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ellecdc · 3 months

Note

⬜️idea!🟩

poly marauders. reader sees James fall off of his broom during a game. he gets injured, but makes it out fine. it affects reader more than she wishes to admit, but hides her concern/fear. maybe her hurt turns into anger when she hears him talk highly about his upcoming game, snaps at him to leave the team (maybe Sirius and Remus ganging up on her too?) maybe after a nightmare she seeks him out, apologizing and just wanting to ensure he’s all alright?

maybe a fic on this, if you wish to!

hi sweets! thanks for this idea - I hope I did it justice!

poly!marauders x fem!reader who hates seeing her boys get hurt - 2.7k words

CW: James gets injured [he's fine tho], brief mention of Sirius' crappy childhood, angst [with a happy ending, obviously], poor communication [but ends in good communication]

Every step you took seemed to lodge your heart further and further up your throat; you were nearly certain that one wrong move would have it leaping right out of your mouth as you made your way to the infirmary.

You had a one track mind as you pushed your way through various students and staff in the halls; get to James. Get to James. Get to James.

You had been sitting with your friends from Ravenclaw during the game instead of with Remus and Sirius which was obviously problem number one.

Problem number two had to be this stupid sodding game - quidditch. Whoever invented it clearly wished death on many generations to come.

The third problem - and arguably your biggest problem - had been watching James hurdle from nearly thirty feet in the air before hitting the ground with a bone crushing thud.

You were certain you were only three steps away from actually losing your heart (and your dinner) as you pushed your way into the infirmary to see two familiar silhouettes standing over a hospital bed.

Whatever relief the sight of two of your boys had on you quickly melted into something uneasy when Sirius let out a bark of laughter.

“Hope he gets suspended for at least one game.” You heard James chuckle, which caused Remus to snort.

“Please, Madame Hootch looked like she was ready to bar him from the pitch all together.”

“Good; one less beater we have to worry about then.” Sirius added before you stepped around the curtain to look at the patient and alert them all to your presence.

Save the bandage currently wrapped around James’ head and the fact that his left arm was situated in a sling, he looked like he was being served a cheeky breakfast in bed rather than emergency medical care.

“Hey sweetheart! Did you enjoy the game?” He called to you with a cartoonish smile on his face.

You found that you had no response to that.

Did you enjoy the game? You had been enjoying the game, until…oh…you don’t know, had to watch your sodding boyfriend fall out of the godsdamn sky!?

You took a moment to survey your surroundings. You currently had:

One boyfriend situated in a hospital bed with an injury to his head and clearly something wrong with the left side of his body

There was an empty bottle of pain potion and what looked to be a vial of skele-gro

Your long haired boyfriend was still decked in his quidditch kit as he took a casual and sloppy seat in the chair beside James’ bed

And Remus roughly patted James’ knee as he moved to stand on the other side of him, leaving you standing at the end of the bed on your own as all three of your boyfriends waited for you to respond.

“No.”

James’ brows furrowed momentarily as he cocked his head to the side as if perhaps your answer would make more sense from a 45 degree angle.

Remus merely offered you a sympathetic smile.

“No?” James parroted.

“No.” You insisted, growing more and more agitated at the nonchalance the boys were showing the current circumstances.

“Not enough action for you, dollface?” Sirius teased.

That apparently had been your last straw.

“Oh fuck off, Sirius.” You hissed, causing the air to be sucked out of your quasi curtain-walled room.

“Hey, easy Y/N…” Remus started, but it was too late.

“What the fuck were you doing out there?” You asked James pointedly, throwing your arm behind you as you gestured in the direction of the quidditch pitch.

“Erm…I was playing quidditch?”

“That was a trick question, babe.” Sirius added rather unhelpfully; smirking at Remus and James.

“This isn’t sodding funny Sirius; he could’ve died!”

“But he didn’t.” Sirius offered with a tone harsher than you were used to hearing from him, though you figured perhaps you deserved it. “As you can clearly see, he’s fine.”

“He’s not fine.” You fumed, gesturing to his current state. “He could have brain damage, he could have broken his neck, he could have-”

“But I didn’t, sweetheart. Listen, I know-”

“No!” You cut James off. “I don’t think you do know. Because you’re sitting here laughing like it’s nothing!”

“Because it is nothing, dovey. Look, I know you’re upset but I think all you needed was to come and see that he was fine, yeah?” Remus tried placatingly, holding his hands up at you as if he were trying to quell a feral cat.

That just made you feel even more angry.

“No, what I need is for him to quit the team.”

James choked on air as Sirius started laughing incredulously.

“Okay, doll; clearly you’re not feeling very well right now. James ‘Quidditch’ Potter, Gryffindor team captain, is not quitting the team.”

“I don’t understand how you can so calmly climb atop a wooden stick and ascend 30-50 feet into the air just to fall like that.” You argued.

“Well, you see, I actually wasn’t supposed to fall. That was sort of the problem.” James started, causing Remus to snicker.

“Stop laughing.” You shouted; horrified when your voice cracked and your sinuses filled painfully.

Unfortunately for you, all three boys caught it.

“Dove…”

“Don’t dove me, Remus. I’m serious - don’t you fucking dare.” You cut yourself off as Sirius opened his mouth.

“Why are you doing this to me?” You pleaded with James.

James very rarely got angry or frustrated with you; he was one of the most easy going people you had ever met in your life and he was always the first to have considered every person’s feelings and sides before participating in discourse.

But you seemed to have found something he was not willing to negotiate about.

“What exactly is it that am I doing to you, Y/N? Because from where I’m standing, I’m the one who’s hurt.”

“James…” Remus started, but much like you had, James cut him off.

“No! I don’t see her getting all worked up about Sirius playing quidditch!”

“Because people in his position are the one’s trying to knock you out of the fucking air!” You argued.

“That is the point of quidditch!” He bellowed back at you.

“Okay, enough.” Sirius barked. “James, relax, it’s alright. She’s just upset.”

You laughed humourlessly as you looked to the sky for patience.

It didn’t come.

“I’m not just ‘upset’. I have spent countless holidays waiting,” You started severely, still looking towards the ceiling as you tried to ward off your tears. “Wondering what kind of state you might be in, how you were being treated. Wondering if-” You choked on a sob and shut your eyes harshly as the first wave of tears fell. “If you’d even come back at all, Sirius.” You finally finished with a laugh that turned into a sob as you finally made eye contact with him.

“Every winter.” You continued. “Every Easter break. And every summer, which were always the hardest because they were the longest and there was no way for me to know.

“And every month I sit and wait and watch and worry and wonder and hope and fear.” You continued, turning your gaze to Remus. “And I will never stop waiting and watching and worrying and wondering and hoping and fearing but-”

Finally, you turned your gaze back towards James. “But to do this willingly, to… I don’t know, to put yourself in harm's way for what? For sport, for fun, for a goof? I…I don’t understand.”

James let out a sad and tired sigh as he looked at you pleadingly. “Look, Y/N, I’m sorry I upset you; I really am.”

“No, no - don’t apologise just because I’m crying.” You argued as you wiped angrily at your face.

“I think it makes sense to be upset, dove. You’re worried; that’s more than fair.” Remus offered; ever the voice of reason.

But the more he discussed your feelings and concerns and not the actual problem - which in your opinion was currently your third boyfriend holed up in a hospital bed - you could feel your temper rising again.

“I can’t do this. I need to go.” You announced before turning on your heel.

“Y/N, wait.” You could hear Sirius start, but you carried on and let the door to the hospital wing shut behind you.

You felt silly.

You were still upset, but you felt silly all the same.

You aren’t sure where you got off demanding James quit the team, but you do wish he would take his health and safety a little more seriously, at least for your sake.

But you hadn’t said that to him.

And you shouldn’t have brought up Sirius’ trauma to push your point across when you had been the one walking into their conversation with an air of hostility about you.

And Remus, poor Remus.

You had no right to bring up his affliction like that; you knew he struggled letting people in for that very reason.

Gods, you were awful.

But you were still upset.

You were awful and upset, which was why you were currently sitting behind the curtains of your four poster bed simply tossing and turning without any hope of ever falling asleep.

Not whilst angry, and not alone.

Before you had much time to think about it, you felt a familiar…scurrying on the side of your bed.

“What in Godric’s fucking name?” You hissed as you pulled your blankets back in a panic to expose a yellow rat looking rather guilty (or, as guilty as a rat could manage to look) with a folded piece of paper in its mouth.

You stared at the rat disbelievingly as it slowly dropped the note beside you before sitting down and looking at you expectantly.

“What?” You asked expressionlessly.

The rat - being a rat - simply looked back down at the note before returning its gaze to you.

“You need me to read that?”

The rat seemed to nod yes.

“Now?” You deadpanned.

Yes.

“Did they pay you for your efforts?”

Yes.

“Tell them to pay you double.” You sighed as you unfolded the note.

I’m sorry, sweet girl.

I shouldn’t have snapped at you, especially when all you were trying to do was care for me.

Please come see me?

I’m sorry.

You could almost hear the desperation in James’ words as you traced your fingers over the xx’s he had signed on the bottom.

You looked down to see the rat was still sitting there.

“For fucks- you’re job is done, Peter. Tell them to pay up.” You muttered in faux contempt as you felt any residual ire melt from your body.

The rat seemed to give you a little pat on the knee with his tiny hand before he scurried off back down the stairs of the girls dormitory.

After washing your face to try to hide any remaining evidence of tears being shed, you stalked towards the boys’ dormitory with your own metaphorical tail between your legs before you paused in front of their door to knock.

Your fist had hardly made contact with the wood before the door was flying open to expose a rather bedraggled looking James.

“Angel.” He breathed out, seemingly simultaneously relieved that you were here and worried about what the next words coming from your mouth would be.

“Jamie.” You sighed, hating the fact that you had just spent time and effort to hide any evidence of previous emotions only for your voice to crack and your eyes to fill with tears immediately.

Thankfully, it seemed James was prepared.

“I’m so sorry.” He breathed out; words muffled from where his lips were pressed into the crown of your head as he pulled you tight against his chest. “I’m so sorry; I should never have shouted at you.”

“I was being unreasonable.” You argued, causing James to make a pleading sound in the back of his throat.

“You weren’t being unreasonable. You were upset and I brushed you off.”

“Can we both be sorry?” You asked as he rubbed his hands up and down your back.

“Only if you can tell me what you did that was so wrong.”

“I should never have asked you to quit.” You whispered; embarrassment flooding you at the mere memory of your demand.

James let out a sigh as he backed up enough to see your face, but not far enough to let you out of his hold.

“I…I think I can understand why, though. I don’t think you would have jumped to that if I had taken my injuries more seriously.”

You let out a noncommittal sound as you pushed your face back into his chest. “I’m still sorry.”

“I would, you know.” He said suddenly.

“Would what?”

“Quit.”

You pulled your head back rather suddenly at that causing a momentary bout of dizziness that even James seemed to notice as he helped you right yourself.

“James ‘Quidditch’ Potter would quit quidditch?” You asked disbelievingly.

“Try saying that five times fast.” Remus chuckled quietly, causing you to turn to find him sitting on the edge of Sirius’ bed with his hand resting atop a rather pitiful looking Padfoot.

“Pads…” You whispered, causing Sirius’ dog form to step off the bed and make his way over to you, nudging your hand with his wet nose. “I’m so sorry for the way I spoke to you; you didn’t deserve that.”

Seemingly appeased that you weren’t about to lash out at him again, your (arguably most) sensitive boyfriend spun back into his human form and stood rather bashfully in front of you. “I completely brushed you off; I would have told me to fuck off too.” He offered as he took one of your hands in his and rubbed his thumb over your knuckles.

“I’m sorry I took all of my anxieties and concerns out on you. None of you deserved it and it’s not your responsibility.” You declared, pointedly looking towards your last boyfriend who you felt arguably most guilty for having accosted earlier.

“I appreciate your apology, dove, but I disagree with part of it.” Remus said as he stood and made his way over to your three. “Your anxieties and concerns are our responsibility; they became our responsibility the second we started dating.”

“And we right fumbled that.” James let out with a breath, causing Sirius to smirk and pinch his good arm.

“I got upset when I didn’t think any of you were taking it seriously, and then got defensive when it felt like you were being flippant with me. I wish I had handled it differently.” You explained, leaning into Remus’ side as he pulled you under his arm.

“I’d say we all could have handled it differently.” Remus decided as the rest of you nodded.

“Next time?” Sirius asked then.

Remus scoffed. “Haven’t you heard, Pads? There won’t be a next time; James is quitting the team.”

James seemed to baulk at that fact before he turned to look at you, face falling forcefully neutral as he took a deep breath.

“Right… yes. If…if that’s what you want.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at your sweetest boy before jostling his shoulder that had been in a sling.

“Where’d your bandages go?”

He turned slightly bashful before looking towards Remus.

“Erm, well, I had wanted to come find you immediately afterwards, but we thought it might be better to wait until I didn’t look so…hospitalised.”

“What Prongs is trying to say,” Sirius teased as he looked at James with no shortage of love. “Is that the pain potion and skele-gro did their jobs and he’s back in tip top shape for his girl.”

You let out a sigh of faux exhaustion and rolled your eyes. “Well then I suppose I could allow you to continue playing if you promise to be extra careful going forward, and also to cuddle me the whole night after every game?”

“Deal.” He agreed quickly before enveloping you in a hug so big that it picked you up off your feet.

“Oh yeah.” Remus laughed. “He’s right back in tip top shape indeed.”

1K notes · View notes

roosterforme · 24 days

Text

Yours Truly, Bradley Bradshaw Part 21 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: Bradley is learning firsthand just how lonely a deployment can be when he's gotten used to talking to you all the time. You are more than happy to record your daily adventures for him, including your steamy ones.

Warnings: Fluff, angst, masturbation, adult language, romantic Bradley, 18+

Length: 3700 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female teacher!Reader

Check out my masterlist for more! Yours Truly, Bradley Bradshaw masterlist

Your original plan to commute to work from your apartment in Mira Mesa went out the window after the box from Bradley arrived. Suddenly his place seemed cozier now that there were tidy rows of envelopes from him covering the table in the living room. You sipped a mug of coffee and looked at all of them, selecting the one that said Open me with your class.

"Whatever you say, Bradley," you murmured with a smile, tucking it into your tote bag for work. You missed your kids almost as much as you missed him, but at least you'd finally get to see them today. You just hoped there was something upbeat in the note, because you were going to have to inform them that he'd be gone until Career Day. Or maybe longer.

Opening the note that was meant for you and your class before digging into all the others just felt right. Really, he was a faithful pen pal to all nineteen of you, even if his current letters were pre-written. As you drove to work, you wondered how long it would take your students to ask about Bradley. Turns out, it didn't take too long at all.

