark eyes. Aemond is being berated. He does not appear resentful or defiant; no, he is paralyzed. He is haunted, he is damned.

“You left him!” Aegon screams again, and hurls a full wine cup that strikes Aemond in the chest, spewing red through the air like blood spurting from slit veins. The king is standing, but with great effort; he is scrabbling through the drawers of his bedside table for things to throw at his brother. Yet the glass bottle of milk of the poppy remains untouched. “You abandoned him, you betrayed him, you fucking murdered him!”

“Aegon, what’s going on—?!”

“Almost a week ago, Cregan Stark’s army met Criston’s in the Riverlands,” he tells you. He is panting, red-faced, furious as he recounts Lord Larys Strong’s words, the news the Master of Whisperers only now received from one of his innumerable informants.

You stare at Aemond, horrified, already knowing what this means. “And Aemond wasn’t there.”

“He was at Harrenhal!” Aegon roars, tossing one of your medical books at Aemond, a volume on herbology. It strikes the prince in the nose, and blood gushes from his nostrils; ruby droplets freckle his hair. Aemond makes no attempt to defend himself. He is in shock, he is mourning. “He was fucking his witch while our men were being butchered!”

“Criston, he’s…he’s…?”

“He was slain in battle,” Larys informs you quietly.

Aegon staggers to his brother, shoves him roughly, receives no retaliation. “He was the closest thing you had to a father, he worshiped you, he loved you, and you left him to fend for himself after I told you over and over again that you and Vhagar needed to stay with him, and now he’s gone!” There are tears on Aegon’s face, crystalline tracks that bleed down his cheeks and jaw and throat. “You killed him, you killed him!”

“The Stark men?” you ask Larys, not wanting to know but needing to.

“Moderate losses. Now headed south towards Daeron and the Hightower army.”

“You fucking traitor,” Aegon hisses, sobbing, beating his palms against Aemond’s chest again. “Your whole life all you’ve wanted was responsibility and the second someone gives it to you, you throw it away! Why can’t I be the one with a body that works?! Why can’t my dragon be whole again?!”

And at last Aemond finds his voice. It is brittle and almost too hushed to hear. “I’ll make this right. When I defeat Daemon and Caraxes at the Gods Eye, it will be over.”

“It’s already over for Criston!” Aegon explodes. “It’s over for Helaena and Jaehaerys and Maelor, it’s over for Otto and Everett, it’s over for Sunfyre, we keep losing people and it’s all your fault! You started this war and you’re too much of a goddamn coward to end it!”

“He will end it,” Alys says in that deep placid voice like dusk, dawn, midnight.

“Don’t try that bullshit with me! I don’t want to hear about your delusions, I want him to do his goddamn job! I want him to act like the hero he’s been begging to be seen as since he was five years old! You know why no one wants to write books about him or carve his face into statues? Because he doesn’t fucking deserve it!”

“I’m sorry,” Aemond whispers, his mouth trembling.

“You should be!” Aegon hemorrhages, and then collapses to the floor, moaning with his face in his hands.

You go to him, try to soothe him, grab the wine cup from the floor and fill it with milk of the poppy, tilt it against Aegon’s lips. He gulps the numbness down with helpless, hated need. Aemond and Alys flee for the doorway.

Aegon says, suddenly more calm: “Aemond, wait.”

The prince regent stills and turns back, listening. Aegon, with great difficulty, begins to say something in High Valyrian. Aemond cuts him off. “No, that won’t happen—”

“Please,” Aegon rasps. “Listen to me.” Then he continues. And as he speaks, Aemond’s eye fills with tears, a glistening like ice over lakes in the winter, like gemstones in a crown. You look between them, searching for any clues you can read.

“I understand,” Aemond says at last.

“Good. Now get out.”

Aemond wipes his face with his sleeve and then disappears from the room. You tell Aegon as you rise to your feet: “I’ll be right back.”

Aemond is moving quickly; you don’t catch up with him until he’s passed through the castle entranceway. Down by the ocean waves beneath a blood-red sunset, Vhagar is already landing, leaving cataclysmic imprints in the sand with her claws, trenches and impact craters. From the edge of the beach, Sunfyre watches with dull, wounded interest. Alys is halfway down the staircase. Aemond stops when he hears your footsteps, waiting under the rising full moon and materializing constellations.

You demand: “What did he say to you?”

“Nothing.”

“Aemond.”

“He’s confused, he’s exhausted, he’s in pain. He doesn’t understand—”

“Aemond, what did he say?”

