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cosmoeticss · 9 months
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Haven’t I Loved You Well? | Aemond Targaryen x Velaryon!Reader (part two)
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my masterlist
Words: 2.8K 
Warnings: (18+ minors dni) angst, mentions of death, violence, marital problems
Notes: I’m so manic rn I can’t even decide if I like how the end of this turned out. I want to wrap this up but I don’t think I know how to continue this without making it a full fledged fic, and I don’t have the mental capacity to do another one of those right now. Anywho, I hope you enjoy this. I love you guys. Also I’m sorry there’s no seggsiness, mom and dad are fighting, their grandpa/father just died.
Part Two of Haven’t I Been Good to You?
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You stirred awake in the early hours to find the bed next to you empty and the faint sound of toddlers playing. Your hand smoothed over Aemond's side of the bed, your fingertips meeting cold and empty sheets. Your husband had been gone long before you had awakened. A deep sigh erupted in your lungs as you stretched your limbs, uncovering yourself and rising from the bed. Bare feet hit the cool stone floors as you reached for your silk, Velaryon Blue robe, slipping it over your thin white night shift and finding your woolen slippers under the bed.
A bright smile split your lips at the sound of your son's laughter in the adjoining chambers. You practically skipped to the sitting area, pulling the doors open to find the two silver haired boys playing with your handmaiden. When they finally spotted you, they jumped up with glee, running to tackle you.
"Mama!" Your youngest son, named Laenor after your father, had jumped into your embrace and twisted his arms around your neck. Aemon, your eldest boy, hugged your knees tightly.
"Good morning, sweet boys," you beamed, bending to place a soft kiss on little Aemon’s hairline. "How long have you been up? You should have woken me earlier."
"They've only just stirred, Princess." Brynna, your chambermaid, assured you softly. "I thought you could use rest in your condition."
"Mama," Aemon grabbed your hand in excitement. "We're playing Conqueror again! Come play with us."
You smiled sadly at his request. "I'm afraid it shall have to wait, my love," you squeezed the boy's fingers in comfort. "Your father and I have a council meeting this morning, and I must dress."
"Princess, I’ve been asked to deliver the message that all your engagements have been canceled for the day,” Brynna interrupted. “The Queen has asked that everyone stay in their chambers.”
Your brow furrowed in confusion. “Well, where is my husband then?”
“I was told to inform you that the Prince has urgent matters to attend to and will return when he has finished.”
Something static is evident in the air, raising suspicion deep in your bones. You cling to any ounce of calm you have in you, as not to distress the children, breathing slowly. A forced smile reaches your lips, and you hope your sweet sons are none the wiser as you address them. “Why don’t you boys keep playing with Brynna, and Mama will join you after I’m done talking to Ser Arryk, alright?”
The boys do as they’re told happily, and you make your way to the door of your chambers, attempting to open it to no avail. Panic shoots through you as you pull at it again, bringing your shaky knuckles to wrap against the hard wooden door. “Ser Arryk?” you call out, and you’re met with a moment of silence before the whirring of the lock before the door cracks open.
It’s not the familiar face of Ser Arryk Cargyll you’re met with, but a man a bit shorter and stockier, with dark black hair and hard features. “Princess,” He bows his head to you. “The Queen has requested that everyone remain in their chambers until further notice.” “So I’ve been told,” you affirm, confusion written all over your face. “Who are you? Where is Ser Arryk?”
“I am Ser Gyles Belgrave, your highness,” he says stiffly. “Ser Arryk had very urgent matters to attend to, I have been tasked with guarding your apartments in his stead.”
Your hold in the groan of annoyance that threatens to unleash itself. “Well, everyone just has very urgent matters to attend to today, haven’t they?
“It appears so, Princess,” his tone is flat and unwavering as he addresses you. 
“Forgive my unusual lack of patience on this morn’, Ser Gyles,” you sigh, closing your eyes as you briefly regain any semblance of composure you can manage. “Might you take me to see the Queen to find out what in the Seven Hells is going on, or at the very least to my husband.”
“I’m afraid I cannot do that, Princess.”
You furrow your brow. “Yes, you can. I’m a Princess of the Realm in direct line for the Iron Throne, and I have – very politely might I add – asked you to escort me to Queen Alicent at once.”
“I’m sorry, Princess,” he urges. “It is a direct order from the Queen that you stay here.”