You were standing behind your desk, getting hugs from some of the kids as they got reacquainted with each other and the classroom for the first time in almost two weeks when Jayden asked, "What did you get Lieutenant Bradshaw for Christmas?"

Images of lingerie danced in your head as you cleared your throat. "Stationery," you replied. "So he can write us letters while he's deployed."

"He's deployed?" asked Nia, face lighting up. "With Marty?"

"Can we do another drawing contest with him?" shouted Oliver, already getting colored pencils out of his desk.

"Will you ask if he's allowed to take a video while he's flying this time?" Violet asked calmly.

"Actually," you replied, walking slowly to the front of the room with a single envelope in your hands, "we can't do any of those things. He's not allowed to communicate with anyone who isn't on the aircraft carrier this time around. If he writes to us, he'll have to save the letters until he returns."

Everyone stared blankly at you.

Jackie raised her hand. When you pointed to her, she said, "But we're not like random people. We're students of aviation. We're his pen pals."

"Yeah!" came a chorus of voices, and you were half tempted to write up a petition to the Navy for all of them to sign.

You had to clap your hands and wait for them to clap in response after they all quieted down again. "I have a note that he wants me to open with you. Should we do that now?"

After literally everyone agreed that was a good idea, you opened it and found a handwritten link to a YouTube video followed by a short note that you read out loud.

"Greetings, Fourth Graders,

By the time you read this, it will be January, and I'll be on an aircraft carrier in the Atlantic Ocean for a seven week deployment. I'm sure your lovely teacher has explained that sending and receiving letters is sadly not a possibility for me right now. I'm going to need you to keep track of all your questions about aviation until I get back for Career Day next month. I'll bring some of my friends along, and we can answer them for you then. Sound good?

Make sure you listen to your teacher, and I'll see you all in February.

Yours Truly,

Lieutenant Bradshaw"

You looked up from the notecard and added, "He also included a link to a YouTube video. Should we check it out now?"

It was actually amazing how quietly they all sat in anticipation while you set up your projector and typed out the link. When you turned out the lights, you had to grab onto the edge of your desk as Bradley's face and voice filled your classroom, even though he wasn't actually there. The twenty minute video began with him sitting on his living room couch in his worn out jeans and the Top Gun shirt you wore to bed last night, and you realized he must have filmed this on Christmas Eve when you were out with Natasha.

"Hi, everyone," said video Bradley as he waved to his phone camera. "I thought I would try my hand at a little lesson on aviation so your teacher could get a break. Make sure you take notes. There will be a quiz the next time I see you."

All of your students were watching him with rapt attention and pencils poised over their notebooks. Bradley kept them engaged and entertained while you fell even more in love.

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

"What the fuck?" Bradley groaned as he sank down into an empty spot on one of the long benches in the mess hall. The spaghetti looked like mush, but his stomach was growling so aggressively, he decided to take a bite anyway. It tasted just as bad as it looked, and he grimaced as he started to shovel it into his mouth anyway.

What he wouldn't give for dinner at Salvatore's. Mouthwatering pasta. Expensive as hell wine. You in a short little dress with his hands all over your thighs. Maybe Bronco parking lot sex.

Instead he got another USS Gerald R. Ford meal which was barely edible, and a view of a very hairy Atlantic Fleet aviator with the call sign Curly. Fantastic. Even the garlic bread was so stale it was hard to chew, but if he didn't eat, he would start losing weight. And if he started losing weight, it would make working out harder, which would suck, because going to the gym was his main source of entertainment.

Other than writing letters he couldn't send.

"Are you gonna finish that?" Curly asked, pointing at the roll Bradley only bit the corner of.

"It's all yours, man," he replied, watching the other aviator pick it up and crunch on it with a smile.

Bradley picked up his tray with the intention of heading to his bunk to change into gym clothes, but when he got there, he collapsed onto the twin sized bed instead. It was clear that he'd only been brought along for this deployment to fly one very specific mission, because as a whole, the Atlantic Fleet pilots were young and green. But as a result of the current political climate, he had internet access completely taken away from him, and he was stuck here for five more weeks with nothing to keep him sane. He didn't even have Marty this time around. Just the pretty stationery set you gave him and the holiday cards from your students.

So he would do what he always did now. He would write. To all nineteen of you. But mostly to you. He realized, like he always did, that this was probably the most boring shit that anyone would ever read. How many times could you really read about your boyfriend telling you that he loved you and missed you. It wasn't like he was writing elegant poetry here.

Gorgeous, I miss you so much. You'd cry if you saw the spaghetti I had to eat for dinner. First thing I'm doing when I get home (besides you) is driving us to Salvatore's, and I won't stop eating until I pass out. The Atlantic Fleet food makes the Pacific Fleet cabbage rolls seem like a delicacy, and the US fucking Navy can quote me on that.

I love you. I wish you knew I was coming back to you instead of Norfolk. I wish I could ask you to use the credit card in my sock drawer to fully stock the refrigerator before I get home. The only things I want to do for three solid days after I arrive back in San Diego are eat, sleep, and fuck my girlfriend.

Definitely not poetry. "Was my writing this shitty last time around?" he murmured to himself with a laugh. It couldn't have been if you kept responding to him for the duration of that deployment. Just thinking about your letters, both professional and personal, made him ache right now. Your emails and your sassy selfies and the sunset photos were things he didn't even know he had been taking for granted.

One letter from you now would have made everything so much better. With a deep sigh, Bradley changed to head to the gym.

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

Time passed slowly. Packing up and moving boxes of your things from Mira Mesa to Coronado helped, but you were a little too nervous to unpack too much other than the necessities. You didn't even want to think about that right now. All you wanted to do was plan your next visit to the wine bar with Natasha so you felt a little less lonely.

As you hung the framed blueprint of the Super Hornet Bradley gave you in the living room, you realized he would have to be lonelier than you were. At least you had Jayden's tales of Vanessa the dog to make you laugh during the work day. And you went out to dinner with some of your friends you hadn't seen recently. And you had a never ending text thread with Natasha now.

There was a pretty good chance Bradley didn't know anyone on this deployment, and you wondered if he was spending a lot of time in the gym. What you wouldn't give for a gym selfie. You collapsed onto the couch and scrolled through the images of your boyfriend that you had saved to your phone.

"God," you moaned. He was so hot. Especially in front of a sunset. Especially with your lipgloss smudged on his cheek. Especially when he was looking at you in his arms instead of at the camera. "Fuck."

When someone knocked on the door, you nearly fell off the couch. Your eyes caught on the envelopes from Bradley that you hadn't yet opened lined up on the coffee table as you walked across the room. The last time you had an unexpected visitor, it was Natasha. The time before that, it was Vanessa. You didn't know who to expect, but you squared your shoulders and pulled the door open with an abundance of attitude only to find a slightly hunched over older woman standing there.

"Oh!" you said, immediately softening your stance. "What can I do for you?"

She looked from you to the Bronco in the driveway and then back again. "Is Bradley home?"

"No, he's not," you told her, unsure about how much information to give. "Is there something you need?"

She eyed you carefully. "Are you his girlfriend? The teacher he fell in love with?" This stranger knew who you were. When you gave her a concerned look and took a step away from her, she said, "I'm Edith. I live next door. Sometimes Bradley helps me with yard work and repairs around my property." She smiled and added, "He only lets me pay him in piano lessons."

"Edith!" You told her your name with a smile. You knew exactly who she was, because the first time Bradley wrote to you about getting piano lessons from his retired neighbor, you fell halfway in love with him on the spot. "Right, of course! Bradley is actually deployed for a few more weeks." She looked immediately dejected, so you asked, "Did you need help with something?"

"I don't want to bother you with it," she said immediately.

"Please," you replied, already reaching for your shoes. "I'm so bored without Bradley around. I would absolutely love a distraction, Edith."

She wrung her hands and then held them up. "Well, I can't change my light bulbs, because my arthritis is bad this time of year when it gets chilly out. And my back patio is so dark at night, I can't see anything."

"Say no more," you told her, joining her on the porch and closing the door behind you.

It only took you a few minutes to change the exterior light bulbs and rearrange her patio furniture. Then you cocked your head to the side and asked, "Is something beeping?"

Edith sighed. "My smoke detector needs new batteries."

"I'm on it."

She led you inside the sliding glass door, into her kitchen where the beeping was annoying enough that you didn't know how this woman could have slept in the house unless her hearing was starting to slip. Edith told you where you could find a step ladder and new batteries, and once you finished that chore, she started digging around in her purse, pulling out five dollars.

"Thank you for your help," she said, trying to hand it to you as you walked past the piano with the step ladder.

"I am absolutely not accepting your money, Edith. This was the most entertaining part of my day. As long as your arthritis allows it, you can pay Bradley in extra piano lessons when he returns."

The idea of Norfolk suddenly made you feel anxious, but Edith smiled. "Oh, he's an advanced student. He mostly just plays from memory. I only point out when he's flat instead of sharp."

You weren't sure how long it had been since Bradley checked in with her, but as long as he was allowed to come back to San Diego, you'd make sure he did it more often. "I'll send him over as soon as he gets back."

Edith smiled knowingly. "Something tells me he's not going to want to leave your side right when he gets back. But maybe after a day or two, you could send him over?"

"I'll do that," you told her with a chuckle.

After you walked back across the yard and let yourself inside, you kicked off your shoes and decided to treat yourself with one of Bradley's notes. You'd been trying to ration them, but they were all so tempting. The ones you had already opened were stacked up on the kitchen counter where you could easily find them to read them again and again. You took a few seconds to decide which one felt right, and you settled on Open me when you need a laugh.

Inside the envelope, you found no note at all. There was just one photo, and when you pulled it out, you burst into laughter. Natasha was right; twenty-two year old Bradley was endearingly skinny and mustache-less. He still wore that same grin today, but he really grew into his frame. You marveled over how fresh his scars looked in the picture, deciding to hang it up in the bedroom for now.

And when you woke up on Sunday, the photo was the first thing you saw.

You reached for your phone thinking you could text Bradley before tossing it aside in frustration. You were frustrated in every way. Mentally and emotionally, but also physically. You missed sleeping next to him most nights. You missed his warmth and the way he kissed you. His strong body and attentive hands.

When you tried to burrow down under the covers in just his sweatshirt to go back to sleep, your skin felt like it was charged. Like there was an undercurrent of need that nothing would soothe except for Bradley.

Open me when you're in bed

That's what one of the envelopes said. You bit your lip before burying your face in Bradley's pillow and moaning. The need was still there, more palpable by the second. You had about an hour before Natasha was supposed to pick you up for brunch and the wine bar; it was the perfect time to read that note.

You ran down the hallway to the coffee table, grabbed the envelope, and took it straight back to bed. Your curiosity had been gnawing away at your mind over what could be in the note meant for the quiet solitude of the bedroom, and now was your chance to find out as you slipped back under the covers.

Gorgeous,

You better be in our bed right now. Maybe you just got home from work. Maybe you're still waking up for the day. Maybe you're ready to fall asleep soon, but you just need something to take the edge off. It doesn't matter, as long as you're thinking about me and my hands all over your body. I hope you're ready to read about how I would take care of you right now.... in an abundance of detail.

You moaned as you looked around the room, wide-eyed like someone was going to catch on to what he had written to you. Desire flared inside you as you squeezed your thighs together and took a few deep breaths before continuing to read.

You're beautiful inside and out. It's no surprise that you really get me going. One thought about the soft swell of your ass or the way you taste when you cum is enough to get me seriously hard. Jerking off while thinking about you is fantastic, but nothing compares to the real thing. Next time I see you, we're taking our time to get reacquainted, but right now, if I could have you, it would be fast and dirty.

"Oh god," you groaned, closing your eyes as you pushed his sweatshirt up, letting cool air meet your warm skin. Then your hand slid down to the apex of your thighs, and you weren't at all surprised to find you were wet.

You look sinful in that bed. I just know it. I wouldn't be able to keep my hands off you. My lips would find your breasts before sampling my way down your belly to that soaking wet pussy. When I say every inch of your body is Gorgeous, I mean it. You've got such a tight, pretty little pussy, and I would love to tease you until you're so worked up, you're practically crying. Just my mouth and fingers until you're begging for my cock, Gorgeous. Go ahead. Beg for it.

"Bradley," you moaned softly, a complete mess for your boyfriend even when he wasn't with you.

Good girl. Now touch yourself just how I'd touch you. Rub yourself just right. Use two of those fingers to warm yourself up and then dip them down inside that perfect pussy. So fucking tight, you drive me insane when I can't be with you. I'd be right above you, singing your praises, telling you how much I love you, and pumping my fingers in and out of that pussy while you whine and beg.

This note was absolutely lethal. You were already close. Sweat beaded on your brow as you stroked your fingers along your clit before pumping them inside you. His name was never far from your lips as you kept reading.

You taste so fucking sweet. I'd run my tongue everywhere until you couldn't stand it. I would eat your pussy until you cum in my mouth. I'd keep going until I couldn't handle how badly I needed you. Then I'd fuck you so hard and fast, you'd have tears in your eyes, voice ragged as my body slapped against yours. Tits bouncing as I bottomed out, holding you in place as I came inside you. And then I would let you know that I'm yours.

I'm all yours, Gorgeous. You absolutely own me.

You were panting, grinding the heel of your hand against your clit as you came. Bradley's note fell from your fingers as your back arched off the bed, and you grabbed the sheet as you cried out. You could hear something familiar mingling with your own voice, but it took you a second to realize your phone was ringing as you writhed around in bed, heart pounding fast from your orgasm. You rolled onto your belly and grabbed your phone as you sucked air into your lungs.

Natasha Trace

Shit. Shit. You tried to get your breathing under control as you answered her call, but you even sounded strange to your own ears as you said, "Hello?"

There was a pause before Natasha asked, "I'm leaving now, and I might stop for a fancy coffee on my way to get you. Do you want something?"

"Sure!" you replied, trying your best to sound casual, but pretty sure you were failing.

"I'll be there soon."

You dropped your phone and reached for the journal instead to let Bradley know just how hard you came for him before you got dressed for the day.

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

"Bradshaw!"

It felt like an almost foreign concept for Bradley to hear his name now. Essentially nobody spoke to him outside of his mandatory meetings, and he'd spent so little time in a cockpit over the last few weeks, he spun around in surprise when someone called him.

Of course it was Admiral Walker. Bradley wasn't sure if he was being punished for what Cyclone had done, but he was hardly given any flight tasks to work on. But now that his deployment was starting to wind down, he realized the danger he was going to be flying into for his mission was much more than he originally anticipated.

"Admiral Walker, Sir?" he replied, saluting his superior officer. He wasn't looking to ruffle any more feathers here as long as it meant he'd be going home to you before too long. He felt sick with longing, missing you so much, especially at night, that he hurt until he was finally able to fall asleep. And then he'd wake up to the same choking feeling all over again the following day.