The prince regent sighs and looks at you. “He said he doesn’t think he’s going to get better this time.”

I can’t believe that. I can’t survive that. “Why did you have to do it?” Your voice splinters; your throat burns. “He’s right that you started this war. You’re the reason Rhaenyra will never negotiate. You’re the one who made this horror inevitable. Why did you have to kill Luke?”

The dusk is radiant on Aemond’s face like firelight. It is a long time before he speaks. “I never intended to.”

That doesn’t make any sense. “What?”

“I never gave Vhagar the order. She went after Arrax. I tried to stop her.”

It wasn’t murder. It was an accident. And you think of all the times people have told Aemond that everything that’s happened is his fault, and how he has never disagreed with them. “Who knows?”

“You. Alys.”

“No one else?”

“Who would believe me?” Aemond smiles faintly, profoundly sad. “And even if they did, would that make me so much more noble than a kinslayer? A Targaryen who can’t control his own dragon? A man who is reckless, ineffective, unworthy?”

Here in air the color of flames and gore, you tell him, perhaps more kindly than he deserves: “You’re worthy, Aemond.”

“I will end this. I will meet Daemon and Caraxes in battle. Alys saw it.”

“Did she see you win?”

“Are you worried about me?” Aemond teases, grinning crookedly. And he does something that he hasn’t tried in a long time. He swipes for your forearm and you snatch it out of the way just before his fingers can close around it, just before he can catch you. Aemond chuckles. “I don’t want you to worry. I’ll win the war for the Greens. We will return to King’s Landing, we will rebuild, Aegon will heal. He will live for a long, long time.”

“Yes,” you say, wanting so desperately to believe it.

“You know,” Aemond adds as it occurs to him. “If the king does happen to predecease you, in ten years or twenty or thirty…and you find yourself unincumbered…Aegon the Conqueror had two wives. Alys would always be first, but…”

“No, Aemond.”

“Fine,” he says, agreeably enough. He smiles down at you. “I will come back to let you know when it’s done. Then I will fly south to join Daeron in annihilating Cregan Stark’s army. And then we’ll all go home.”

Yes, yes, let that be true. “Good luck,” you tell him, soft like a whisper.

“I don’t need it.”

Aemond descends the staircase, climbs up the rope ladder into Vhagar’s saddle, takes flight with Alys into the late-autumn dusk; and you watch them vanish into the crimson horizon until the sky is empty.

290 notes · View notes

maii777 · 2 years ago

Text

Omg i was screaming when I saw this!!

I Love down into flames so much It’s my favorite 🫶

Daylight ~ Down In Flames

pairing: Aegon x Reader, Aegon x DIF!Reader

summary: Aegon struggles to adjust after the events of Down In Flames.

word count: 3.0k

warnings: she/her pronouns, language, substance use, references around recovery, relapse (alcoholism).

note: this was so fun to revisit and explore DIF!Aegon my beloved! remember this guy? Well here he is! Enjoy loves!

“Fuck, stop stop!” Aegon says, tearing the headphones from his ears.

Helaena frowns at him from her spot outside the recording booth. Her silver hair has been plaited down her back, silver mirror ball earrings catching the light as she looks up. She presses the intercom and speaks into the mic.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, rubbing her temple.

“It just….shit,” Aegon says, running a hand through his hair, “It feels weird…like I’m gonna have a fucking heart attack or something.”

Aegon’s never sung sober.

He is approaching his year mark this time around. The longest he’d ever gone. Helaena won’t let him forget. She’s always been the most supportive; that’s why Aegon agreed to this in the first place.

“It’s a part of recovery,” Helaena had told him, the first time he’d relapsed.

Three months out of treatment. He’d never felt lower. Of course, with Helaena’s help he’d gotten right back on the wagon. Alicent had made a few calls and he was back in detox. You need to find different ways of coping with stress. Stress. Yeah. That was it.

In and out. Up and down. In and out.

But that was then and this was now. He was tired of feeling this way.

“Take five,” Helaena tells him, giving him an encouraging nod.

Aegon breathes deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose as he squeezes his eyes shut. He can hear Helaena enter the booth, moments before her hands wrap around him, embracing him in a tight hug. Her face squished against his back, nose pressing in between his shoulder blades.

“I’m sorry,” Aegon says, voice thick with emotion. He can feel the tears gathering behind his eyes and he refuses to open them, “I didn’t think-”

“It’s alright,” Helaena murmurs, releasing him and rubbing a comforting hand across his back, “Don’t you dare apologize to me.”