You huff out in frustration, your fingers tightening on the handle of the door until your knuckles turn white. “Thank you, Ser Gyles,” you force the corners of your lips to curl into a synthetic smile. “You’ve been ever so helpful.” And with that you slam the door shut, pressing your forehead to the wood and breathing deeply to calm your nerves and trying to quiet your own nagging voice hissing in the back of your mind.
It’s happening. 
The King was in good spirits yesterday. He addressed the courts just last night, and was conscious and present all throughout dinner. He is fine. We have time.
Time is up.
Your mother and the Queen had reconciled their differences, toasted in each other's honor, embraced before the night had ended. Everything would be fine.
There will be no reconciling. Spool of green, spool of black. The cuts run too deep, the wounds have festered. 
Where is Aemond?
Not even your love can save the noble House of the Dragon now.
“Mama!” you snap out of your panic at the sound of your son's beckoning, your chest heaving in time with your labored breath.
“Coming, my loves,” you call, swallowing the feeling of dread whirring deep in your chest, and putting on a brave façade as you face your sons.
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It feels, for a moment, as if time freezes when your husband finally returns to your marital chambers that evening, his good eye heavy with empathy and guilt. You shoot up in your chair, the boys both looking up from playing with their model dragon figurines on the floor to their father. He doesn’t have to say a word. The truth you’ve been denying yourself since they locked you away is written clearly on his face.
“Kepa!” The boys cry out as they run to jump into his arms, their father’s entrance being the most exciting event of the day.
“My little princes,” he laughs, embracing them, the wear of the day's trials is hidden just underneath the surface of his smile. You wonder to yourself how many lives Aemond has lived today, what he had seen, what he had done.
Slouching back in your chair, you slide a hand over the swell of your stomach, the other coming to pinch the bridge of your nose. 
Aemond tends to the children, answering their miles of questions and listening to their detailed accounts of make believe lands they’ve visited and play pretend battles they’ve fought during the day since they’d been confined inside. Aemond takes the explosion of excitement from your boys steadily, with a kind of patience he didn’t have for many others. The boys adore him. You adore him more than anything, and here you sat picking apart your husbands every move, trying to determine whether he was friend or foe.
The hour is late when Aemond finally gets the boys settled. You had not spoken a word to him, not touched him since he came back. You didn’t join in as he read the boys a bedtime story. You didn’t assist him as he carried their sleeping figures to their beds one by one. You hadn’t moved from your spot in the lounge chair since. You weren’t even sure you were real until Aemond was kneeling before you, his large hands engulfing yours as he pressed delicate, apologetic kisses to your palms, not yet daring to find the courage to meet your gaze.
You hold back the tears pricking at your eyes, swallowing the bile rising in the back of your throat. “Tell me the truth of it, Aemond,” you manage, your voice pained and hushed.
He finally meets your hollow stare. “My love, please—“ his voice is soft and desperate as his lips work their way to the skin of your wrists. 
“—I just need to hear you say it,” you press, words wobbling from the threat of your unshed tears. “Tell me what news of the King.”
He clasps your hands tightly in his, clinging to them like a prayer as he hangs his head low before you. “The King is dead,” he rasps the words, silence filling the room in their stead. A strangled, guttural gasp forces its way through your lips, your eyes fluttering shut as hot tears finally fall freely. In truth you hadn’t expected to be so shocked when news came of the King’s passing. Despite his faults, you loved your grandsire deeply, and though this day had long been lingering just out of sight, you never expected it to happen so suddenly. This felt wrong.
“Say it,” you snap, trying desperately not to fall apart before him. He didn’t have to speak it, you knew in your heart what was coming next.
“My father declared to mother on his deathbed, that it is Aegon who will inherit–”
You scramble to twist out of his grasp before he can even finish his sentence, but he clings to you, holding you in place and forcing you to look at him. “No–”
“-- Aegon will be crowned before the masses tomorrow morning.”
You try your best to wriggle from his torturous warmth, grunting and hitting his chest as you attempt to push him away from you with all your might. “How can you let them do this?” you wail. “You’re liars! Traitors to the Crown!” “My love, please,” Aemond begs as you cry out. “You must understand–”
“--I must understand?” She barks a humorless laugh, silver hair clinging to her tear stained cheeks. “What is it that I am to understand? That you are no better than the rest of them? A liar? A traitor to our house and the realm? This is treason! Don’t you understand the gravity of this?”
“It was the will of the King,” he proclaimed, as you gave up your fighting out of pure exhaustion. “With his dying breath, this is the succession he wished for. We have no choice in the matter.”