The older man examined him closely for a few beats before saying, "The weather looks ideal for tomorrow. You're team leader. Be ready to go at first light."

"Yes, Sir," he replied, because there was really nothing else to say. The sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could return home to his house in Coronado where you lived now. Where you were waiting for him. He just needed to get through this safely.

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

I hate how isolated he feels. He's not thriving. He's not even eating well. He needs a hug. Gorgeous is enjoying the box of letters even is she is missing him terribly. I think I'll send him home soon. Thanks @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 22

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aphroditessaturn · 1 year

Text

𝐈𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝐈𝐓, 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐈𝐓 || 𝐇.

pairing || homelander × fem!reader

summary || Homelander constantly destroys your underwear to the point where you have none left. In conclusion you force him to buy you new ones and have the whole media see it.

warnings || SMUT; we've got tittie sucking, fingering, sublander (I love that word) but also domlander? p in v, unprotected sex, big load (he's a supe so ofc), rough sex, did I forget something?

note || this is my first homelander you guys and sure ain't the last... idk what my problem is with these difficult men and making them soft, please reblog/comment and give feedback!

BLOGS | WEBSITE | AO3 | WATTPAD | TAGLIST

“Yes, and tomorrow you have an interview with Fox,” Ashley told Homelander as she trailed after him, clipboard clutched in her hands. The blonde nodded, not even listening completely because his mind was already on you.

He was only meters away from you and could already hear your light humming over the music that played in the background. Ashley kept talking to Homelander’s dismay, not that he wasn’t interested, especially if she was talking about his ratings.

However, you took over his thoughts and body, god, his body longed for you. With his heavy footsteps he walked towards his penthouse and thinking about every position he would put you in.

Homelander opened the doors, and Ashley was still there. He was close to cursing her out, but stopped in his tracks once he laid eyes on you.

You stood in front of the trashcan, throwing away your lingerie. Completely naked. His eyes went wide, as naked as the day you were born you stood there.

Ashley squeaked, holding her clipboard in front of her eyes, “I’m sorry, god, I’m so, so, sorry,” she apologized profusely. Quickly she run out of the room, shocked as to what she just saw and hoped that Homelander wouldn’t punish her.

“What the fuck are you doing,” he questioned you with a glare, slowly making his way over to you.

In response you pouted at him, pushing all your destroyed lingerie into the trash, “well, you see all my pretty lingerie is destroyed and now I have to throw them all away,” you looked up at him with innocent doe eyes.

“Doesn’t explain why you’re naked,” he pressed, although Homelander didn’t mind but he hated anyone else seeing what’s his.

“I have no underwear, dummy,” you teased him with a smile, one that turned his mind around. He had known for years by now and knew exactly that you acted dumber than you actually were.

His patience was waning and he fought himself to not look at your perfectly hard nipples touching his suit coveted chest.

“I can’t even wear my plain once because my handsome boyfriend ripped them when I was on my period,” you added, acting as if you didn’t know what else to do. Your arms snaking around Homelander’s neck.

“Then buy fucking new ones and don’t let anyone see you naked,” he growled as his hands found a vice grip on your hips. “Mhm, but you know the rule. If you break it, you have to replace it,” scolded him, rubbing your breasts against his suit covered chest and pulling on his concentration.

“Fine, take my card,” Homelander hissed, he wanted to get over this topic and simply fuck you. He pushed you back against the wall, his leather gloved hand stroking along the back of your thigh.

“Don’t think so, you will come with me baby boy,” you grinned at him, hooking your leg around his torso.

Homelander didn’t like that, he couldn’t go anywhere without being recognized and how would it look if a superhero was buying lingerie?

As if you could read his thoughts – which by now you could – you pushed back, caressing his cheek while pushing him back onto the sofa. He laid back with you on top of him, still gripping your waist in a way that was sure to leave bruises.

“Imagine how good your ratings would be if you buy your pretty girlfriend all that lingerie. Men would love the control you have, and women will love seeing a devoted boyfriend,” you whispered, praising him as you moved your cunt over his clothed erection.

He released a strained groan, already painfully hard, “everyone will love you,” you whispered into his ear. You leaned down, your nipple hovering over his lips.

You knew how much he loved sucking your tits and you knew what to say to get everything you wanted.

“And don’t you wanna choose what I should wear? I’m too stup-,” “Fine, I’ll fucking go with you,” Homelander hissed and switched you around, now on top of you and his pearl white teeth bared.

Your thighs clenched, your cunt already soaking wet, but you had to suppress the smirk of triumph.

Homelander latched onto your nipple, sucking on it hungrily while his right hand kneaded your unattended breast. You threaded your hand through his gold-blonde hair, harshly tugging on his roots.

His tongue licked around your nipple before gently biting down causing you to arch your back, “John,” you moaned.

With a ‘plop’ sound he released your breast, looking up at you through his beautiful lashes.

Slowly his hand trailed down to your core, the cool leather of his glove causing goosebumps to dance along your skin. He rubbed his thumb over your clit as his attention directed towards you other breast.

You could feel his desperation, it wasn’t from the conversation just moments before, no. It was because of the other team members had gotten his last nerve, VOUGHT had gotten on his last nerve, everyone had gotten on his last nerve.

“Oh, baby,” you mused with a loving smile, taking a deep breath. The pressure on your clit increased, and your breath quickened.

John immediately picked up on your behavior, you were close to your high. He inserted his middle and ring finger inside you, “fuck,” you groaned at the new feeling of his thick fingers.

“They’re all brainless idiots, can’t do a thing right,” he gritted his teeth, curling his fingers against your g-spot. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head as you tried to come up with words to response, John expected it from you.

“Mhm, yeah, they’re-,” your sentence was cute off by a loud moan slipping from your lips as he bit onto your nipple.

He sucked harder, a desperate call for praise, “you’re right, they’re all brainless, but you, you’re the best of them. John, you’re smart, pretty and the greatest supe,” it rolled off your tongue naturally.

To you he was perfect, he could do no wrong and maybe you were sick in the head for thinking that.

“Make me come, please make mommy come,” you pleaded, grip still tight in his hair. Without hesitation John brought you to your orgasm, a pornographic moan fell from your mouth as you bucked your hips up to meet his thrusts.

“You did so good, you’re perfect John,” you praised as your high rushed through your blood, god you felt amazing.

Homelander reeled in your praise, he needed it to function properly. While he enjoyed, loved, controlling you, telling you what to do and not to do, John worshipped the ground you walked on.

-----

Ahley organized the press along with fans to stand in front of your favourite lingerie shop, Homelander was for once wearing something casual – you forced him to.

“It looks better, trust me,” you told him with a pointed look, “you want them to love you, don’t you?” you added, knowing this would push him over the edge.

Now he wore dark jeans, sneakers and a matching polo shirt. He had a charming smile on his face as he escorted you into the store which was empty – expect for a cashier. Never before did you have the chance of shopping private like this, online shops were your best friend.

Your man looked around, already picturing you in some of the lingerie that catched his eye. “What do you think of this one?” you asked, showing him a blue piece, it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, just a baby blue lace set.

“It’s uhm, pretty,” boring, fucking boring, was what he wanted to say. You rolled your eyes playfully and continued looking around, until something unique came into your sight.

Quickly you took your size and vanished into the changing room, of course Homelander heard you and followed you curiously.

You put on the hot pink bra, the underside was see-through, and the top was decorated with flowers. The slip was the same, meaning most of your vagina was visible add to that it was connected with two strings on each side.

The accessory that made you pick it was the choker, it came with a chain that went down between your breasts and was attached to flower shaped belt which fitted your waist perfectly.

Homelander waited outside, impatiently looking around the room until you were ready. Then you opened the curtain, revealing yourself.

You smiled at him innocently, “how does this look?” you asked. He took a step towards you, hand tracing along the fabric and causing a shiver to run down your spine. Suddenly he hooked his point finger around the chain, slowly dragging you to him.

He leaned down, lips hovering over yours, “you’re playing a dangerous game little lady,” he whispered. You pouted, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him impossibly close.

“I’m not playing any game,” you told him honestly, playing with the tiny hairs on his nape. “Don’t think just because they’re many, many people out there I won’t fuck you till you can’t walk anymore,” Homelander threatened, but was it really a threat if you would enjoy every second of it?

“Promise?” you smirked and within a second you were pressed against a wall. Homelander slid his hand down to your core, in your mind you already knew what was about to happen.

With that he snapped the pink panties in half, pushing his two fingers inside you, “look at that, little slut is already wet,” he taunted you.

Your head fell back as he curled his fingertips against your cervix, his unoccupied hand came up to lift your leg around his torso.

“Does that feel good mhm? Come on let me hear you, let them hear you,” he rubbed his thumb over your clit, finally drawing a moan from you. Homelander kissed you, hard, pushing his tongue into your mouth.

He showed his dominate side, hand leaving your side to undo your hand around his neck. Slowly moving it towards his belt, a silent order to open it which you follow without hesitation.

The trousers of his suit fell to the ground, Homelander hosted you up into his arms and entering you in one stroke, giving you no time to adjust to his size – as if he ever did.

You moaned, biting your lip in pleasure. For a moment he stilled inside you, his heavy breathing hitting your skin. Slowly he moved his hips upwards, you could feel him stretching your cunt, feel him hit that spongy spot inside you.

“Fuck, you’re fucking me so good, so good,” you groaned, eyes rolling in the back of your head. Homelander grinned at you, “yes, yes, tell me how good I’m. Fucking tell me and I will let you cream all over my fat cock.”

“You’re good, fucking amazing, baby. No one compares to you, you’re so good,” you chanted as he pounded into you at a ruthless pace.

Sometimes you wondered if your cervix could form bruises, but what you knew was that it could become difficult to walk out of this store.

A tight knot formed in your stomach, pleasure building up and you gripped Homelander’s hand, guiding it towards your clit.

“That’s right, I’m fucking you and you love it, you love me. Say it, come on,” he growled, letting go of your thigh and you closed your legs around his waist, sucking his cock deeper in. You need to feel more of him.

His hand came up to your throat as you didn’t answer, stilling inside of you, “I said, tell me you love me, or I will fill you until my seed is dripping down your legs and you can’t take it anymore, but you little lady, little slut won’t get to come.”

Tears welled in your eyes, you wouldn’t even mind it and he fucking knew it, but for your own sanity you had to answer him. Play into his game, because in your sick twisted mind you enjoyed it.

“I love you, I love you so fucking much,” you whimpered, clutching your hands on his shoulders, begging him to move.

“You do, don’t you? Want me to make you come, want me to fill you up?” he asked, though he knew the answer he, wanted to hear it from you.

“Mhm, yes, want you to make me come, please, please and fill me up, I want it so bad,” you begged, and he finally moved again, rocking his hips up. They you begged him brought him closer to his high, he loved having you at his mercy, doing everything he wanted.

A pornographic moan slipped from your lips as he rubbed over your clit and hit your g-spot. You reached your high, the knot exploding and smashed your lips onto Homelander’s to muffle another moan.

He barred his teeth, releasing his cum into your cunt and his pace slowed down. “Come, paint me baby,” you whispered into his ear.

----

“These please,” you grinned at the woman working the register, letting a pile of lingerie fall onto the counter. Every sort of color and shape, nervously the woman cashed you up, “a bag?” she asked to which you nodded.

“That will be 300,36 please,” she said, “cash or card?” she added, looking at you and not daring to spare Homelander a glance.

You held out your palm to your boyfriend who huffed before putting his card into your hand, “thank you,” you said and laid the card down, then stepping aside once it signaled, “pin, “ you told him and gestured to the machine.

Homelander put in the pin while the cashier packed everything up, handing it to you, “thank you very much,” you smiled.

Finally, she found the voice to ask Homelander for an autograph, “oh, sure everything for my fans! You guys are the real hero’s,” he showed her his pearly white teeth and signed her card.

“We could do this a lot more often, go shopping together, maybe have a little lunch date,” you trailed off, teasing him.

Outside there was a lightening of reporters and fans, all wanted pictures and asked questions. In Homelander style and because of Vought, he answered some of them, but he had to keep himself together.

"What is it like to have such a devoting boyfriend?"

"Anything else you do for your girlfriend?"

"How is you future looking? The two of you are a beautiful couple!"

"Thank you, thank you! The future is bright and what my girl wants she gets, there is truly nothing I won't give her," he smiled at them brightly. You posed for pictures, getting bolder with every flash.

Homelander wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you into his side to whisper in your ear. "You better behave little lady, I will punish you until you can't walk a fuckinf millimetre."

"Promise?"

please reblog/comment and give feedback! I would love to know if you like my Homelander fics, I have so many ideas

BLOGS | WEBSITE | AO3 | WATTPAD | TAGLIST

#homelander fic #homelander fanfiction #homelander x reader #homelander smut #homelander #homelander x you #homelander x y/n #homelander fluff #homelander the boys

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thef1diary · 6 months

Text

Little Big Fan | Fourteen

— Little Big Champion

Series Masterlist

wc: 1.9k

Note: we're gonna pretend that Max won the championship in the race, and the sprint race didn't exist for the purpose of the plot.

"Holy shit," you murmur as the car rolls to a stop right beside Max's private jet. "Shit," your daughter repeats which earns a laugh from Max.

You shake your head and tell her, "don't say that." Luckily, she'd been so focused on the plane that she'd forgotten to wonder why. Other times, even after being given a response, she would persistently demand for the explanation, usually with "why, mama?" multiple times.

You turned your head to look at Max, who was already smiling due to your reaction. "You do know that you're about to ruin every other plane experience for me now, right?" You ask with a little chuckle and Max, being Max, nods. "Yeah, and you do know that we'll be flying private for most of the races," he said, adding, "or vacations."

"Is this your plane, Maxy?" Isabella asked, slightly leaning over your lap to look out the window as it gave her a better view of the aircraft. "It's ours, princess."

Your attention remained fixed on Isabella's expression as she took in all of the details inside the plane. Max was used to the luxurious life after travelling to so many nations in this plane. To you and Isabella, however, it was a whole new experience, and you couldn't help but feel both delighted and comforted that this would eventually become your new normal. Max hasn't hesitated to spoil you or Isabella thus far, and he has no intentions to stop, especially now that he's become addicted to the joy he feels when he does something for you or Isabella.

Once you were settled in, you were welcomed with a glass of champagne for you and Max, and apple juice for Isabella—served in a champagne flute to prevent her from feeling excluded.

This time, it was a much smoother experience for your daughter, especially during takeoff which she was very nervous about based on the last time she had flown.

Isabella was out like a light once the jet was in the air, and she was able to sleep peacefully because flying private had far fewer people than flying commercial. You and Max had moved to the opposite end of the plane to chat freely, but you could still keep an eye on Isabella in case she awoke.