Aegon bites his tongue, nearly wanting to apologize yet again.

There was nothing like Aegon and Helaena singing together. Their voices complimented each other perfectly. It was one of the reasons Dracarys became so huge. One of the reasons Aegon agreed to record with Helaena again. There was no coming back for the band; after everything went down in flames nearly two years ago, Aegon had hung up his microphone for good.

But when Helaena tentatively broached the subject of re-recording one of the first songs they’d performed for a limited release, it was hard to refuse her. And though Aegon hated to admit it, he missed making music. He had been forced into it by his grandfather when he was a child, and though there were rarely any happy memories surrounding his music, there was still some familiar comfort.

Aegon always craved a drink when he sang. Lyrics and liquor leave the same cloying aftertaste in his mouth. He sighs, breathing heavily as Helaena rests against him.

“I know you’re trying to be kind,” she murmurs, still rubbing circles on his back, “But you really don’t have to do this.”

“I want to,” Aegon insists, “Just- just give me a minute.”

Helaena nods, pulling away from him. She moves across the small booth, the wide arms of her green shirt ghosting behind her as she does.

“I’m going to grab us some lunch,” she tells him, “What d’you want?”

“Whatever you’re having,” Aegon grumbles, sitting on the provided stool.

“Doubt you want a harvest bowl,” Helaena says, cocking an eyebrow at him. Aegon groans.

“Would it kill you to eat something other than rabbit food?” Aegon teases, rubbing his eyes and cracking a small smile.

“A burger it is then,” Helaena says, leaving the room.

Aegon sighs, removing the headphones from his neck and letting them rest on the microphone in front of him. He glances over at the instruments. The guitar, the bass, the drumset. Ghosts that won’t disappear.

The door creaks open and Aegon turns, surprised at how quickly Helaena has returned. She’s got a terrible habit of never leaving a room with everything she came in with. Helaena leaves a trail of breadcrumbs wherever she goes, her belongings strewn about every room she enters.

“Forget your keys?” he calls but is greeted by someone who is not his sister.

A girl stands, wide-eyed, holding a stack of papers in her arms and a camera bag slung across her shoulder. She’s pretty. Very pretty, Aegon notes to himself.

“Sorry,” she says, looking sheepishly toward the floor, “We’ve got this space reserved for half past three.”

Aegon glances at his watch. Shit. He’d wasted Helaena’s afternoon.

“Right,” he says, hurrying to gather himself, “Sorry.”

“It’s no problem,” she says, smiling politely.

Aegon moves to exit just as she enters, and they get stuck in an awkward dance trying to let the other pass. She chuckles nervously, the sound ringing in Aegon’s head like bells. Like music.

He pauses as she squeezes by him, watching her drop her things and take out her camera.

“You a musician?” Aegon asks, leaning against the doorframe.

“Gods no,” she says, checking the settings of her camera, “Just a photographer. You know The Iron Fleet?”

Aegon nods, recognizing the name of the rising heavy metal band. They’re good, very good. A little rowdy from what he’s seen splashed across the tabloids, but who is he to judge?

“They’re my next shoot. Wanted some shots in the studio,” she tells him, glancing up. She tells him her name, though Aegon is a bit distracted by her eyes; bright and framed with long lashes.

“I’m-”

“I know who you are,” she interrupts, before pressing her lips together tightly and shaking her head, “Sorry, that was rude. I just- I knew Dracarys that’s all.”

“Oh,” Aegon says, feeling his face burn with embarrassment, “You don’t have the best impression of me then.”

“Not the worst either,” she tells him, flashing a crooked smile.

You don’t even know the worst of it, Aegon thinks to himself. There it is again, forming in his stomach, that feeling of guilt. The wave of regret grows so big it threatens to drown him completely if he allows it. He swallows the lump forming in his throat.

She seems to notice his discomfort and glances away, back down at her camera.

“Do you want to see something?” she asks, beckoning him forward with a nod of her head.

Aegon walks over slowly, his hands in his pockets. He’s feeling anxious now, and if his hands aren’t balled into tight fists he’ll bite his fingernails until they bleed.

“This was a few nights ago,” she says, showing him a photo of the lead singer of The Iron Fleet, mid-smashing his guitar to pieces onstage.

“Seven hells,” he murmurs, leaning closer to see, “That’s a great shot.”

“Thanks! Thought a shard of guitar was going to take my eye out,” she says with a chuckle, “But I got it! Firefly Weekly paid my rent for that shot.”