“You expect me to believe that after twenty years of upholding and defending my mothers claim, the King relinquished the throne to your drunken, depraved, imbecile brother moments before his death with no one around to hear but your power hungry mother?” you snipe, face hardened with distaste. “I at least thought you to be a sensible man, husband.”
Aemond catches you off guard when he captures your jaw in his hand forcefully. “You will watch your tongue, wife,”  he snarls. 
You had seen that familiar glint of anger in Aemond’s eyes many a time, you were no stranger to his fire. He was a man with a quick temper, it often didn’t take much for him to unleash the fury of the dragon. You just never thought in all your years he’d direct it towards you. 
You attempt a disinterested laugh, but it comes out as more of a whimper, your eye’s glistening as they fan over his features in disbelief. “Is this what we are to become?” you whisper pitifully. “Is it true what they say, that I am wife to a cruel man? A man who has now fashioned himself a traitor. Perhaps I do not know you at all.”
His eyes flutter shut with shame, his stinging grip softening as he drops his forehead to meet yours, pulling you closer until you're practically on his lap. You don’t fight him this time, exerting your strength proving to be fruitless. “You are married to a man who loves you. A man who has been fighting all his life to protect you. You know me, you are the only person alive who truly knows me, and I love you with everything that I can give,” he tries, squeezing his eye shut tightly as he forces his next words out. “But I have a duty to my family–”
“I am your family,” you plead, taking his face in your hands. “Our sons are your family. That is your duty. What do you think they will do to us when war ensues?”
“I will keep you safe,” he promises, pulling back to hold your gaze. His expression is desperate, for what you don’t know. Forgiveness? Submission? Blind Devotion? In your fury you could not muster any of it. “Anyone who dare harm you or our children is a fool.”
“You are the fool for thinking that you could protect us from what is to come,” you interject, pressing your lips together. “No one wins this war, and there will be war, Aemond. “Everyone knows what I am,” you don’t say the word itself, but you can see he understands. Its venom is hissed towards you at every turn you take. Aemond holds his tongue as you brush his hair back over his shoulders, smoothing down the disheveled strands as you choke out the words, trying despairingly to get through to him. “It is another doing that is not my own, one that I have suffered for everyday of my life. If this is where your loyalties will lie, husband, it is another price that I must pay.”
“That is where your loyalties lie? You would crown the woman who placed that cloak of shame upon you,” he reasons.
“As opposed to staying with the man who is practically handing his wife and children to the executioner himself?”
He whispers your name, only your name, softly and stoically like a prayer, and you continue your pleading. His face is held in between your hands, your lips peppering persuading kisses across his velvet skin.
“Please,” you echo over and over. “Don’t do this. You promised.” 
Aemond seems to snap out of your trance quite suddenly, pulling himself far enough away so that your prodding halts. His gaze lifts to yours, slower and more certain than before. Your heart clenches in your chest as he takes your wrists in his hands, pulling them away from his jaw.
Aemond’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. “The decision is final,” he clears his throat, rising from the floor and leaving you behind on the cold stone below. “I will tell the boys, or at least Aemon, he is old enough to understand.”
Your hands fall to your lap as you sink further to the floor in defeat. “He is six,” you grumble.
“He will be a man grown sooner than late,” his voice is distant and nearly unrecognizable. “He is old enough to stand by our side in the Dragon Pit tomorrow in support of his uncle, and he will, as well as his mother.” 
“I will never bend the knee to that man,” you hiss, hot tears caking your rosy cheeks. “I will not stand by as he is crowned.”
“You will come freely or there will be consequences,” Aemond commands. “Not only for us, for the children.”
“Let them see the consequences,” you stand, legs wobbling as you force yourself upright. “Let them see how quickly their father folded before a usurper, let them understand how thinly his loyalty runs. Then they shall know who to blame when the sky falls down upon us.” 
Before your husband can interject, you push past him, fleeing to your shared chambers and slamming the heavy door behind you as hard as you could. The sound of it echoes heavily through the room, you can feel it in your bones and it rattles your soul. You spin on your heel, gaze softening as you eye the wall between you and the man you love – the wall you’ve just put there. You stifle a cry, it feels final, it feels like the entire Keep is crumbling from beneath you. 
Your mind and your senses are at war as you approach the door slowly, trying with everything in you to push down the desire to be held by him, to forgive him, to do anything he desires just so that you might be together. 