The flight consisted of only Max, Isabella, and you, with a few crew members present. When you saw the lack of his team, you asked about it. "I might've told them to fly commercial," he said with a shrug.

"And they're going to hate me before I even meet them properly," you responded. While you had met a few people that were a part of his team, Max would be reintroducing you as his girlfriend.

He shook his head, "no they won't. I had to make sure that your first private flight experience was the best of the best, and that wouldn't be possible with them around."

—

You were in a completely new country, new paddock and new track but it still felt familiar since you had Max by your side. A few other drivers had come up to you and your daughter, having recognized you from the last time you were Max's guest at a race.

"I know RedBull is your favourite team, but what about McLaren?" Lando asked Isabella, who pressed a finger against her cheek to pretend to think for a moment. "I like RedBull, Ferrari, and then McLaren," she counted on her fingers.

Lando's jaw dropped, placing a hand to his chest in mock hurt, "third?" Isabella giggled, "out of ten, Lando."

"But still, what will it take for McLaren to be first?" Max interjected before she could respond to Lando's question. "Stop bothering my Bella, you're not her favourite." He was pleased to be her favourite, both on and off the track. Perhaps second to you off track because you were her mother, but he'd still consider it a win.

Lando approached the three of you a few minutes earlier, immediately sparking up a conversation with Isabella after hearing all the good things about her through Max. Lando was one of the very few people Max had told about you during the short break between races. It was strange to see Lando clad in the opposing team colours near the rival team's garage, but he had to know the two people who owned Max's heart—which were exactly the words Max had told him, albeit Lando found those words a tad too sappy.

Ignoring Max's comment even though he looked up to acknowledge him, he asked Isabella another question. "What about your favourite driver, and don't say Max."

Max looked at you with an expression that said, "are you going to let this happen?" You laughed, looking at the Brit and commenting, "I don't think you'll be happy with the answer, Lando."

"Maxy is my favourite but Charlie too," Isabella stated right after your words earning a gasp from Max and Lando. "Charles?" Max asked, surprised as well.

Max never really thought about it and certainly didn't think Charles would be her second favourite driver. He was aware that Isabella would undoubtedly have other favourites than him but just not as good as him.

"Yes, Charlie," Isabella confirmed, and at the same time the driver walked past them, stopping once he heard his name.

"Ah, hello Bella," he held his hand up for a high-five. He playfully removed the cap she already had on—which was the one Max gifted—to replace it with the one he had on his head; Ferrari.

Max leaned closer to you and whispered, "there are too many non-redbull drivers here." Hiding your laugh behind your hand, you responded, "you can't tell them to leave though, we're not in the garage." He raised his eyebrow, "why not?"

"Just look at Bella," you said, nudging your head towards the scene in front of you two. Her eyes lit up as she giggled at the two drivers who spoke to her. Lando placed his McLaren cap on her head, on top of Charles' cap already on her head in an attempt to outshine the Ferrari driver.

That earned a smile from Max, "I'm glad she's comfortable here, not many kids are." You nodded, "well she will be growing up around the tracks, either to watch you or if she decides to be like you."

Max's head snapped in your direction, "what do you mean be like me? She wants to race?" Around you, he was always expressive, so you could see the glint of hope that was beginning to form in his eyes. Again, you nodded, "she might've mentioned it once or twice but if you can't tell I barely know anything about the sport and even less about karting."

"I can help, please let me take her karting," Max immediately requested, because the prospect of Isabella starting karting, especially under his coaching and guidance, was nothing short of a dream.

"I think she would love that, but let me tell you now that it's already scary enough seeing you race so I'm not sure how I would handle it if Isabella has even a fraction of your talent," you stated firmly, earning a sharp nod in understanding from him.

Max grinned as he observed your daughter incorporating Charles and Lando into her imaginary activities. This time, the two professional drivers were passengers while she was playing the role of a race car driver.

"Oi, lovebirds, join us," Lando made a disgusted expression as he witnessed you and Max cuddled together, but he secretly enjoyed seeing the two of you together—not that he would ever tell Max.

Dropping the conversation for now, you and Max joined in on the little game until the drivers were needed by their various team members.

—

He did it; Max won the race and the world championship title yet again, for the third time in a row. As a result of his competitiveness and success as a driver, the title had already been determined with five races remaining in the season.

Behind the row of team members—mainly from RedBull and McLaren—you stood among them in parc fermé with a tight grasp on your daughter's hand waiting for Max to park the car in the spot reserved for the race winner.

Cheers and claps could be heard loudly as he stood on top of the car for a moment, throwing his hands up in celebration. With his helmet still on, he rushed towards the team standing behind the barricades, earning praises and applauses from each person he neared.

Amongst the crowd, he spotted you, and while you couldn't see his full face, you knew from the way his eyes crinkled around the corners that he adorned a wide smile on his face.

Max stood right in front of you, but yet it was still too far as a few people were blocking his view of you. Gesturing with his hands, he asked for you to be brought closer and you obliged as soon as you were given space.

He removed his helmet and balaclava which allowed you to see his beautiful face, still adorning a smile on his face but only fondness in his eyes remained as he continued looking at you.

Shoving the balaclava inside the helmet, he held it in one hand to the side while grasping the back of your head with the other. The noises around you seemed to fade away as soon as his lips touched yours, leaving you with only the immense hammering of your heart.

Parting away, you rested your forehead against his for a moment. “Congratulations, baby,” you spoke, loud enough to be heard amongst the crowd that you couldn’t care less about in this moment.

The audience begins to disperse, gathering around the podium for the upcoming celebrations. Max receives a pat on the back, indicating that it is time to go to the cooldown room, but his gaze never shifts away from you.

He knew he couldn't leave without placing another kiss on your lips, so he gave in to his desires by closing his eyes, silencing the world around him once more to focus on the delicate sensation of your lips pressing against his.

Max truly felt like a champion, because not only did he win the world driver's championship of this season but he also had you right by his side to experience the thrill of winning it all. He may have won two other championships in the previous years, but this one felt completely different; much better.

Inevitably, he's pulled away from you by someone from his team. "Go get that trophy, champion," you state, wanting to see him hold the race winning trophy now, and even the championship trophy during the gala.

Right before turning around, he focused on your daughter, messing with Isabella's hair again until she slapped his hands away. She still had a really big smile on her face, having seen Max win the race and the championship at the same time.

You still held Isabella's hand as you began the short walk towards the podium, but she squeezed it tighter to grab your attention. Your smile plummeted and dread instantly filled your heart as you heard your daughter's words, "mama look, it's daddy," she pointed at him with her free hand.

Taglist: @xjval @mrsmaybank13 @cherry-piee @urfavnoirette @solphin @burningcupcakefire @nessacarty1 @dreamsarebig @omgsuperstarg @wonnou @fanficweasley @redbullgirly @llando4norris @randomgirlnumber13 @dark-night-sky-99 @chanshintien @leilanixx @gisellesprettylies @peachiicherries @monsieurbacteria6 @67-angelofthelordme-67 @arian-directioner @distancedss @morenofilm @sachaa-ff @lighttsoutlewis @teamnovalak @casperlikej @sadg3 @d3kstar @lewisvinga @lpab @queenofmanydreams @honethatty12 @drunk-teens-doing-drugs @its-avalon-08 @yourbane @oconswrld @noneofyourfbusinessworld @ssrcsm @softtina @hockeyboysarehot @formulaal @namgification @tallrock35 @bloodyymaryyy @formulanni @ellouisa17 @phantomxoxo @samantha-chicago

#little big fan fic #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #max verstappen fluff #max verstappen x you #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen fic #f1 fluff #f1 x reader #fluff #thef1diary fic

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reiderwriter · 4 months

Text

Puppet On A String

Chapter One of I Can't Help Myself

Synopsis: Expecting your big promotion any day, you're none too happy to hear about the departments miraculous new hire. You're even less happy when he moves into your office and starts touching things.

Warnings: Shitty office politics, brief allusions to Spencer's time in prison, swearing, reader is understandably bitter.

Masterlist || 5k Celebration Challenge

The day your professional aspirations came to a crashing halt was also the day that you met Doctor Spencer Reid. To say that your view of him was somewhat soured by the unpleasant circumstances of your morning meeting was an understatement and a half.

Sitting in your bosses stuffy work office, you felt your heart stop as the situation was explained.

“You understand, right, Y/N? We really value your work here, so we're really relying on you to help him settle in.” He grinned at you from behind his desk, but all friendliness in the gesture was dampened by the fact that he hadn't even bothered to look up from the papers he was looking through, glasses hanging low on his nose.

“I'm trying to understand, I am. But last week, we discussed me moving onto the tenure track. Are you saying that's out of the picture for me now?”

The smile turned into a grimace as he looked up at you, finally. He removed his glasses and folded them in front of him as you squirmed in your seat. You needed to advocate for yourself, but it wasn't easy when it felt like you were in the principals office being reprimanded.

“Doctor Spencer Reid will be joining us on loan from the FBI. Someone at the Bureau called in a favour with one of the college executives. The decision is above my pay grade - thus it is above yours.”

Your cheeks felt hot as he reprimanded you, and you bit your tongue as best you could.

“He will be with us for the semester, and then we can discuss your promotion again next semester. I will ask again, you understand the situation?”

You nodded, understanding the unspoken - the department wide email introducing your new member of staff and the generous donation from the FBI that came with him. You brought nothing to the department other than a stellar academic record and hard work.

“I'm glad we could both come to an understanding,” he said, aptly dismissing you as you stood to take your leave.

“Ah, one last thing, Y/N,” he said, stopping you in your tracks as you readied yourself to run to the nearest bathroom stall and cry until your first class - roughly 7 and a half minutes.

“Doctor Reid will be sharing your temporary office space. We're strapped for space, and there weren't any other facilities available at the last minute. Since your students always remark on how approachable and welcoming you are, you're the best person to show him around, too.”

The gloom in your heart hardened to anger as the man dismissed you, returning his glasses to his head and not bothering to make eye contact as he added more work to your already heavy load.

“Of course. Thank you.”

You closed the door behind you, willing yourself to not slam it, and stalked down the corridor to your own - now communal - office.

Half of your brain was screaming at you to quit, but with rent in a college town to pay, and the academic year already in session, there was no way you were finding something this lucrative again.

You'd worked your ass off for the last five months. You just had to survive three more with Doctor Spencer Reid.

You had to keep your emotions in control until at least your office, you thought, even as the inescapable tears threatened to fall down your face. You hate that you cried when you were angry, that your emotions couldn't even sort themselves out enough to give appropriate physical responses, but at least you could angry-cry in peace before your new coworker showed up.

You ripped open the door and stomped to your desk, slamming the door shut behind you as you fell down with your head in your hands and let out a frustrated groan.

“Um… hello, can I help you?”

The voice caught you so off guard, you almost jumped from your seat in shock, backing up to the single window in the office.

“Fuck, you scared the hell out of me. What- who are you?” You asked the man you now saw sitting at the sofa opposite your desk, next the door. So close in fact, that you didn't see him walking in.

He was sat down, but you could tell he was tall, slightly older than you, but with big brown eyes that betrayed some experience. He sat comfortably at first, legs crossed, book in hand, but as you spoke, he sat straighter, stiffer, his relaxed expression becoming somewhat colder.

“I'm Doctor Spencer Reid. I was told this is my office from today onwards? If I'm incorrect, I can leave you to your…”

Of course, the very attractive, soft-spoken man in front of you just happened to be the derailment of your career. Temporary, you reminded yourself. Temporary derailment.

“No. Doctor Reid, of course. Hello. I'm Y/N. We'll be sharing the office for the semester, I just didn't know you'd be here today.”

He frowned slightly, like sharing the space was as uncomfortable with him as it was with you.

“If you can excuse me, I have a class to teach in…” You looked to the shelves where your small clock had fallen over once again - the office was cramped and the shelves unstable enough that closing the door meant knocking at least three things over.

“Three minutes, shit. I have to leave, please keep to yourself, I have a lot of important documents in here.”

The words were colder than you would've liked, but you couldn't find the strength to care much about his opinion of you.

You grabbed your laptop and left the room swiftly, abandoning Spencer Reid to your shared office.

Your first meeting may have been sour due to circumstance, but your second was unpleasant on the strength of Spencer Reid's grating personality alone.

In your five months at the college, you'd worked up a system for classwork.

Gather books. Go to class. Pick up coffee. Teach. Leave class. Pick up a second coffee. Go to your office. Host office hours. Work on a research paper. Rinse and repeat for any other classes you had that day.

With such a busy and caffeine fuelled schedule, you kept your office as neat as you could with your rickety shelves.

So, returning to meet Spencer Reid a second time, you almost threw up at the sight that befell you in the office.

“Hey, welcome back.”

The man sat on the one inch of your floor that wasn't taken up by furniture with all of the books in the office stacked up around him, the shelves bare and tipping precariously to one side.

“What the hell did you do to my office?” You blanched, looking around, unable to see the set of books you had organized for your next class.

“The shelves are broken, I put in a request to have them replaced, and I've been organizing the books by topic so-”

“The books were already organized. By class, and week they're to be taught. Fuck, I have a seminar in 30 minutes, I need those books.”

To his credit, Spencer Reid looked panicked as he sat sifting through all the books, even as your anger rolled off of you in waves.

“I can fix this. What shelf was it on?”

“Don't bother, just ruin my day some more. Hey, how about next time, you just throw everything in the trash?”

“I was trying to help, we're going to be sharing the office, and there isn't exactly space for two desks with your current filing system.”

“So you decided to rearrange without telling me? Asking me? I've been here five months, but you strolled in five hours ago and decided to change everything to suit you.”

“That's not - look, I'm sorry.”

“Yeah, well, you can start your apology by footing the bill for whatever improvements you've made. We're not tenured professors. Anything we add to the room or request comes out of our paycheck, and I'm not starving myself for floor to ceiling bookshelves.”

Whatever retort he was about to make was lost as you grabbed your bag from the floor and stormed out, leaving him behind in your dilapidated office.

When you returned to your office later that day, he was nowhere to be found. His new furniture, however, was crowding the room. A clone of your own desk was pushed up against the side of it, the pair forming an L shape. Great. Couldn't have gotten any closer if you tried.

Your couch was still in place by the door, but the old bookshelves were gone. They were replaced by a sturdier looking wooden set that now shelved all the books you'd inherited in the office or were using for class. And some new titles.

He hadn't put them back in the order you needed them in, though you doubted he ever would, but instead had them grouped by topic and within groupings in alphabetical order.

“How very precise,” you said, running your fingers along the book spines as you made your way to your desk.

“Whoops,” you said, pulling out a book you knew wasn't yours and letting it fall to the floor.

Was it petty? Sure. Was it therapeutic?Abso-fucking-lutely.