Aegon raises an eyebrow, “Impressive.”

“Cheers,” she answers, “What were you up to?”

“Oh I was…it was nothing,” Aegon says, scratching the back of his neck.

“Hmm,” she says, “Were you singing?”

“Trying to, I suppose,” Aegon answers, “It’s been…” Fuck. How does he even begin to explain this to a stranger? A pretty stranger nonetheless. “It’s been a while.”

Aegon never used to struggle talking to women. Charming them. Seducing them into bed with him. It was like a game almost, that’s how easy it was. Collecting them like charms on a bracelet. The past swirls down the drain in his mind much like his old stash of booze. It’s a whole new ballgame now. And it’s been fucking hard to learn the rules.

“Yeah,” she agrees, as if she knows exactly what he’s talking about, “I’m glad you’re doing better.”

“Thank you,” he says, meaning it completely. He doesn’t know what he’s done to win her kindness, but he appreciates it.

The studio doors open and the members of The Iron Fleet begin to pour in. Aegon smiles awkwardly, shuffling backward toward the door. He’ll wait for Helaena outside.

“Maybe I’ll see you around?” the girl calls, just as he’s slipping out the door.

Aegon pauses, looking back at her.

“Yeah,” he answers, “I’ll see you around.”

“Do you ever sing?” Aegon says, sitting and pulling the guitar onto his lap.

She moves to join him, sitting on the stool in front of him. They’ve been playing this game for a while now, running into each other at the studio. Each day, Aegon sings a little more; the music coming back to life within him.

“A little bit,” she admits, her cheeks turning a rosy shade of pink, “Just for fun though, nothing serious. I’m not a musician.”

Aegon snorts, dismissing her put-down. He reaches for his notebook and licks his thumb, flipping through the pages.

“I bet you sound lovely. Here,” he murmurs, finding the page he was looking for.

She takes it from his hand, reading the chicken scratch handwriting as he begins to strum a few chords. Aegon’s hands are steady as he plays. The guitar is an extra limb, the sweet sound of music filling the booth. He nods, encouraging her. She straightens, clearing her throat, eyes scanning the page before she begins.

There’s a monster in my bedroom

A beast beneath the boards

He comes out when I am lonely

Summoned by the chords-

That I play on my guitar in the silence of my room

Empty bottle

Bad decisions

Anger taken out on you

She pauses, looking up at him. Aegon nods to continue, still strumming his guitar. He remembers writing it. He remembers everything. She clears her throat.

Here it comes, the burden on my brow

It lies heavy, it is weighted

My bed becomes my shroud

Here I’ll lie, for the rest of my days

Withering and rotted

Ivory flesh turns to gray

She stops as Aegon finishes, meeting her eyes.

“It’s very sad,” she comments, “Beautiful, really, but terribly sad.”

“That’s one of mine,” Aegon says, bringing his thumb to his mouth, and chewing on the skin. A nervous habit.

“I didn’t know you wrote,” she says.

“Helaena usually,” he comments, watching her hands hold the notebook, “But yeah.”

“It’s good,” she tells him, handing him his notebook, “Really good, Aegon. You have a gift.”

“It’s been wasted,” he says with a dark chuckle.

“Not entirely,” she tells him, and he meets her eyes once more, “Life is full of second chances.”

“You sing beautifully,” Aegon compliments, not so subtly trying to get the attention off of him, “You sure you’re not in a band?”

She laughs, amusement evident in her eyes.

“You’re trying to distract me,” she teases.

“You’re starting to know me well,” he tells her, feeling his chest tighten with longing.

He’s been struggling with women ever since….well ever since his last relationship. He was in such a bad place, mentally, emotionally, and physically. Ever since then, ever since fully understanding how he treated his last partner. Well, Aegon doesn’t know if he’s even worthy of love anymore.

Ever since then.

Ever since her.

“Your thoughts are loud, Mr. Tortured Artist,” she teases, tearing him from his thoughts.

He blinks, giving her a cheeky grin.

“Sorry. Just reminiscing,” he says softly.

“About what?”

“A different life,” he tells her, “A different me.”

“I like this Aegon,” she tells him, smiling softly.

“They’re one and the same, I’m afraid.”

“Yes,” she agrees, “But this one knows something the other doesn’t.”

Aegon’s eyebrows knit together and he looks at her curiously.

“What’s that?”

“Things will get better.”

Aegon chuckles, “Still not completely sure that’s true.”