Your loyalty is stronger than your yearning to be his and his alone. Your palms, aching for contact, find their solace against the surface of the door. It’s cold, harsh, and stiff, but if you close your eyes and concentrate you can pretend it's his soft, burning skin pulsating under the tips of your fingers. If you focus on nothing else you can remember what it feels like to be enveloped in his arms, you can almost smell the smoke on him, almost hear his voice lulling you to sleep, almost taste his perfect lips against yours. 
In your anguish, you can’t fathom that his heart is aching on the other side as well, and you don’t feel his palms pressed against the other side of the door begging to be let back in.
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dragons-and-handcuffs · 4 months
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Hello :)
I saw you're writing for actress reader.
Could you maybe write a story where reader as actress has to film a very intimate scene with Aemond, and the actor Ewan is very shy about it because he is trying to be respectful towards her and he also likes her. But she is the one who is calm and profesional and guides him through it. Something like 'just look at my eyes, all is good.' while she is riding him. So this is an idea. Thank you.
Ewan was nervous about the scene, there is no doubt about it. The help and guidance from the intimacy coordinator also didn't help him. He knew he has to talk to you about it or else he might ruin the scene.
Imagine Ewan comes knocking at your trailer door right before you were about to head back to your hotel. He was a little shy and nervous as he told you his problem.
You are a professional and this is not your first intimate scene of your career. Ewan knows it's actually you who would be able to help him and not look down on him.
You were more than willing to help him and admired his dedication. For more than two hours you two practiced the scenes, guiding Ewan and telling him what to do and how to do it. You don't understand why he needs help. He is a natural. Maybe it's the self doubt.
The next day you two got ready to shoot the scene. Ewan was in full Aemond costume and you in a simple yet beautiful night dress. "Just look at me and do whatever feels natural to you," You whispered to him so no one else can hear. Ewan gave a slight nod.
The scene starts with you gently kissing him, your husband, and taking off his eye patch. Aemond finding comfort in your touch and the stress of war washing away. The scene is all about you taking care of your husband, showing him respect and love. Aemond was welcoming his wife's affection but Ewan was only seeing the girl he very much likes undressing him and herself. He doesn't want to make a fool out of himself while doing the scene, luckily you are more than willing to guide him.
"Just be my Aemond," You whispered into his ears as you mount him, and he knew exactly what to do. His hands touching you just like Aemond would have. You riding him and kissing him. You can feel Ewan actually getting hard.
Imagine Ewan pinning you against the bed, carrying on the scene. "My lovely wife, always there for him," He gives you a passionate kiss. His body completely covering yours. You thought it was all part of the scene but actually Ewan didn't want anyone to see you topless anymore, not after he decided that he will make a move on you.
The scene turned out great. And an appreciation for helping Ewan offered to take you out to dinner. How can you say no to him?
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aemondwhoresworld · 5 days
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while waiting for HOTD season 2, i rewatch the season 1 and …. LOOK AT THIS HANDSOMENESS
MY PRINCE EWANNN
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House Of The Dragon, S1E8
feel free to use my GIF, for higher quality on X (@/aemondwhores)
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fan-goddess · 3 months
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Teat of Family Wealth
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Authors Note: Short af but I thought of it on my work break. Enjoy the drabble I guess
Taglist: @valeskafics, @omgbrcat @humanpurposes, @watercolorskyy, @blue-serendipity
Warnings: None apart from the occasional swear mixed in. Oh, and probably ooc Michael but who gives a shit?
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Felix Catton, is a rich cunt sucking directly of the tit of old familiar wealth, and somehow, he doesn’t even know it.
Though to be fair, you yourself have no idea how you managed to wind up being his friend. Considering that compared to all his other mates, you were probably considered poor. Even though compared to all the non-rich shits in school, you were probably seen as well off.
You’d met Felix on the first day of Oxford, wandering around blindly looking for your introductory class to English. And of course knowing your luck, Felix Catton walked right up to you asking if you were lost, and to your gratitude at the time, you were grateful as he directed you were to go. Even blushing at the fact he insisted on putting his number in your phone, just so you could text him if you ever got lost again.
Though from there, you have no idea what happened. As the next thing you knew, you were trailing along after Felix and hanging out with his friends like some sort of fucking puppy, too afraid to leave the comforts of what it knows and go see the world. You knew you were being absolutely pathetic. A desperate bootlicker practically whining for some sort of attention and validation from someone deemed powerful in this world.
It was probably though why you found it so easy to recognise yourself in Oliver Quick. Another desperate nobody that was all but begging for some attention from the so proclaimed ‘big dogs’ of Oxford.