“Nice. Mature,” a voice said behind you, and for the second time in 12 hours, you jumped at the sound of Spencer Reid's voice.

“Jesus Christ, you need to stop doing that.”

“Doing what, walking into my own office?” He said, leaning against the new bookshelves.

“Our office. Shared. For three months.”

“Oh so you do remember we have to coexist?” He asked, grinning down at you. When did he get so close that he had to look down at you?

“Trust me, your presence is…felt,” you said, gesturing around the cramped space.

“What classes are you teaching?” You sighed, pushing past him to the open door and sitting down at the sofa.

“Profiling and the Criminal Psyche and I'm guest lecturing in Criminology 101. I have a few special lectures on geographical profiles in the next month.”

“And office hours?”

“What?”

“Your office hours, you're going to need to post them soon. Mine are Mondays and Thursdays at 11am, you'll need to be out of the office then so I can consult with the students about any absences or grades. If you haven't decided on your hours yet, my schedule is taped in the first draw of my desk.”

You grabbed your jacket from the hook on the door and pulled it over you like a blanket, laying yourself down on the sofa.

“Why would I need your-”

“Do us both a favour and schedule your hours during my contracted teaching time. It'll be easier.”

“Then why don't you schedule yourself during mine?”

You scoffed as you pulled a couch cushion up to rest your head on, closing your eyes as you drowned him out.

“Gee, you're some kind of genius. Can't you figure that one out yourself?”

You heard his sight of frustration but plugged in your headphones anyway, enjoying your 20-minute power nap as you stubbornly refused to face the day's stress.

A week later, you were deep into a College Cold War.

Spencer had attempted what you'd thought was a truce on his second day, arranging the pile of books you needed for that week's seminars on his desk happily.

Until you went to grab the top of the stack, and his hand held yours down on top of it.

“Sorry, that's for my class,” he said, glancing up at you. He smiled as he noticed the irritation in your eyes as you ground your teeth together.

“I'm teaching a class today based on this text. It was an assigned reading-”

“What a coincidence. It's an assigned reading in my class as well. For all 46 students. You better run over to the library, Y/N.”

You dragged your hand out from under his, brushing off the heat that ran up your arm from his hand as disgust rather than attraction.

His existence was irritating, but his face and body were more distracting than anything.

Storming off, you knew you had to one up him somehow, but you wanted to put some thought into it before doing something impulsive. Your first thought had been slashing his tires, so some perspective was definitely needed.

A week passed, and you found yourself having to endure the man's company on a Friday night for a departmental welcome meal. You'd assumed a week ago when it was scheduled into your outlook calendar that it would be to celebrate your promotion, and now the egg was most definitely on your face.

You'd debated not even turning up, but a warning email had let you know that attendance was compulsory, and the dress code was semi-formal.

So, you begrudgingly forced yourself into the little black dress you'd purchased a lifetime ago for your first graduation and got yourself a taxi over to whatever ridiculously expensive restaurant you have to fast at this time.

“Y/N, you’re here. We weren't sure you'd show up, after… you know!” One of the older professors said as you walked in, pressing an air kiss to either cheek as she handed you a champagne flute.

“Well, attendance was compulsory, so here I am!” You wanted to wipe the pompous smile off the woman's face so badly, but unfortunately, she was a member of the hiring committee. Three more months of sucking up to her was in your future, courtesy of a shitty move by the FBI.

“You say that, but our guest of honor isn't even here yet. Typical, right?”

You downed the drink she gave you and excused yourself to take your seat at the dinner table, needing a place to rest your glass to save yourself from cracking it in your furious grip.

It took another hour for Spencer Reid to show his face, and to your glee, he looked genuinely uncomfortable at the prospect of the night ahead.

“Sorry, I was unpacking some stuff at my apartment.”

“Oh, did you move recently?” A curious voice trailed up the table to ask him as he awkwardly side stepped to his seat. Right beside you, obviously.

“No, just… I had some stuff packed up.”

He held his tongue, not revealing more as the table fell in an awkward silence.

You dragged another glass to your lips and sat back in your chair, doing your best to stay unaddressed as the appetizers finally came out.

“Does the department have dinners often?” Spencer whispered, his hot breath fanning against your neck as he leaned closer to you.

The hot feeling washed over you again as you turned towards him, immediately pulling back and putting some distance between the two of you.

“No. Usually, it is only when welcoming guest lecturers or when someone gains tenure.”

“So who got tenure?”

You scoffed. “Funny. Thanks, Spencer.”

“What?”

You looked back at him again, and his brow furrowed in confusion.

“This meal is to introduce you. Everyone else here has tenure.”

“You don't.”

“Yes, well, there wasn't exactly room in the budget for the hotshot FBI profiler and a steady income for another Professor.” You slammed your glass down again and picked up your bag and things, hoping the table hadn't heard your conversation.

“Please excuse me.” You said smiling at the rest of the table. Some of the women sent you sympathetic glances, but the department dinosaurs simply continued their conversations. You'd think a department of psychologists would be able to figure out they were all absolute narcissists.

You carefully exited the group and took yourself outside for some much needed air.

“Y/N.” He shouted from behind you again, and you had to be honest, you were sick of him following and sneaking up on you.

“God, what now, Spencer? Go back inside and get celebrated or whatever. They probably can't start the self-congratulatory circle jerk without you anyway.”

“I came to apologize. Again. But you don't seem to be able to handle the words ‘I'm sorry,’ at all, do you?”

He looked exasperated, but however he was feeling, you felt worse.

“Look, Spencer. I probably have nothing against you personally. But I've just been conned into another three months of probationary minimum wage because your boss at the Bureau decided he wanted rid of you for a month or two. Some of us didn't get child genius scholarships for multiple PhDs and aren't receiving two paychecks right now.”

“If money is an issue, Y/N, you know I could-”

“No. No, stop butting into my personal problems. We can be civil, but we're not… we're not friends, Spencer.”

You stepped back and let out another sigh as you forced the words to stand between you.

“Okay. I'll stay out of your way.”

“Great. Looking forward to it.”

“Sure. Me too.”

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girlsworldillusion · 6 days

Text

Perzys se ānogar

Pairing: Aemond x Sister!Reader

Rated: +18

Warnings: Please, pay attention to the tags. This story contains sensitive topics, such as: DUB-CON/NON-CON, INCEST.

Contains forced sex, targcest and yandere behavior. If this makes you uncomfortable, please do not read.

-- English IS NOT my first language, forgive me for any spelling mistakes.

Summary: When you refuse to fly with him to Harrenhal and support his plans for revenge, Aemond loses his mind. Angry and afraid of losing the only person he has left, he makes a decision that will change everything.

Word count: 11k

Dividers: @zaldritzosrose

Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list.

"Sister."

His voice breaks through the quiet crackle of the night, setting off an irregular beat in your heart, but you give him no sign of recognition. Instead, you continue to dart your eyes with interest over the orange glow of the many lights coming from the houses and commercial points scattered throughout the streets and alleys of Kings Landing. There is a certain grace and comfort in the knowledge that these people, countless of them, have no idea of the cracks spreading through the walls of the Red Keep right now.

"We share the same blood, you and I. I know you wish no harm to anyone, but at a time like this, the good of the Realm depends on us." He begins, not at all put off by your apparent lack of attention, his soft, cat-like footsteps barely audible against the stone floor as he walks towards you, stopping only when there is a short distance between your bodies. "Our mother is not a dragonrider, she cannot understand that you and I have a true calling to hear."

From the corner of your vision you see him reach out to touch your arm, and the alarmed gasp that abruptly leaves your lips along with the flinch of your body in response is noticeable, obvious enough to stop him in his tracks. You both stare at his hand, raised in the air just inches from your wrist - your wrist that, though hidden by the material of your robe, still throbs with the memory of the pain from where he grabbed it and pulled violently this afternoon, the marks of his fingers now carved into your soft skin.

Aemond clenches his jaw, his one eye shining with something very raw as he quickly understands the reason for your reaction, but you don't deign to make any further effort to understand what that look really means. Your hurt eyes linger on him just long enough to make sure he won't try to touch you again, after which you slowly turn your head to face the solitude of the night once more, your slightly shaky breathing rising and falling in your chest as you try to calm yourself.

He falls silent after that, and you suppress the urge to look at him despite yourself, your fingers nervously gripping the cold edge of the small wall of your private balcony. Your heart is pounding in your chest, your brother’s presence disturbing your previous calm with every second that stretches, until all you feel is apprehension and anxiety.

“Come with me to Harrenhal,” he says after a long silence where it’s clear you won’t say anything, his demand wrapped in nothing but a raspy crackle of his voice, a tone almost trembling at the edges. “We will lay waste Daemon and his army. Let our enemy see that we will answer outrage with outrage.”

You take a deep breath, the chilly night wind gently rustling the strands of your hair.

“And if I refuse?” Despite your inner turmoil and fear, your voice is surprisingly flat when you speak, cool even. He doesn’t answer right away, but even as you stare straight ahead you can see the way his body stiffens beside you. “Will you burn me as you did to Aegon?”

There’s a pause around you, a dull echo of silence that’s too long and tense to ignore, where not even the background noises of the city below can be heard anymore — as if even the night has gone silent before the gravity of your accusation.

“That is a lie.” Aemond breathes beside you in a dangerously low tone, as if he’s gritting his teeth, and you finally turn to him, lifting your chin to glare at him in defiance. His handsome face is painted with disappointment and spite, clear to you from any angle, even though he’s trying very hard to keep it hidden with his sharp, tense features. The thin, watery film glistening in his eye, however, is entirely unexpected, unsettling enough to almost distract you.

"Really?" You say instead, swallowing the wave of discomfort at seeing such raw emotion on your brother's face. He doesn't respond, his single purple eye still shining with unshed tears, his expression pained and wounded, as if you'd plunged the blade of the sharpest dagger into his chest. You squirm under the weight of his gaze, uncomfortable, but trying to remain resolute - knowing your accusation is true, as much as it hurts both of you. Despite everything, you love your brother with all your might, knowing that you're the cause of that expression on his face hurts you to the point that you feel slightly nauseous.

"Is it really possible that I'm losing you too, sister?" He whispers intensely, breaking the silence as he approaches you, pinning you against the wall and his own much taler body. His expression slides into something that is less of a sad expression and more of a grimace. Hurt, angry, like an animal that has been kicked too much and now chooses violence as defense. You know immediately that something just isn’t right, just from his aura. He looks tired, overwhelmed, and irritated, a man who carries the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Aemond has always protected you, always looked out for you like a true older brother would. He was once your safety and security figure, someone loyal and caring that you knew you could trust no matter what.

But now?

Before you can think about it any further, you’re thrown off balance. His hand cups your jaw carefully, ignoring your scared, suspicious gaze, slowly sliding his knuckles down your face to your neck, rubbing deceptively gentle circles with his thumb over a pulse point on your skin — though his gaze burns into yours with a sharp stab of anger and raw hurt. You sigh reflexively, feeling a series of goosebumps on your arms and neck in response to that look, some kind of instinct ingrained in you telling you to retreat, to run away.

Your brother is a nearly empty shell of the man you knew, and even though you want more than anything to still be able to trust him — to believe that his true self is still buried somewhere deep inside this shadow of revenge and blind desire for power before you, keeping your faith is harder than any challenge you may have faced in the past.

“Hmm?” He presses for an answer, jaw tight and gaze dangerous, “Tell me. Would you do this to me, sister? Would you dare leave me like them?” His thumb stops stroking your skin in that gentle way so that his fingers finally wrap around the circumference of your throat with measured slowness, and you feel your breath quicken.

Run, run, run.

He’s not thinking — he definitely isn’t, because if he were, he would have realized that what he’s doing is scaring you — his sweet, sheltered little sister. He would have realized that the way he gradually tightens his fingers on your delicate neck wrings a shiver of fear from your body, tilting his head closer to watch with sick interest the way your plush lips part with a ragged sigh. He would have noticed how your eyes are now also filled with tears, a silent, alarmed question swimming in them. If he had been thinking, he would have been able to stop himself from taking the first step towards an act he was doomed to regret later.

He’s not thinking.

Aemond would never treat you this way – you’re certain of it, certain that he cared enough about you not to humiliate you so completely.

“I-I...brother, what-” His other hand travels to your waist, fingers tracing the opening of the robe you wear over your nightgown and you silence your fearful voice immediately. He stops at the hem of the soft material, caressing the delicate cloth beneath. With every movement of his fingers, he keeps his heavy gaze on you, dark, sharp features slanting over you, merciless and without compassion, his eye still bright with those tears he proudly refuses to shed. You tremble in shock, your hands finally thawing at your sides as you reach up to grab his wrist, struggling futilely to pull him away from your neck.

"Aemond...please, you're scaring me." Your voice shakes slightly at the pressure in your throat, at the grip he refrains from releasing, but you expect the growing desperation on your face to catch up with him at some point. It would have to, right? He's still your brother, after all. He's hurt, he doesn't know what he's doing, he wouldn't actually hurt you.

All of these statements run through your mind, keeping you stubbornly reluctant to face the painful truth ahead. (The stinging in your wrist is proof enough that yes, he would.)

"I won't lose you," he says so deeply, calmly and unfazed, as if he hasn't even heard you, as that hand on your throat presses your face up, to bring your forehead against his. "I won't lose you. Not you."

“A-Aemond,” you reply, your fingers still scratching his in a vain attempt to push him away, becoming genuinely frightened by his actions, by his complete dissociation from you - as if he were only talking to himself now. “W-what are you doing?”

He towers over you, his tall, lithe body unmoving even as you move your hands to push against his abdomen. You can’t utter another word with the combination of your heart pounding against your ribcage, the fear gripping your throat still gripped between his fingers, igniting a growing horror deep within your gut.

Could someone be watching this? Down below, right now, some unsuspecting person wandering through the gardens or peering through the windows of the same houses you were watching with interest just a few minutes ago. Could someone be watching the way the Prince Regent smothered the Princess on the balcony of her chamber? The way he held her against his body and breathed into her personal space as if they were intimate lovers?

Your hands slide against his solid frame; feeling the hard, elegant muscles of his torso beneath his dark clothes as you stubbornly push him away, and the beginnings of tears appears to trickle from the corners of your eyes as you close them. You are afraid. Though he’s not exactly cutting off your oxygen completely, his unwavering grip on your neck makes you almost dizzy, and as he watches you gasp softly and struggle, he seems to be waging an internal battle, his fingertips loosening their grip after a few seconds of silent contemplation. He doesn’t pull away, though. Aemond still holds you tightly in place, listening to your ragged breathing and the sobs that begin to wrack your body. He exhales long and slow against your face, his forehead still intimately pressed against yours.