They sit in silence once more. It’s not uncomfortable, and Aegon doesn’t shy away from her gaze.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.

It. No, not it.

Her.

Aegon swallows. Therapy, AA, group. They’ve all heard it. Everyone has. And each time it’s like opening a wound that never properly healed.

“Maybe another time,” he suggests, and she nods in agreement.

“Shall I sing another Aegon original?” she teases, flipping through the pages. Her eyebrows scrunch together, “What is The Pink Dread?”

��You’ve ruined it- oh my gods-”

Aegon freezes, hands leaving the computer as he holds them above his head, eyes wide.

“Shit, really? No, you’re joking shit!” Aegon says, panicking.

She laughs, swatting his shoulder as he sits frozen.

“I’m kidding, idiot, but you’ve completely fucked the color correction,” she informs him, tilting the laptop towards herself and correcting his mistake.

“This is complicated,” Aegon tells her and she hums in response.

“You’re just thick.”

“Rude!”

Aegon watches her as she snickers, fiddling with the computer until the image looks better. Aegon purses his lips. Perhaps she had a point, it looks a lot better now.

“We should get out of the studio,” Aegon suggests.

She’s clicking through different photos on her laptop as he says this, munching on leftover french fries from the takeout Aegon had brought her. He knew she was working on editing some photos, and while he and Helaena didn’t have plans to record, he stopped by anyway. It was becoming somewhat of a routine.

She turns her head, raising an eyebrow at him. “And go where?”

“Somewhere,” Aegon says, leaning back in his chair, “I want my picture taken.”

She smiles at him endearingly. She’s grown rather fond of their afternoons together. Aegon is easy to be around, there are no awkward or forced moments between them. It’s natural. Carefree.

“Oh do you now?” she says with a giggle.

When she laughs, Aegon can’t help but smile. He leans forward, resting his chin in the palms of his hands.

“Can you do one like those weird baby pictures? Where their bodies are all swaddled up and their heads look massive.”

She laughs again and Aegon swears he feels his heart grow in size. His smile widens as she shakes her head, taking a sip of water.

“A portrait then?” she asks, closing her laptop, “Just you?”

“If you’ll have me,” Aegon says, before an idea pops into his head, “Actually, I have someone else who would love to be a model.”

“Sunfyre down!” Aegon yells, just as his energetic golden tackles her to the ground, “Shit- oh shit sorry he’s excited!”

But she’s laughing hysterically as Sunfyre licks her cheeks, his tail wagging furiously as her arms wrap around him. They’d chosen a nearby park for the shoot; she’d been confident that the changing colors of the autumn leaves would be the perfect backdrop.

“It’s okay!” she giggles, turning her head away from the dog’s tongue, “Such a good by Sunfyre!”

“He’s a brute,” Aegon argues as Sunfyre seats himself in her lap on the ground, “Oh c’mon you’re not a fucking lapdog-” Sunfyre barks at the comment, smiling up at his owner.

She’s laughing all the while, legs crushed by the happy golden. “Really, it’s alright Egg-”

Aegon squats next to them, patting Sunfyre’s head.

“My sister calls me that,” he says, cheeks slightly flushed. She’s still giggling, laughter pouring from her lips like music.

“Sorry, just slipped out-”

“No no, shit! That wasn’t--I wasn’t,” he sighs, shaking his head, “I like it.”

Sunfyre is panting between them as they lock eyes. She smiles at Aegon, warmth creeping onto her cheeks. Aegon’s cheeks are pink from the cold autumn air, and the tip of his nose is as well.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, grinning, “Now, let’s get some of those photos, yeah?”

It takes a while, Sunfyre is not the most patient model, but eventually, she gets some photos of the two of them.

“There,” she says, showing him as they sit next to one another on a bench. Sunfyre lays on a bed of orange and red leaves, eyes closed, “You’ve got your holiday card for this year sorted. Make sure to send me one.”

“Course,” Aegon says, his knee bouncing nervously, “Thank you, for real. This was…fun.”

She smiles at him, “Yeah, I had fun too.”

Aegon’s stomach flips pleasantly as she smiles at him.

“I’ve got this family thing coming up. I was just ... .I was wondering…..Would you maybe like to be my date?” he asks, scratching the back of his neck.

“Aegon Targaryen,” she says, smirking slightly, “Are you asking me on a date?”