Though his eyes, those were different from yours. His held a type of longing that was directed only at Felix. Compared to his, your eyes looked like you wanted to kill him.
You don’t know how he met Felix, but by the way he came over to the table in the pub after Felix had called him over was nothing but eager. Oliver had been quick to move, grabbing his drink and practically skipping over. Even though you know you saw someone with him at the table earlier.
“Oh wait are you with anyone?” Felix asked, strangely empathetic as he stared at Oliver. Oliver turned around, and you could clearly see the person he’s just been sitting with in a confusing but funny looking shirt awkwardly waving to him, obviously wondering what the hell happened when he’d gone.
“No, they just left…” Oliver replied, ignoring the poor boy who slowly drops his hand and his head, obviously sad at the sudden loss of his drinking partner and so called friend.
It was so sad to look at, that you move to quickly finish your pint, and stand, offering Oliver your seat as you walk away. You can’t hear if anyone objects. If anything, they probably don’t care about you enough or even at all to even notice.
“Hey! How I roll guy!” You yell, and to your surprise, he actually turns around and gives you a judging glare rivalling even Heras.
“What?” He grunts, his brows furrowed as his eyes rake over your whole body, as if he had the ability to see every one of your insecurities.
You take a deep breathe, oddly nervous. “Oliver Quick is a bootlicking cunt and quite honestly, you deserve a much better friend than that puppy.”
There’s silence between you two, that’s only broken by the odd drunk fuelled talk coming from the direction of the pub, and eventually, by a small hum coming from the guys lips.
“You’re not wrong…” He says, smiling as he no doubt thinks over what you just said. “Though, I suppose the same could be said about you. Don’t you hang desperately on the rich buff arms of your own bff Felix Catton?”
“Felix is as much as my friend as I am friends with my own shit.” You bluntly say, and to your surprise, he begins chuckling, even slowly beginning to physically shake with laughter, while you stand there awkwardly waiting for him to stop.
“Can’t say you’re wrong comparing good old Felix to good old fashioned excrement!” He grins, finally calming down and fixing his glasses which had gone wonky in strangely enthusiastic laughter.
“Wanna grab a pint on me?” You can’t stop yourself from saying it. This guy in front of you, as brought more of a good conversation than any of the people in Felixes friend group ever could. At least this guy laughed at your sense of humour. The others just exchanged awkward looks and fake laughs.
“Sure, why not?” He shrugs, walking in some random direction and leaving you to stand in the path on your own.
“Where are you going?!” You shout, cupping your hand over your mouth while you grin at this unexpected turn of events.
“The pub! First rounds on you bootlicker!” He shouts back, an equal looking grin on his own face that to your surprise, you can’t help but find strangely pretty to look at in this lighting.
“Yeah yeah Roll boy!” You shout, slowly beginning to run after him as he huffs out another low chuckle. Maybe this would be the start of a good friendship? Or maybe this would be your doom? All you knew, is that you really needed to learn this guys name before you buy him his drink.
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Hii cutie! Sorry bc my first language it's not English.. First of all I LOVE your writing you do write so sweet about everything and I love that you write about actors too with all the respect!! I was wondering.. I hope it's not too much, if you'd be able to do smth like ewan x actress!reader where she plays his love interest in hotd and they're so comfortable with each other and everyone in the cast can see the chemistry between them but they're afraid of showing their feelings to each other and just think that's just friendship, but somehow someone tries to open the eyes to one of them making the other one jealous and... You know, just write it however you want and of course if you want it, I trust you for this one!! Thanks sweetheart <3
Easy To Be
Ewan Mitchel x Actress!Reader (low key Aemond x Reader)
Summary: "It's really hard to be cruel to you," Ewan mutters. I snort, "if that's hard, then it must be hell to have to kiss me." He hums, "quite contrary," he looks off to nowhere, "I enjoy that more."
Word Count: <500
Warnings: Fem!reader, actress!reader, it starts off pretty violent, fluff, pining, annoying!cast members, crack fic, typos, etc.