“Y/n…” he begins, waiting until your sobs subside and your watery eyes open to meet his, just as fierce and unforgiving as before. “You’re all I have left. You know that, don’t you?”

Despite the grip of fear squeezing your heart, you nod once, sniffling softly. You know that. There aren’t many people left by your brother’s side now — not that you blame them.

“Then you know I need to keep you with me.” He says darkly, his fingers curling into the fabric of your nightgown before he begins to push the material up towards your hips.

“Aemond!” You cry out when you feel his fingertips touch the warmth of your thigh, struggling to rock your body away. “S-stop, brother!”

“I can’t,” he tells you, his lips soft and warm on your cheek, and though he doesn’t stop his advance up your thigh, there’s an unexpected sense of vulnerability and hesitation in his voice now, as if something inside him is trying to fight his resolve: “It’s the only way to make you stay.”

He hesitates and relaxes his grip on you for only a second after that, but it’s long enough for you to push past him and slip between his body and the wall, running into your bedchamber on shaky, trembling legs.

He’s on you before you can take more than a few steps beyond the door, his hand gripping your wrist — your wrist already bruised by him. You gasp at the immediate pain of his possessive touch, flailing your legs in your own desperation and fear as he holds you captive. He suddenly releases your injured wrist and you realize belatedly that it’s only because he’s guided you unknowingly to where he wants you. In your panic to pull away, you cry out as the back of your knees hit the edge of the bed, falling back onto the softness of your mattress, your other hand quickly cradling your aching wrist against your chest. Your chest is rising and falling rapidly, eyes wet and wide, your cheeks streaked with tears and redness, your hair disheveled around your face, your wrist throbbing with the newly awakened pain.

Aemond blinks slowly, his features grim as he watches your frail state. He hovers over the edge of your bed in his black clothes and his tall, sinuous, dark body like a god of death. The disparity in height between the two of you is even more evident in this position. The flames from the fire on the opposite wall create eerie patterns on his ivory skin. The orange glow darkening to a somber hue in spots, making his presence all the more frightening.

“You don’t need to be afraid of me,” he says, though his expression remains sharp and his posture tense. A serpent about to strike. “I won’t hurt you.”

And unfortunately, you are the rat he has chosen to devour tonight.

“Liar! You already did!” Your shrill voice sounds louder than intended, a byproduct of the fear coursing through your veins. He takes a low breath and instantly drops his gaze to your wrist, still carefully cradled against your chest. You swallow hard, your voice dropping to a sad shudder. “W-why are you doing this to me, brother?”

His gaze rises to your face again, following the trembling of your lips, the moisture in your heavy eyelashes.

"Because you're mine." He answers, easy and natural, as if he didn't even need to think about it. But you notice that his voice is deep and cracked, emotional, his eye shining with tears again, even though his posture is threatening. "You're inside me, sister. All the time."

And, as unreal as the situation seems to be, it's impossible not to see how between the cracks of his obsessive and terrifying words he seems...fragile.

And maybe that's what makes him so scary to you. His volatility and emotional imbalance - he's a mess of feelings and you don't know how to deal with it. He's an unbalanced man, about to fall over the edge of the abyss without knowing how to save himself.

Against all logic and common sense, you find yourself feeling...pity. Aemond is your brother and you love him with all your heart. It hurts and pains you to see him this way - alone and desperate.

“I won’t let them take you away from me,” he continues, pulling you out of your mind, kneeling on the bed to get closer to you. “I don’t give a shit about the others. But I can’t lose you.”

“I-I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here, Aemond, with you. I’ll always be here.” You try to rationalize in a choked voice, trembling fingers gripping the edges of your robe, hiding from your brother’s greedy, sick gaze. “You don’t have to act like this.”

Aemond doesn’t care about your words. Instead, faster than you can realize, he’s on top of you, holding you close, his face buried in your hair as he presses you further into the mattress. You startle at the action, but you do nothing to push him away. Your brother’s unpredictability keeps you rigid beneath his body, afraid of what he might do from now on.

“I can’t lose you, I can’t lose you, I can’t lose you, not you, not you...” he mutters softly, over and over, the insanity taking deep, entwined roots in his mind. And you feel sorry for him. His body is a solid, undeniably intimidating presence above you, dwarfing and coercing yours with his tall frame, moon-colored hair brushing the side of your face as he digs into your neck until you mewl in discomfort. His broad hands are splayed at the sides of your head; long, pale fingers that have committed atrocities beyond anything you ever imagined he was capable of. He is unstable. A danger. And yet, he is so fragile.

His scent; ash, dragonfire, and something contradictorily sweet — like freshly baked vanilla cake, you realize — fills your nostrils, and you sigh a broken sound, cupping his face between your palms. Your fingers are shaking as you hold him, applying gentle pressure until he lifts his head and looks into your watery eyes.

"B-brother..." You lick your dry lips, ignoring the way he looks at your mouth when you do so, "please, just talk to me. I want to help. Please. Tell me what to do?"

His gaze sweeps over yours for a few seconds and then down your body with disconcerting intensity, your shoulders hunching in response — as if you're trying to make yourself smaller, as if you're trying to keep yourself safe — making you regret wearing a nightgown that's too thin to offer any remotely reliable protection from that gaze.

He doesn't say anything when he looks back into your eyes. Instead, he brushes his thumb under your right eye to touch the wetness of tears there, and it takes you a second longer to realize that he's not wiping them from your skin but spreading them across it, as if he wants to see more of that on you.

You don’t have much time to think about how disturbing this is, because soon he’s sighing deeply before slowly lowering himself, and the first thing you feel is the tip of his nose as it brushes against yours. He does it once, twice, three times; a series of teasing nudges that make you hold your breath in nervous anticipation. This close, you smell the soft leather of his eye patch, see how the heavy lashes on his one good eye curl until they almost rest on the top of his smooth cheek when he half-closes them.

The signs of what’s to come are all there, but it’s still a surprise to feel his lips slightly chapped against yours. You’re so shocked by it that you don’t react when you feel a hand coming up to tilt your face better so he can kiss you and taste you more deeply.

Spit soon coats the dry lines of his lips, making them slide over yours softly and fluidly, his fingers cupping your jaw, tilting your head back to lick your bottom lip in a silent plea. His saliva tastes like cinnamon and heat, you think distantly - almost dissociated from the situation, unable to understand how you ended up here; knowing the taste of your brother's mouth.

You frown at the feeling of wet muscle crossing your lips, tracing the roof of your mouth and your gums with hungry curiosity, your fingers inert and as dissociated as you, coming to life to hold his shoulders. You manage to push him enough to part your lips, your breath quick and wet as you try to assimilate what is happening: "A-Aemond, please...stop."

"You said you want to help, didn't you?" He growls impatiently at the corner of your mouth, sliding his fingers down your jaw and neck to tangle them around the back of your neck in a possessive grip. And when he presses the side of his cheek to yours and you feel something wet on your skin, for a moment you really can't tell if it's your tears or his. "This is how you help me, sister. I just need you to stay with me. Just let me have you. Maybe...maybe if you can feel me inside you too, then maybe you'll understand. Maybe it'll all make sense once more. I just need you to stay with me."

Even though the string of words that spill from his lips are delusional at best, there's no mistaking or ambiguity about what he's saying. Though you're still a maiden, you're no fool at all. You understand immediately what your brother wants.

Your bones ache, your eyes burn with more tears, and your throat itches with the immediate urge to scream a denial, to turn away from him, to run and hide under your bed — like you used to do when you were just a little girl and were so scared of something, hoping Aemond would come to you and soothe your fears with his whispered words in gentle Valyrian and his loving, innocent touches. But you know that this time it won't be like that. Because this time the reason for your fear is himself.

Yet it’s the sheer desperation in his voice that stops you from fighting; the helplessness mixed with agony, the urgent, jealous need — as if he’s on the brink of madness and only this can save him. It’s a sick, delusional thought and you know it. Irrational in every way. But as Aemond slides his hands over your body as if he’ll die if he doesn’t, breathing raggedly in your ear, burying his face in your hair to cover the tears you’re now certain are his, you know you won’t push him away — even if your mind begs you to.

His pain seeps into your ears, slides through your arteries and veins until it reaches your heart, a stranglehold you can’t shake. Your fear is so ingrained with your pity that you can’t tell the difference.

Maybe he just wants to feel loved. He hasn’t felt that in a long time, you know that…maybe he just needs help readjusting. Maybe you’re the good to his evil. The calm to his chaos. The balance to his disharmony. Whatever it is, if it’s you he needs to regain his sanity, you’ll give it to him. He’s your brother. There’s nothing you wouldn’t do for him.

If having you is what would make him at least half the brother you loved and wanted around you, then so be it. You’d embrace his sick need — because you love him.

So when he leans down to your mouth again, you hear yourself whimper, a surrendered sound as his thumb presses and pulls your lower lip, forcing your mouth open as his tongue brushes against yours. You don’t fight this time, or try to dissociate. Instead, your own tongue shyly mimics his movements, your hands coming up to caress the roots of his hair, eliciting a guttural moan from his throat. He’s rougher this time, licking your mouth greedily, using his sharp canines to bite into the soft plush of your lip until you hiss — but you don’t push him away.

(Are you proud of me, brother? Can you feel how much I love you? Can you understand how far I’m willing to go for you?)

His body is a weight that’s both comforting and overwhelming as he presses down on you, evoking a searing heat across your cheeks and neck, so intense it borders on fever pitch as the movement makes you feel the hard, thick ridge of his cock resting against your belly. You stiffen for a second, too horrified by it, but almost immediately force yourself to relax when he leaves your panting lips to kiss your jaw and chin — his hips undulating on yours as he leaves trails of pure heat on your skin. You can do this, you can do this. For Aemond.

“That’s it. A good girl, hm. Always my pretty little girl.” Outside, thunder rumbles as his tongue lathers your throat with saliva, seconds before he bites down. You squeal a high-pitched sound, hands tugging at his hair in response to the pain, and he groans hoarsely into your skin, licking the bite to soothe the sting. "Sorry, angel, I couldn't resist." The sadistic amusement in his tone confirms the lack of sincere regret in his actions.

But despite his apparent playful and mocking persona, Aemond seethes with impatience and uncontrollability. He is like a hurricane, an earthquake - untamable as the force of nature. His merciless hands offer no respite as they grip your body; no preamble. He is not interested in taking this slowly, and that becomes painfully evident to you in the space of a few seconds.

His hand, warm and eager, slides down the column of your throat, palming the fragile fabric of your nightgown to cup your breast. He palms the soft mound for only a moment before squeezing it tightly, almost trembling with anticipation. You groan under your breath, brows furrowing at the rough touch — but when your brother looks at you with that widened gaze, breathing deeply, all he offers you is a breathless, “So beautiful, baby.”

Even after everything that’s happened between the two of you up until this point, it’s this that makes your cheeks heat up and your stomach flutter with an unexpected feeling of butterflies flying.

He’s so lost in his own thoughts and needs that he barely seems to notice when you turn your head away, embarrassed and blushing, refusing to look at him, wanting to ignore the utterly foreign sensation of having his hands on your body like this. Because while the way his fingertips press against your stomach to lift your nightgown to expose your legs and skimpy underwear is disturbing and humiliating, there’s also a kind of confusing heat swirling in your loins with each small touch on your skin; something that doesn’t necessarily feel good, but isn’t entirely horrible either – though the very idea of your body, on some level, beginning to welcome this is repulsive to you.

You want to please him, you want to be the anchor that will restore and stabilize your brother’s sanity, and you will absolutely do that for him if it’s within your power. But you have no doubt how unnatural this all is – how damning the notion of giving this part of you to none other than your brother – the one you’ve never seen with such eyes until this very moment. Knowing that he’s seen you this way for gods only know how long, is a difficult thought to even consider.

Oblivious to your internal war, Aemond rolls the side of your underwear in his hand and pulls it down the length of your legs, parting them so he can kneel on them. His hands, broad and calloused from years of riding in Vhagar's saddle and extensive sword training, send shivers down your spine as they knead and caress the length of your legs, and you bite your lip at the new sensation.

Even with your face turned away and your eyes closed, you know the exact moment he looks at you. His gaze fixed on the delicate, untouched center between your legs is so intense that you practically feel it on your skin. The reflex to try to close your legs is overwhelming, but you suppress it with clenched teeth. You wouldn't deny him anything, it was already decided, no matter how humiliating and wrong it was.

He leans forward, his moon-colored locks tickling you and his breath is hot against your skin as he presses wet kisses against your neck, trailing down to your jaw before stopping at your ear, leaving behind bruises that you know would be hard to hide tomorrow.

“You have no idea what you do to me.” Aemond admits, his voice hoarse and slurred. “I love you so much it hurts. You’re mine. Mine.” You know he does, what he says is true. Aemond loves you. But it’s really ironic, isn’t it? He loves you with all the sincerity there is and yet, here you are. Lying in your bed, a place that once offered you safety and comfort, about to share an intimacy that you neither truly desire nor consent to.

Leaning on your thigh, you feel the hardness of his penis and your hands grip the sheets at your sides, keeping your eyes tightly closed, your eyelashes damp and trembling at the sensation of his fingers sliding like a cunning snake between your legs to trace the outside of your most intimate part. The discreet squishing sound of his fingers diving inside your folds sounds embarrassingly loud in the silence of your room and only makes you shrink even more, so focused as you were on keeping still and quiet.

"Fucking hell." Hearing him curse in your ear, with his jaw tense and his voice deep, awakens that chill in your stomach - the same butterflies taking flight again.

You want to disappear and pretend none of this ever happened.

(You want to open your eyes and look at him.)

His nose nudges your cheek as his thumb gathers some of your natural moisture to make its way to the hidden nub at the apex of your folds, rubbing short, wet circles against it before giving you any time to prepare. Your reaction is immediate and you jerk your hips a few inches off the bed, eyes flying open at the unfamiliar but utterly overwhelming sensation. You stare into the flames of the fireplace with wide, watery eyes, his continued stimulation of that spot making it hard not to visibly tremble beneath him. Against your cheek, you feel your brother’s lips stretch into a satisfied, cruel smile and a ragged sigh escapes you along with another humiliated tear.

But despite his obvious satisfaction at getting a reaction out of you, you can feel Aemond’s frustration growing by the second. “Is it good for you?" He murmurs, eager and expectant, as if he needs an answer to keep himself under control. “Do you need anything else, baby?” He purrs before you can respond — not that you thought you could. He bites your neck when you don’t say anything; punishing you.

“Aemond, p-please…” You gasp, unsure of what to say as he bites your earlobe hard. The circles on that sensitive mound of nerves begin to shift into a rhythmic up and down, rubbing the same spot until you feel your thighs trembling with…with…something. You can barely string two words together, but you know something is happening.