“I mean, you could come as my friend,” he hurries his answer, nervous he’s made a mistake, “That’s alright too, I just like hanging out with you and your company would be great.” He’s rambling he can tell, gods he’s so fucking nervous. “And my family is fucking nuts. Like not crazy how everyone says haha my family is crazy, like actually crazy.” Shit. Shit, he’s not selling it, her eyes are wide, oh gods she’s regretting ever meeting-- “Um, I mean they’re not….I’m not..”

“Egg,” she says softly, placing her hand over his, stopping his knee from vigorously bouncing, “I’d love to be your date.”

“Yeah?” he asks, sighing in relief, “You mean it?”

She smiles, leaning forward and pressing her lips against his. It’s soft, it’s sweet, and it sends Aegon’s heart racing. He brings a hand to cup her cheek, deepening the kiss.

When she pulls away, they’re both smiling shyly at one another. The hand that rested on his remains, and she laced her fingers through his.

“So,” she says, breaking the silence, “What kind of family gathering? Should I be prepared for blood rituals and sacrifices?”

Aegon barks out a laugh.

“Hardly,” he says, squeezing her hand, “It’s nothing too exciting. My kid brother’s engagement party.”

“That’s wonderful,” she says, “A wedding, how exciting! You must be so happy for him.”

Aegon smiles, lost in thought, taking a moment before he answers. The past couple of years flash through his mind; faded memories.

“Yeah,” he says smiling fondly, “I really am.”

note: oh me oh my.....an engagement party oneshot in the future perhaps? 🤔 hope you enjoyed this trip down memory lane!

DIF taglist: @padfooteyes, @herfantasyworldd, @kyuupidwrites, @lost-and-founds, @doublesparrows, @virginslut08, @f4ll-for-you, @violet2507, @itsabby15, @raphaellathedragon, @tswiftsthings, @cruelmissdior, @tempt-ress, @lexyr23, @reneki, @fictionalcomforts, @serrhaewin, @yariany02, @lily174, @nina2697, @minttea07, @queenofshinigamis, @duesobabe, @maximizedrhythms, @arryn-nyx, @arcadianmoonlight @kittykylax, @hiatuswhore, @issshhh, @echos-muses, @wrendermeuseless, @youcantbesirius, @partypoison00 @chainsawsangel @bellameshipper @wondergal2001, @arcielee @rwdkarla @sweetsweetpsyche @valeric-writes @sahvlren @ohdemimonde @geminidas @darkenchantress @sophielangdonx, @khaothick, @flavorofsalt, @spinachtz, @alitaar, @crazylokonugget @eddiemadmunson, @schniiipsel, @borikenlove, @afro-hispwriter, @whitefang1919, @sarcastically-defensive17, @paprikaquinn, @minttea07, @iiamthehybrid, @ghostheartbeat, @namelesslosers, @iiamthehybrid, @mendes-bae,

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maii777 · 2 years ago

Text

Effect

( modern!sihtric x reader )

summary: visiting a party with your boyfriend Sihtric ends with a dramatic event that has a effect on both of you.

warnings: alcohol, fight, blood, sexual content (+18)

word count: 2,2K

🫧🐺

Every month Uhtred was hosting the biggest party known. Everyone knew there is always happening something off, a fight, a break up or just drunken people laying everywhere.

You didn’t attempt to those party’s before with your girls, you where more the friend group type to go to the cinema or make a movie night with snacks and tee.

But as Sihtrics girlfriend you knew the day would come that you go there.

So you stand in front of the mirror finishing your look with some fake lashes. As you look at yourself you feel so sexy, your dress being short with no straps holding it and a slit that mostly shows your hip completely. You feel very much wearing less clothes then you have on.

It excites you to think about your boyfriends face when he sees you, teasing him with that dress.

You feel your cheeks burning up at that thought, rolling your eyes and taking a breath in to come back to reality.

As you look at your phone, seeing messages from your girl group chat about how sad they are that they couldn’t join you tonight, it knocks on your door.

You open the door and see Sihtric leaning in the doorway.

„Your escort service is here, lady“ he says with a cocky smile. And you stare him up and down. His tattoo showing from neck to the side of his head, his hair is braided and his beautiful miss matched eyes always making your knees weak. Wearing a black shirt, his sleeves are rolled up, the buttons are opened at the top reviling his chest and his mjölnir hanging from his neck underneath his shirt.

You both match together in completely black, looking like some hot mafia couple.

You are ready to go waiting for him to make room for you. But he is completely staring at your dress, that reveals almost your ass cheek.

„You can’t go out like that“ he says with worry

„Why? Your with me the hole night“ you says smiling at his actions, knowing your plan worked.