A/N: Idk why i'm writing this when my head hurts but i hope you enjoy nonnie though i did take liberties!!! OH WAIT I ALSO WANTED TO SAY DONT *EVER* APOLOGIZE FOR YOUR ENGLISH. ENGLISH WISHES IT MADE MORE SENSE /: AND gurl your english was flawless 🤨 fr you better than me. THANK YOU BY THE WAY FOR YOUR SWEET WORDS ABOUT MY WRITING! I LOVE YOU SO MUCH I APPRECIATE YOU AND I LOVE YOU LOVE YOU LOVE YOU Tagging: @pinksirensong @aralezinspace @sloanexx @deniixlovezelda @targaryenmoony @risefallrise @slavyanskiyahui @antisociablewallflower @lxdyred
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Aemond shoves me against the wall and presses me back, hands on both of my shoulders. He huffs, "you must think me either a fool or insane."
I whimper as I try to break away, "no, I know you're insane."
He scoffs and he grabs my jaw, titling my head up just as he draws his dagger and presses it against my cheek, "and do you think I think you're special?"
I make a sound as he tightens his hold on my face. "It will do you good to remember," he leans against my ear, "I can be betrothed to a great many other women. You ought to not test me again."
He shoves away as he storms out of the room.
"CUT!"
I release a sigh and gather my dress as a bunch of stylists come up to redo my make up and fix my wardrobe.
Once that was done, Aemond, or rather, Ewan walks back to his mark and looks at me, "are you alright?"
I smile, "a little rough this time around, but all good."
Immediately he stiffens and walks up to me, grabbing my hand, "shit, I'm sorry. Does it hurt somewhere?"
I grab his arm and step forward, "no, no," I shake my head, "it was just a really intense grip," I make a face, "it was kinda hot-"
"BOO GET A ROOM!"
Ewan and I turn to our side.
Someone makes hurling noises. "KISS, KISS, KISS, KISS-"
"Why are you even here?" I quirk a brow, "you don't even have a sce-"
"YOU TWO ARE GROSS, JUST KISS ALREADY!"
Ewan rolls his eyes and turns back to me.
"EWAN IF YOU DON'T KISS HER, I SWEAR TO FUCK I WILL."
Ewan huffs and looks to the side, "and shall I stab you instead?"
My eyes widen at his reaction. The morons lose their shit after hearing that.
He turns back to me and with knit brows, "I will be more gentle next take."
"No, it's fine," I shake my head, trying to ignore the way I was burning up, "I can take it. Honestly, I'm more concerned about how you keep stepping on my dress."
Ewan brings his hands together and chuckles, "sorry. I'm quite eager. I be more mindful of my steps."
I smile some more.
"-I CAN'T BELIEVE HE ACTUALLY SAID THAT THOUGH!"
We continue to ignore them.
"It's fine, Ewan. Just don't trip on me or we'll both get hurt."
He nods. "It's really hard to be cruel to you," Ewan mutters.
I snort, "if that's hard, then it must be hell to have to kiss me."
He hums, "quite contrary," he looks off to nowhere, "I enjoy that more."
"... w-what-"
"WAIT, WHAT DID HE SAY?!"
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pluvialpoet · 11 months
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delicate edges // chapter 1
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summary: beneath disdain, there is admiration. beyond betrayal, there is devotion. underneath loathing, there is adoration. even the coldest- most closed-off hearts- are protected by delicate edges of temptation, forgiveness, and absolution. an exiled heart longs for embrace, but desire threatens ruination. will true love become your savior or your greatest sin?
pairing: aemond targaryen x fem!reader
warnings: graphic depictions of an infected wound (blood, seepage, pain) nerve damage, period-typical misogynism and gender roles
word count: 10,316
series masterlist
Judgments are insufferable. Yet, they are felt by all and tolerated by most. No class, nor title, is immune to shrewd whispers of appearance or character, just as no man nor woman- no lord nor lady- can evade pointed glares or upturned noses in passing. Judgments are inevitable. Even so, very few truly suffer under the weight of such scrutiny.  Few drown beneath crushing waves of snide remarks, and even fewer find themselves trapped in an undertow of impertinent stares with no hope for a way out. Some have next to nothing to their names- no title nor land to boast about, and only the clothes on their backs to show for their wealthiest of possessions- but they have the luxury of obliviousness. To be unaware, even if only for moments at a time, of the fact that they are being ridiculed is a freedom granted to those with far more opulence than the richest men in the realm- for they are truly free from scorn, and the insufferable pain of judgment.
The moss is both soft and cold beneath your toes- a green cloud, of sorts, that cushions each step. Eclipsed by the sounds of drunken laughter and conversation, the gentle hum of strings is faint, but audible enough to follow along as you step in time with the melody. A sweet summer child- no more than six years of age- knows little of judgment. Beyond tales of humiliation and suffering, you have no experience to grasp onto or fear other than fables and hearsay. Despite this, there’s solace in the gardens. Surrounded by petals of dragon’s breath and poppies- amongst the vines of smokeberries and under the branches of a large oak tree- you’ve found refuge from various lords and ladies of the court. You may be a stranger to such casual cruelty, but you’ve learned to dread it all the same.