Your hands are clenched so tightly in the sheets that your knuckles ache, your heart threatening to race into your throat with how hard it’s beating, and by the gods, there’s a tingling sensation building in your lower belly that increases exponentially with each brush of the pad of his thumb against that sensitive nub, until you feel like something might literally explode inside you. It’s almost painful how intense it all is, but in a way that you can’t help but want more.

Wrong. This is wrong. This should be for Aemond, just for him, just to help him. It’s not about you, you shouldn’t feel things. You shouldn’t, no way. Because it only makes you feel worse…dirtier.

You almost thank him when he pulls his fingers out of you, leaving you panting and overwhelmed and very very confused by your own body. Your teary eyes lift to see him kneeling between your legs, the same thumb that was on your folds now entering his mouth as he sucks hungrily on it — his gaze fixed and hooded on your scandalized face.

“You’re delicious, sister. The best sweet treat I’ve ever tasted.” He croons after sliding his thumb from his lips with a wet ‘pop’ and you hide your face with your palms, sobbing a mortified sound. Aemond chuckles at your reaction, but doesn’t scold you.

Instead, it’s the distinct sound of rustling fabric that makes you peek through your fingers, watching your brother pull the top part of his clothes. Strands of candlelight make him radiate like an otherworldly creature beneath the flickering flame, creating some artistic shadows on the lean, defined muscles along his arms and stomach, broad shoulders rising and falling with his rapid breaths. You watch him through the gap in your fingers, blushing deeper with every patch of skin your eyes skim. Aemond blinks slowly, his jaw tense and sharp, his pupil so dilated that the darkness almost eclipses the thin violet ring of his iris. And your heart, once racing, seems to simply give up and stop when he lowers his fingers to the waistband of his riding breeches.

Once again, refusal dances on your tongue and you almost scream for him to stop. This isn’t right. Your brother definitely shouldn’t be about to get naked in front of you like it’s a normal thing, and you almost say so…but you’ve both gone too far. Too far to turn back now. What’s the point in trying? And you’d hardly bet on the innocent idea that he’d listen to you anyway. Aemond would take what he wanted, as he always had.

He unzips his pants without looking away and pushes them down, stopping at a mound of fabric between his thighs. It seems to be all the patience he has for the act, barely able to take his clothes off completely. Your fingers tremble in front of your face as you watch with wide eyes between them. His hard length stands proudly between his legs, thick and long. Intimidating, really. Pale like the rest of his body, except for a few veins in soft shades of blue distributed along the base and the pinkish tone of the head shiny with pre-cum. You have no basis for comparison, of course, since you've never seen a penis in your life. But you don't need to be an expert to know that what he has there, without a shadow of a doubt, would not be easy to fit inside you. In anyone, you suppose.

Aemond shows very little sympathy for your alarmed expression, falling over you to rest on his elbows beside your face, long silver hair flowing around you both — smelling of smoke and vanilla cake.

He stares at you for what feels like a century, breathing raggedly, lips parted. You stay in that position for so long that you jump slightly when you feel his fingers grip yours, pulling your hands away from your face to lift them above your head, pinning your wrists in his hand. He makes sure you don’t move your hands from where he’s placed them, sliding his fingertips over your injured wrist with a gentleness that moves you, down the inside of your arm, to the side of your torso, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind.

He doesn’t take his eye off yours as he lifts those same fingers to his own face, gripping the side strap of his eye patch for a few seconds before pulling it over his head and tossing it on the bed. You’ve seen the sapphire in your brother’s eye a few times before. It would have been impossible not to have seen it, not with how close you were. You were the only person he felt comfortable and safe enough with to get rid of the piece of leather covering his mutilated eye. But, even though it wasn't the first time, the sight never ceases to amaze you.

The blue of the stone contrasts sharply with the paleness of his porcelain skin and his silver hair, evidenced by the long, jagged dark scar that starts halfway down his cheek to above his eyebrow. If you look closely, you can see yourself in the brilliant reflection of the sapphire - your face scared, embarrassed and amazed - all at the same time. The immortalized imperfection in this part of his face only serves to highlight the blatant perfection of the rest.

Physically, you have always compared Aemond to an angel; an ethereal and unattainable creature, a being of light and purity. But your childish daydream couldn't be further from reality. As much as appearances say it, Aemond is anything but an angel. His heart is as dark and gloomy as a night sky during a storm. The only times you’ve seen any semblance of light in his personality is when you’re around — and even that hasn’t been happening lately.

Gods, you hope that your unreserved surrender to him tonight can pull him out of the absolute void he’s hiding in. You truly hope it’s not all for nothing. There’s nothing left you can offer, after all. Aemond has already taken everything.

When his hips lower to bring your bodies together, your legs instinctively part to receive him, the solid, warm weight of his wet cock pressed into your belly is enough to send a full-body shiver through you. There’s nowhere to look but into your brother’s eyes — both that one functioning eye and the hollow that houses that precious stone. You’re floating with the overwhelming myriad of feelings, lips parted with shallow breaths, eyes watering, cheeks flushed, and your heart hammering so hard in your chest that for a moment you think you might actually die from it. It’s not healthy to feel like this, right?

“This has always been mine.” You lick your lips, blinking slowly at Aemond — it’s really an effort to try to understand and follow what he’s saying right now. “You’ve always been mine.”

He says this as he snakes an arm between your bodies to hold his throbbing member between his fingers. He’s deliberate with this, each movement slow and calculated to make sure you see what he’s doing. And indeed, your eyes — as hazy and confused as they are — follow the path of his hand after a few seconds, watching in shock and embarrassment as he pumps himself, a few slow up-and-down movements to get some relief, gritting his teeth as he growls another curse close to your ear.

You glance up at his face, flushed and impatient — his eye, hooded with lust, glances back up at yours — before looking down, forcibly guiding your attention back to the long fingers that are barely long enough to close completely around his own shaft. There’s a hard-to-swallow lump in your throat that only gets worse every time his movements make a wet slurp that sounds too loud for your sanity. Your body is arching and your fists clench tightly in the sheets above your head as he guides his leaking tip into the crevice between your folds, parting them and sliding with a slow drag that ends in that same sensitive spot as before.

You writhe beneath him, “N-no…” suddenly hesitant at how insanely real everything is becoming, at how intensely your body is feeling. “Just wait a second, brother—”

“Shh…it’s okay, it’s okay. Just keep your eyes open for me, sister.”

“Aemond, please, I don’t like this!” You nearly scream, your eyes wide and watery, overwhelmed and scared — forgetting for a moment that your goal was to give him what he wants. No matter how you feel about it.

For a moment, Aemond looks genuinely distressed by your obvious desperation. You see the tension of his jaw and the bitter glint in his amethyst gaze. But as quickly as it appears, disappears.

"You will. I'll make sure of it, sister. I promise." He says with a brush of his nose against yours, the oppressive aura surrounding him growing heavier, swallowing any sympathetic feelings that had arisen in the face of your agony.

"You have my word that I will try to do this as gently as I can." With his other hand, he cups your cheek and, despite you not believing his words for a second, you find yourself leaning your head into his palm. The glint of sick affection in his gaze makes your chest ache, and you sniff in defeat. He hums a satisfied sound when he sees your surrender and leans forward. You don't deny his kiss, accepting the slow, languid, sensual rhythm he imposes with his lips. Deep in your chest, you break and cry, but on the outside you just accept it, returning the kiss to the best of your newly awakened abilities.

“There we go, there’s my good girl,” he coos, licking your trembling bottom lip. Despite your terribly tumultuous mind, your body is as connected to him as ever, a shiver running down your spine as he kisses your jaw, trailing warm, wet lips down your neck. Your eyelashes flutter against your cheeks as you try to obey his request and keep your eyes open.

"I've waited so fucking long for this. When Helaena was handed over to Aegon, I really thought we'd both be next. You just need to be patient, I told myself." Every part of your body tingles with sparks, hips grinding against yours, grunting in a husky, bitter tone as the head of his cock rubs against your entrance. "Tsk, but they're fools. All of them. The Council, our father, our mother, Aegon, the damn realm...none of them realized what was in front of them this whole fucking time." He frowns a little, leans to the side and puts two fingers inside his mouth for a few seconds before lowering them - you sigh and shudder when a fat glob of saliva is rubbed right in the center of your legs, in that entrance you know is too small for him, adding to the mess his wet cock had already made. "You and I, we were meant to be from the beginning. An unstoppable force. Fire and blood. We would be unbeatable together, sister."

"I-I didn't, ah!..." You try, only to be interrupted when a sharp bite on your ear makes you squeal and flinch.

"But it's okay, don't worry. I'll fix that horrible mistake, my little one. I'm the Prince Regent. I'm the one who gives the orders now. No one will ever try to separate us again." Between the agonizing anticipation of having your brother's penis threatening to enter your untouched intimacy at any moment, his rough touches and his disturbing words, you barely feel coherent, lost and adrift like a castaway washed up on an island. Before you can interrupt his seriously questionable reasoning, he holds your gaze with his with a sympathetic and pitying glint in his dominant iris, as if he were your saving grace. "I got you, pretty girl."

His words are far from comforting, but you don’t have time to dwell on that.

“You’ve been mine since the second we were born. Mine to protect and cherish. Mine to tame and take.”

Still propping himself up on one elbow, he uses his other hand to grip your thigh, pushing one of your legs up and to the side, spreading you wide for him until your joints scream with the sting. The head of his cock slides between two folds one last time, nudging your entrance with clear intent.

You hold your breath.

“Eyes on me, sister.” You blink back the tears in your eyes, your face darkening to another shade of crimson at the intensity with which he looks at you, his warm, sweet scent surrounding you from every corner. “And keep those little hands where I left them.” He finishes with a sadistic smile that startles you when he see how your fingers are trembling and fidgeting above your head.

“That’s it. Stay with me. There we go.”

He finishes by saying your name against your lips before taking it all.

...

The first thrust rips a broken cry from your throat.

...

There’s no real surprise in that, though. You’ve seen how big he is, and despite your complete inexperience in the matter and all that saliva and other fluids between your legs, you just know you’re not prepared enough to take him – not that Aemond cares.

You cry out in humiliation as he tilts his head back, shuddering and letting out a breathy laugh that sounds decidedly arrogant.

“Oh fuck, so tight. I should have taken more time preparing you, didn’t I? I’m so sorry, sister. I’m so sorry. I promise I’ll make it up to you next time. I promise I won’t enter your body until you’re slick and spread wide for me. Fuck, I promise.” His free hand grips your hip tightly, bruising your flesh, and you sob, knowing his apology isn’t sincere — scared of the hint that there would be a next time.

You don’t know if you could handle a second time. You don’t know if you’ll survive the first.

He was going to rip you apart, and that possibility became more and more real with every inch he forced inside you. You gasp in denial, mumbling a nonstop series of pleas for him to slow down, hoping he’d find some compassion within himself — something to back up all that love he proudly boasts about you. But Aemond is truly an unstoppable force, and once he’s gotten what he so desperately wants, there’s no going back. Not even for your sweet little sister. All you can do is press your nails tighter into your palms and bite your lips until you taste blood as the round head of his length continues to push and push, slowly but mercilessly, inside you. And even through it all, you keep your watery eyes on him - like the obedient little girl he wants you to be. All for him.

You watch him as he still has his head tilted back for a second too long before he looks at you again, his gaze once again frighteningly fierce.

“You have such a tight pussy, dear sister. I can’t even –” he grits his teeth, sweat gathering at the silver roots of his hair and at his temples “- I can barely fucking move!”

It’s really hard to tell if he’s complimenting you or insulting you with that growling, sullen tone, but you cry out anyway, barely able to handle the way his cock hurts you with one powerful thrust forward. There’s a very short window of time where you get some relief as you feel him slowly pulling back, your walls returning to their original shape. Unfortunately, your relief is short-lived. He snaps his hips forward again, rearranging your insides to make room for his girth. Your breathing is shallow and uneven as more tears trickle down your cheeks and onto your chest. And honestly, as much as you’re trying to be obedient, it’s actually almost impossible to watch your brother with all the blurriness of your tears making it difficult.

“Look how well you’re taking me, little one, all swollen and tight around my cock. It feels good, doesn’t it? To have your brother like this and know that only I will have you like this? To know that only I will make you cry like this? Yes, fuck…” He rests his forehead against yours and cups your cheek. “I’m the only one, sister. You’re the only one. You’re mine and I’m yours. We belong to each other from the day we’re born until the day we die.”

Heat envelops your cheeks and heart and you sigh at his devoted words. Aemond really does love you. He loves you in a fiery, obsessive way, an irrational feeling that will ruin everything around him - including the two of you.

He doesn’t wait for you to adjust to his size when he finally reaches the end, barely waiting half a second before pulling out and pushing back in hard thrusts; as if seeking more of that intense, visceral sensation. It hurts so much and you flinch every time his hips slam into yours. But your walls keep clenching and pulsing around him, eliciting grunts and moans from the man above you.

You can barely bear to look at him during your own violation, no matter how much you force yourself to. That fulfilled, needy look making the embarrassment and humiliation coil tighter in your gut. When you finally turn your head away in shame, unable to keep up appearances any longer, he goes straight for your throat like a wild animal. Sucking and biting the flesh to make you scream, thrusting at a different angle that makes you immediately writhe on the bed. Your walls tightening around his cock in something that, surprisingly, horribly, isn't pain.

“See, you feel good too, right?”

You can't bring yourself to respond. Eyes half-lidded and lips parted as your body twitches with each of his thrusts, something funny coiling in your belly, warming your insides and leaving the dull pain of his thrusts behind, like a background noise that almost loses its importance after a while.

“You feel so good, baby.” He pants against your lips, kissing every inch of skin he can reach with his mouth, slamming his lips loudly against the exposed patches of your shoulder and collarbone, thrusting his hips into yours with feverish abandon. A wet sequence of ‘tap, tap, tap’ sounds in the silence of your sleeping chamber, until you’re worried the guards might hear you outside. You want to tell him to slow down, you want to tell him to stop. But his movements and intentions are those of a barbarian – he seeks only to claim, to conquer, to claim you for his own.

“You’re perfect, I love you so much. I love you. I love you, sister.” He chants, thrusting relentlessly – obsessively – into your walls, sweat making his strands stick to his face, a salty drop running down the bridge of his nose and onto your cheek. He releases his grip on your thigh to roughly pull your nightgown over your breasts, immediately cupping and squeezing the soft flesh until you squeak at the sensation, rolling a small nipple between his index and middle finger.

To propagate and keep the blood of Old Valyria pure, unions between direct relatives were common among the Targaryens. Aegon and Halaena were the closest example you had of this. It's normal. And yet, it feels anything but normal. From the possessive way your brother's fingers sink into the soft curve of your waist to keep you contained while he corrupts you, the continuous and violent slap of his hip against the inside of your thighs, to the way his other hand holds a fistful of your hair in a tight tug, exposing the column of your throat to the air that smells of sex while his lips growl acidic words close to your ear. Everything feels wrong, dirty. As if all the purity that existed around the world suddenly ceased to exist, leaving behind only sin and cruel intentions.