„yeah but people will stare at your body.. it is only for my eyes“ he says putting his hands on your hip, pulling you close. His cologne hits your nose, loving the scent of it. You put your hands on his chest looking up to him „I’m all yours babe“ and his lips meets yours with a loving and sloppy kiss, he taste like cigarettes and mint. You holding his shirt thigh moaning into his mouth as his big hands move down to your ass, giving you a spank that makes you squirm, his lips forming a pleased smile at your reaction . Kissing your lips again, he looks deep into your eyes.

„Okay, let's go otherwise we won't be able to get out of here“ you nood at him, closing your door and taking his hand into yours as you both exit the building.

Arriving at the house it already look completely packed, loud music and colorful lights coming from the building.

In front of the door Sihtric halts „after you my lady“

You smile at him shy, your hands grabbing back at him to find his hands again, he holds you hand and his other ghosting over your hip.

You go through the entrance hall searching for Osferth or Finan in the big living room. The people make all room for you, seeing Sihtric behind your back.

Then you see Osferth waving to you standing next to Uhtred and Finan in the kitchen. You go over to them greeting them. Sihtric leaving your touch, hugging his friends.

„The party is amazing, are you not worried that something will break?“ you ask Uhtred and he just laughs „they already broke everything important, so I don’t care anymore“ he says laughing. Finan gives you all a shot „Sihtric I am so happy you are finally here with your better half, I hope that will give you some control to not drink to much you can’t even handle“ and the boys all laugh before downing the shot.

The sharp taste when it runs down your throat making you burn as you scrunch your face .

Sihtric talks with Uhtred for a while, watching you drinking with Finan and Osferth. You play some drinking game and some other people joining you.

The time flys and you feel getting tipsy, laughing at every toast Finan says and Osferth already pouring in the next drink.

Sihtric hugs you from behind, looking at the drinking circle you three made.

„I think you need some water, babe“ and you nood.

He loves taking care of you. When he gives you water, you drink it out immediately.

„Can we go dance?“ you say turning your head back to Sihtric, you feel his grip getting harder.

He doesn’t like the idea of you dancing in that dress in the middle of the room.

„You know I don’t like to dance, sweetheart“ he says sounding sorry.

Osferth mentioning that he doesn’t feel so good, also looking a bit pale.

Finan claps at the back of Osferth „We can dance that will sober you up“ laughing at Osferth.

Sihtric trust his friends more than anything so he nods „then go dance with them, I will watch you sweetheart“ he says giving you a kiss on the head.

You take the two boys with you to the middle of the room, Finan shows you some funny dance moves he has and Osferth just existing, dragging his body some way to the music.

You feel yourself so loosen, moving your hips to the music with your eyes closed, feeling amazing.

You don’t notice that every other guy is looking at you, Sihtric of course noticed that the whole night.

He clenches his hand on the beer can, not really listening to the guy next to him . His anger growing at the guys looking at your body, but he doesn’t want to stop you of having fun.

He tries controlling his anger and you know that. You had seen Sihtric losing control over his anger before, when a guy cat called you on the street ending up giving that guy a good night punch.

For a moment you open your eyes, seeing Sihtric standing trying to hold together.

You both lock eyes and you feel aroused him looking at you like that, like your his and he is yours.

And then you see Osferth and Finan both next to Sihtric. Osferth pulling Sihtric after him, he just looks back at you, not wanting to leave you alone with drunken people.

You wonder what happened, remembering Osferth felt sick before from the liquor.

As you feel someone tapping at your shoulder and you turn. When the cat is gone the mice come out.

You look confused to the guy in front of you, tall and short hair that is braided, wearing a black shirt.

„hey are you alone here?“ he says smiling down at you.

You just look at him not giving any type of communication and you turn around and leave him.

You press yourself trough the crowd of people and you notice that he yells after you

„hey mysterious girl“

At the front door you turn and he nearly bumps into you at your sudden halt.

„What do you want“ you say with not expression, kinda pissed of that he didn’t get the hint.

„I want to get to know you“ he says smiling and he rubs his neck with one hand.

„I have a boyfriend“

„and? I think that isn’t a excuse“

You roll your eyes and get out of the house, the fresh air sobbers you up almost completely.

In front of the house in the grass the guy grabs your arm

„hey wait can’t I really get your number?“

You try to tear your arm out of his grip, when you hear a familiar voice.

„Hey stop touching my girl“ and Sihtric stand in front of you blocking the guy from you.