Whilst others seek to elude the pain of judgment, you’ve grown to fear the act itself. In a way that only a child would, you fear what you do not know- lacking the courage to discover and basking in the ignorance of what is unknown. Rather than confront judgment- before you even really know what it is- you’ve chosen to prolong the inevitable.
It is a choice that was stolen from him, along with the luxury of obliviousness- along with his eye.
Through a blur of tears, Aemond Targaryen winces. Each drop that falls past his lashes irritates the angry gash below, inflaming the marred skin that is still oozing with purulence. Another scab has formed over his wound, but just as the previous few have failed to seal and protect his injury, this one starts to crack and split, too- revealing more suppuration, blood, and white-hot agony. It’s torture. It’s as though his body refuses to heal, rejecting the idea altogether as he’s forced to brave unbearable agony each time his body betrays him. The maesters assure him that he is brave. They commend his vigor and praise his resilience. One even urged whilst redressing his injury that he was a “strong boy”. The innocent implication had stung like venom- like poison tainting his pure blood- and, perhaps, the words of a withering man had caused more damage than a blade in the hands of a child had.
Alas, his wound stretches and pulls whilst severed nerves pulse and tick against his will and he wonders if this inexplicable pain is penance from the seven above- a punishment for not seeking repentance for his actions. He claws at the scrap of leather that rests atop mangled skin, trying to untie the too-tight bindings that keep the patch secured. It was a gift from his mother in the days that followed the incident on Driftmark, and his father offered more words of warning about wearing the covering in the presence of others than he did when it came time to hold his bastard grandson responsible for the injury. Mayhaps, that is where the root of his suffering truly stems from- betrayal.
Nevertheless, Aemond is nearly blinded- completely- by pain. He stumbles past a few servants who keep their heads low and their gazes down, and though he can not see it, he can feel their judgment. Perhaps, it is because he’s a child- or, the fact that he’s disfigured- that the help doesn’t hold him in the same regard they once did. None harbor the desire to care for him. None seek to ease his painfully obvious suffering. Eyes that do not pierce with discernment, are forced away blindly- finding interest and amusement anywhere other than the boy in desperate need of aid. Whilst they refuse to look at him- depriving him of ridicule by finding sudden interest in stone chasms or the flickering flame of a nearby torch whenever he passes- they aren’t as gracious when it comes to holding their tongues. The fools forget that he is visually impaired, not deaf, and allow cruelness to pass in whispers that he is never able to evade- for they seep into the stone and haunt him in solitary, the same way shadows used to.
Aemond sinks his teeth into his tongue, biting down just hard enough to stop his lip from quivering. He won’t allow them the satisfaction of seeing him cry. With all the strength he can muster, he wanders past the gushing servants and into the gardens. Relying on the thick trunk of oak to keep him upright, he braces himself against the wood and yanks at the patch over his eye, over and over again until it unfastens. A brief moment of comfort is eclipsed by the searing pain that follows. He almost howls like a wounded animal- a cry out to anyone willing to listen- but even simple sounds are hard to make when the muscles in his face begin to pulsate involuntarily. It burns and it stings. It’s humiliating and degrading. Beyond anything else, it hurts. 
Soft, panting breaths cause your footing to falter. Another step is left incomplete- another turn is stumbled through- and perhaps if you were performing in the stuffy hall you chose to abandoned, with a partner who would’ve only asked to dance to fulfill a duty, you might’ve been embarrassed about your missteps, but with only the stars for company- soft flickers of light that shine regardless of how many times you make a mistake- you’re greeted with solace, rather than affliction. The sound that comes from the other side of the oak is miserable- guttural and wretched and utterly broken. If you were any further, you wouldn’t have been able to hear it. Lively strings would’ve muted the croaked cries of desperation with a tune much more jovial. Alas, you’re neither devoted to your dance or the music, but tempted by what’s caught your ear, instead.
A child knows little about judgment, and even less about fear. Still malleable, and unshaped by the cruelties of life, you find yourself apprehensive of what you do not know- but not enough to let feelings of worry dampen your curiosity. With a cautious step forward, you peer around the thick trunk. A glimpse of silver shines bright beneath the moonlight, and another step closer reveals that the second son of King Viserys Targaryen and Queen Alicent Hightower is sobbing beneath the same branches you’ve sought comfort under. 