Unforgivable.

Still, you grumble in frustration about how your body responds so well while your mind simply doesn't.

You hold Aemond tightly, finally lowering your hands from where he’d placed them, feeling his broad, toned back easily cover your smaller form like a protective shadow under your fingertips. The conflicting emotions are only tinged with more unexpected lust, as if he’s summoning the feeling from deep within you by force, as you involuntarily arch your back against him, feeling the searing heat of his chest pressing hotly against your breasts. A kind of heat only a Targaryen could share.

Your soft walls clench against him in response to the sensation, and Aemond curses again, pulling you closer, fucking you deeper. The burn in your lower half almost seems entirely muted now, that trickle of treacherous pleasure snaking through your core with unstoppable force as his cock brushes against a bundle of nerves inside you that —

And you moan.

Long, loud, undeniably aroused.

The sound is unmistakable, even over the loud slapping of skin against skin and Aemond’s ragged breathing.

You moaned for him. The first truly explicit, unfiltered sound you had made since this all began.

Aemond blinks and stops moving, staring at you with wide eye, mouth half open, cheeks flushed and skin sweaty — as if he’s noticing you for the first time. In the dim, flickering light of the chamber, his pupil were already dilated. But in that moment, it darken and explode completely, right before your eyes. He growls and grabs your chin with a tight grip, pulling your mouth to his to kiss you as if your lips were water to someone walking under the desert sun. His teeth hurt your lips, but you don’t complain, kissing him back with the same devastating intensity.

He thrusts into your pussy again as if he hadn’t stopped, hard and relentless, thrusting his tongue into your mouth at the same pace. You moan again, this time into his mouth. Thighs aching from how hard he’s pounding into you. Legs spread wide as he fucks you into the mattress with years of pent-up desire.

Everything is a blur, wrong yet right, burning with need and blood ties as his body rumbles and heats against yours. His hungry lips leaving yours to kiss every bit of flesh they find. You can’t stop yourself from trembling around his length, clenching tighter and tighter as he groans and murmurs his adoration for you.

“A-Aemond, brother…” you gasp, unsure, afraid of what you want from him, how much you want this — whatever it is.

Your arms, trembling and weak, wrap with all your remaining strength around his shoulders, your nails digging in to anchor you to something – anything – as he loses control above you. Pleasure and pain intertwine until you don’t know which is which. You can’t think straight, barely able to breathe between strangled moans and the fresh wave of tears that spill from your lashes as your pussy clenches around him tighter with each thrust. The sensation burns so deliciously that you cling to it, afraid of it but needing it.

“You’re mine,” Aemond demands suddenly, pulling away from your ruined neck to meet your starry eyes. “Tell me you’re mine.” He has that delirious look in his face, you think uncertainly, violet eye slightly wide and too focused on you and only you, the stone of his sapphire shining in the dim light of the room. Overwhelming, possessive. "Say it." He presses, less controlled, more ruthless.

"I-I'm yours." You respond quickly, your voice nothing but a fragile, brittle whisper, panting with each hard thrust into your delicate body, earning a hiss and a throb from Aemond's cock. "I'm yours, brother. All yours." He groans fiercely, barely allowing you to finish speaking before pulling you into a deep kiss, all tongue and saliva, as the brute force of his hips begins to increase in rhythm.

The wooden canopy of the bed slams loudly against the wall with each hard thrust, the entire bed creaking and weeping in a continuous back and forth, your cheeks burning with flames because now you're certain the White Cloaks outside your door can hear what you're doing.

A strangled cry rips from your throat as he uses his thumb to sloppily rub your clit while he digs the short nails of his other hand into the sides of your cheeks to force you to look at him, your own nails digging into the back of his neck as you hold him tight.

“Say it again; tell me you love me. Tell me you need me. Fuck, say it, say it now—” He whispers into the fat of your cheek, watching you with a manic, clouded gaze, leaving a trail of saliva from your jaw to your mouth as he bites down, his hips thrusting into yours in desperation. You can only whimper when he pulls away, his thumb slowing his ministrations when you take too long to speak.

“I love you, oh…I-I love you so much, Aemond—” You’d said those words to him a million times before, but they’d never carried this emotional charge, this much sentimentality and anticipation — words of desire and heat that were so unfamiliar and intense to you that they barely made sense. But, gods, you could feel the truth of them in your veins. “I need you. Please, brother — don’t leave me!” Your mewls and pleas answered to him, and him alone.

“Never. I’ll never let you go. We belong together, you and I…always.” Aemond’s breathless but ravenous words began to fade into the nothingness of pleasure. There was no more pain, no more guilt or disgust. That was for sure. All hurt dissolved into the overwhelming, magnificent feeling of being here, trapped in your brother’s arms. Your soft cries were a higher register than the wet slap of your joining, you discovered, giving yourself over entirely to the feeling. It encourages him to push harder and chase those beautiful sounds that reward him. You can feel him against your tight walls, nudging deep, carving a place for himself — a place that didn’t belong to him, that wasn’t his to take.

But maybe it was. Maybe it was always his to take. You were his to take.

“Y-yes, Aem…I need it. I need you, brother.” You respond softly, your eyes matching his, hooded and delirious, gently cupping his face in your hands. He turns his head slightly, just brushing his lips along the bruise around your wrist without taking his eye off you, silently apologizing for hurting you like that.

Of all the things he should apologize for —

You wish you could tell him that was the least of the evils he had inflicted on you. Instead, tears stream down your cheeks and you nod at him once, accepting his request with a shaky smile and a hoarse moan.

The candles scattered about your bedchamber burn brightly, wax dripping down the length and hardening on the brass holsters and mantelpiece. Your numerous books lie open on the floor, quills and assorted inks scattered in calculated disarray. Thread and needles rest delicately on your sofa, scraps of embroidery you had recently begun. Your dressing table is strewn with finely ornamented ribbons, pins, and jewels. Your riding clothes hang neatly behind the privacy of the screen.

All supporting an appearance of virtue belonging to a Targaryen Princess, a lady who had only recently flaunted an innocent purity in her body and mind. But now, right there, precariously hidden by the delicate veil that covers the canopy of your bed, fluttering gently in the warm breeze of the room, it is anything but a virtuous and innocent scene.

His tongue traces the outline of your lips up and down, and soon you find yourself gasping for air as you focuses on the heat that seems to radiate from the center of your belly to between your legs. That same tension from before is quickly rebuilding and you shake your hips, yearning for more of him, but unsure of what exactly is happening - Aemond, as always, seems to know what you need before you do, and soon he is back to sliding his thumb in a steady rhythm around your clit.

Your legs tremble as you approach something grand and overwhelming, hips rotating against your will. All the willpower in the world couldn’t stop you from chasing this heady feeling right now.

“I’m…” you mumble, confused, breathless, desperate, scared, “I feel…brother…”

“Shhh, it’s okay,” he pants, eye shining with something you can’t define, “Trust me.”

It’s like you’re being torn apart — being burned and torn apart from the inside out and you’re enjoying it. Gods, what’s happening?

“Oh, sweet girl…” his thrusts slow slightly as he applies more pressure to your clit, “Just let go — I’m here, I got you…that’s it, just like that, let go—”

A very raw, primal moan escapes your throat as his thumb is suddenly sliding with agonizing friction along that spot between your legs, his thrusts angled at a different angle that hits a sensitive, tender place that, until this unholy night, you never imagined had. Your brows furrow in sweet agony and you tighten your grip around his shoulders, pulling him closer and closer until your sweaty foreheads are pressed together, the tension in your stomach rising impossibly until your back arches off the bed.

The hand on your face drops and he circles your throat, gentle, just pressing, keeping your body pinned beneath him as you begin to writhe and cry out loud. It’s a moment of absolutely glorious release, like the feeling of flying for the first time on the back of a dragon - you feel your entire body explode in waves of shock and ecstasy, adrenaline coursing through your veins as if you’ve never been so completely and truly free before. You barely see Aemond, even though he’s literally nose to nose with you. All you see are bursts of light in front of your blind eyes, your hips bucking against his and your insides clenching desperately around his cock for what seems like hours until finally, finally, exhausted and sobbing, your weight falls back onto the bed.

“Ao issi sīr gevie, mandia. Sīr gevie.” Vaguely, like someone shouting from far, far away, you hear your brother sing praises for you. You are beautiful, sister. So beautiful. A tired mewl is all you offer in response, head still light and floating like cotton. He’s losing his rhythm, snapping his hips into you, pulling his hand from between your legs to prop himself up on both elbows and claim another quick, breathless kiss from your sensitive lips. You barely have time to respond before he pulls away again.

"Rūsīr ao ondoso issa paktot īlon jāhor pryjagon tolvie azantyr bona dares naejot sīmonagon īlva. Hēnkirī īlon jāhor se vys." He's moaning more, babbling obsessively about destroying every army that stands against you and conquering the world with you by his side. The determination and heat in his voice leaves you breathless, and you watch through bleary eyes his flushed, delirious expression. The way his parted lips are slightly swollen and red from the intense kisses you've exchanged, his brows furrowed, sweat gathering and running down his hairline onto his temples and cheeks, moonlight hair sticking to the sides of his face and swinging over his shoulders with every stroke of his body, the intense blue of the stone in his empty eye - and the dark violet in the other.

He’s beautiful and terrifying too, like a fallen angel.

With a strangled grunt that raises the small hairs on your arms and a few more uncoordinated thrusts, Aemond pushes his face into the crook of your neck, your pussy still quivering sporadically around him, shuddering as he curses and spills himself inside you.

“Fuck, fuck, this is...this is perfect...” He’s mumbling into your skin, thrusting his hips into yours with a lazy, deep drag, as if to ensure he spills himself as deep inside you as possible.

And though you know it’s impossible, you almost think you can feel it — the heat of his cum spurting in thick streams inside you, so deep that nothing could possibly get it out. The thought makes you both satisfied and sick.

Your eyes are staring up at the canopy of your bed, staring unseeingly, lips parted with panting breaths and a racing heart. All you can do is make a soft moan as he slowly pulls away from you, though he's hissing something about not wanting to leave the heat of your tight pussy just yet. He’s pulling you with him as soon as he’s out, as if he’s physically incapable of keeping himself apart from you for more than a few seconds, rolling you onto his side and pulling you face-to-face next to him.

You blink slowly as you stare up at him, letting him do the same to you. And surprisingly, where before your mind screamed and throbbed with conflicting thoughts and guilt, now everything is… silent. There’s no energy left to continue this now, you realize. All fight has been drained from you and all you want now is to rest. To close your eyes and pretend none of this happened - no screaming, no sharp words and no pain.

Just sleep.

Aemond seems to understand the surrender in your eyes. Silver hair falls over your cheeks as he leans in and kisses your sweaty forehead, murmuring a 'my beautiful girl'. A soft, tender kiss, the kind of innocent and pure kiss a brother would give his little sister.

A sad tear falls as you close your eyes, hiding your face in his neck, so close to him that you can feel his heart beating - as fast as yours.

His arms tighten around you, holding you as close as is physically possible. “You were so good to me…” He gently kisses the top of your head, the exhaustion still evident as he pants slightly between words, a small, satisfied smile on his lips. “Get some rest, little one. And don’t worry. I’m here now and I’ll take care of what’s mine.”

The words bring you no peace. But you don't think he needs to know that.

****

“That’s a good girl,” Aemond purrs, “keep shivering for me, sister.” He pushes your legs further apart, grabbing your bare ass and pulling your cheeks to rub your drooling entrance against his insatiable mouth. That slick, sinful tongue makes its way around your folds, probing and teasing your clit before dipping between them, gently massaging your aching, abused walls — by him, of course. You shiver, just as he wants, feeling the soft muscle slide deeper and deeper into your core, licking what just hours ago had been the secret parts of a virginal lady.

"B-brother, I need...please, that's enough...I need to rest for a while-" you're crying as you beg, your hands stretched out at your sides, too weak to stay tangled in his hair, your body sweaty and exhausted, shaking with the orgasms he'd wrung from you until your throat was raw from screaming.

You shiver, despite indisputable evidence to the contrary, a new tingling is clouding your brain, driving you crazy with every stroke of his tongue, your body clenching and clenching in a new delirious spiral of pleasure.

Aemond growls and continues abusing your clit with his thumb as if you hadn't said anything at all, the bed shaking with the force with which he's grinding his hips against the mattress in search of his own release. It's dirty, wet, the room smells of sex, sweat and tears, the sheet you're lying on is stained with the blood of your purity, and you can't even think about allowing any of the maids to come in to clean it when daybreak comes.

Aemond, unlike you, seems completely at peace - content to fuck you like this, with no signs of wanting to stop any time soon. Thrusting his cock into the mattress at the same pace as he thrusts his tongue into your pussy, flicking your clit with his thumb in short circles until you scream and cum, your juices spilling over the Prince Regent's tongue once more. You sob and grip his silver hair as he mercilessly continues to lick and suck without stopping, somehow hungrier than before.

"Aemond!! Please, I can't! It's too much!!" Your cry is loud as you feel yourself overcome by pain and pleasure, shaking your head from side to side, trying to push your brother from between your legs. He pulls away from your wet heat briefly, only to murmur a quick, breathless “yes, you can do it, be a good girl and give me one more” before flattening his tongue to continue licking your folds again.

You have no choice but what he allows you.

****

“Will you fly with me to Harrenhal?”

He asks a few hours later, as the first light of dusk filters through the cracks in the windows and you’re both still tangled together.

Aemond bites the side of your neck, leaving another mark behind, his lower body rising to meet yours, quickening at a pace that makes your thighs tremble. His hands, wide and possessive, slide to your ass, his fingers digging into the soft flesh.

“Y-yes, brother.” You respond, breathless and sweaty, using your hands flat on his broad chest to support yourself as you riding to the rhythm your brother has set for you, being pulled deeper and deeper into the whirlpool of desire, unable to steady yourself. “I will follow you wherever you go.”

Nothing has changed, you think seconds before you come - (how many times has it been again? Eight, nine? By now you’ve lost count.)

Aemond would lead and you would follow.

He’d tainted and stained you, stolen a part of you that shouldn’t have been given to him. But he’d taken it anyway, like a conqueror would. Molding both your mind and your body to suit his demands, to answer his jealous, possessive call. And you would follow him. Until the day you died you would follow him. Because your heart belonged entirely to your brother, even if it wasn’t in the way he want.

He has you, your dragon, your body, your soul, and your blind loyalty. Your hands would be intimately clasped, dripping with blood and sin.

Inevitably.

As it should be.

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