„Oh so she didn’t lie..“ the guy says letting go of your arm immediately and shrunken in front of your boyfriend.

„Why the fuck would she lie“ Sihtric yells at him, you notice that he snaps at that.

„I don’t know man, girls are like that“

And you don’t know what is going on in Sihtrics head but all he sees red. All that night the guys looking at you and controlling his anger but this was his last push. You take a step back.

Without a warning Sihtric punches the guy in the face, his nose bleeding. You stand there holding your hand in front of your mouth, when everything happens so fast.

Sihtric told you to take distance before so you do, always.

Sihtric continues punching him, Finan coming from out of nowhere getting Sihtric off that guy.

Osferth now looking better than before calming Sihtric down, but Sihtric only watches your reaction. His huge rough hands are covered in blood.

You take his hand and you feel he gets more calm.

After that Finan drops you of at your apartment with Sihtric. You both walk up in silence, he holds your hand thigh, not looking at you the hole time.

When you open the door you let him in first.

Your apartment seems smaller when he is here. He sits at your couch that also seems tiny now.

„ I clean you“ you say looking in your bathroom for some medical stuff.

You stand in front of him taking his hands, cleaning them. He feels burning hot. You wipe his face and then go down to his chest where are also tiny splatters of blood.

He looks up at you, his hands on the side of your ass. He looks so innocent and you feel it clenching between your legs.

His hand goes under the slide of your dress, his hand taking your bare ass cheek, massaging the flesh.

You point his chin up and looking down at him

„You know that was hella hot what you did for me“

He breath out sharply smirking „You know I would do anything for you“ he says with a hoarse voice, looking up into your eyes.

He immediately stands up capturing your lips in a hastily kiss.

You put your arms around his neck as his hands go under your ass pulling you up, your legs hugging around his body perfectly, holding you thigh to his body.

You both exchange messy kisses as he carries you to your bed and puts you down.

You unbutton his shirt hurriedly as he rapidly pulls your dress off. You lay there in only your underwear. His mouth wanders down from your mouth to your neck bitting and sucking on your skin as his hands knead your breasts. moans escape your mouth as he leaves marks on your skin.

He growls at you when his fingers feel the wetness between your legs. He pulls your underwear off and throws them somewhere in your room.

He kisses a trail down your body. As he puts your legs onto his shoulders, to keep you in position.

He kisses your inner thigh „All this just for me“ he says as his tongue licks in between your folds. You exhale sharply as he fucks you with his tongue, soft moans escaping your mouth . Like a man starved he eats you out, his nose is perfectly centered at your clit. You moans get louder as you feel your first orgasm rolling in.

You hand taking his hair, pulling harshly and moaning his name, that makes him growl between your legs. You see your vision go blurry and a loud cry escape your lips as your scream his name.

He comes up to you cupping your cheek and kissing your lips lustfull, you taste your own arousels on his tongue.

Your hands opening his belt and he pulls his trousers and underwear off as you catch your breath.

„I am not done with you babe“ he says smirking and you fall over him, kissing his lips hastily.

Your on top of him and feel his huge dick throbbing against your center.

„Now it’s your turn, getting taken care off“ you say smirking as you hold yourself steady on his chest as you directing his hard huge cock in your entrance. You both moan looking in his miss matched eyes while you slide down his huge length.

As you start riding him he puts his hands on your hips, helping you. The only sound in the room is your moans and the slapping sound of your two body’s.

As you feel your second peek coming in you look into his eyes, you both don’t break the eye contact. You slap him in the face as you ride him harder and you see how his jaw tightens.

„slap me again“ he says as you slap him harder. He starts whimpering and you slap him each time harder, you feel how this drives him wild. His hands lacing over your ass and you whine at the pain.

He starts moving his hips more to your motion and slaps your ass harshly. You moan his name as you reach your climax. Your walls tighten around his huge length making him come. You looking each other into the eyes as you finish both.

You collide onto him. He hugs your body and kisses your head as you both take your breath.

After a few minutes you stand up from him going over to your bathroom door, looking over your shoulder „want to take a shower?“ with a innocent smile.

And Sihtric immediately stand up following you under the shower.

——————

Authors note:

That was my first fan fiction and I hope you liked it! I would really appreciate some feedback.

Thanks for reading :D

#sihtric x reader #sihtric x you #sihtric smut #the last kingdom fanfiction #modern au #modern!sihtric #sihtric fic #sihtric kjartansson #tlk fanfic

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