His name is Aemond. 
You’ve heard many whispers about him traveling through the walls of the Red Keep- and the most recent ones reference his tragedy. Rumors have oft been traded as a form of currency. Regardless of merit, tales of outrageous fantasy are passed amongst friends and foes until one is able to profit off of its value. You pay them no mind. He is nothing more to you than a name- a flicker of argent light lurking about the shadows, and often keeping to himself. In the few years that your father has occupied a seat upon his father’s council, you have never crossed paths with him. When he returned from Driftmark only a few months prior, it was without his eye, and whilst most account that the maimed boy is truly terrifying, you find it difficult to believe such lore when his muffled cries fill your ears and his shoulders shake forcefully. The boy before you is not frightful- he is scared.
“Forgive me, my prince,” Aemond startles when a timid voice interrupts his suffering. Through a blur of tears, he watches as you drop down to a pitiful curtsy- the gesture more a sign of respect than a display of coordination. He quickly brings a palm over his eye, concealing the infected socket from your view, and hisses when his flesh makes contact with the gaping wound. The legion is warm beneath his hand- another reminder of his body’s resistance to heal- and wet with pus and other seepage. He doesn’t remember the slice of the blade that took his eye, nor the pain of steel meeting flesh. It all happened too quickly for him to truly remember. But he has grown familiar with the pain of healing and longs for fresh blood to stain his pale skin- anything other than viscid, yellow discharge. Trembling fingertips graze the back of his leather patch, flipping it over to reveal that it has caused him more harm than good to don the disguise for the evening. A crusty layer of skin, blood, and drainage from his wound has already started to coagulate. Regardless, Aemond attempts to fasten the veil over his wound once more. He would rather torture himself than disobey his father’s wishes. With the way his fingers shake, it’s hard for him to attach the patch, so he opts to hold it in place- and with one hand over what remains of his eye, and the other wiping away his tears, he rises to his full height. 
He has half a mind to order you away- confident, in nothing else beyond the fact that you would have to comply. To flex what little power he still has over a child, who wouldn’t dare defy him, won’t fill the void left within him- nor will being impolite compensate for the empty socket of torment. He will find retribution, elsewhere. Ire tastes sour on his tongue. Wrath burns his throat. Vexation is acidic. Beyond crooked teeth, he forces all that he’s feeling behind the quivering press of his lips, hoping that the foul words he’s attempting to shield you from won’t slip past the gaps where he’s missing teeth that haven’t yet grown back. You are not his foe- but you are not his friend, either.
“I thought I was alone.” Something about the confession stills his breath. It’s odd- something unexplainable and untellable- the sorrow he experiences upon your revelation of honesty. To feel like a stranger amongst servants and guards was one thing, to be ostracized and disregarded by his family was another thing completely, but to feel like he doesn’t belong- like he’s unworthy and unwanted amongst the company of a stranger, who doesn’t know anything about him beyond the fact that he is marred- is foreign. It’s accompanied by the taste of bile. “Though, it appears we both prefer the gardens in favor of the ballroom.” The sentiment you offer is warm- friendly, even- but Aemond has grown accustomed to frigidness. Numb to the heat of amiability, he doesn’t recognize the tenderness of your approach until you ask, “Would you like to dance with me?” The only indication that he’s heard you is the way he clenches his teeth, gritting them against one another whilst the muscle of his jaw tightens. “I’m not very good, and I would benefit greatly from a partner,”
Aemond awaits the sound of laughter. His skin prickles with the anticipation of it. Surely, you’re jesting with him. You do not wish to dance. With only one eye, angry tears streaking scarlet cheeks, and a wound that weeps beneath a thin scrap of leather and the palm of his shaking hand, he is not an ideal dancing partner. Even if he were the best dancer in the seven kingdoms, he would not be an ideal dance partner- not when he is missing pieces of himself, and feeling less than half of a whole. He is maimed. He is disfigured. He is ugly. No amount of talent nor charm will ever change the simple fact that he now knows is true- he is not worthy of anything other than pain and misery, condemned to a life of suffering. Laughter does not puncture the surrounding silence. He waits and waits, and waits, for a devious grin of crooked teeth that gnash with glee- like the same dagger that stole his eye- and howling hysterics, but you merely await his answer, silently and patiently- as if your sentiment had been genuine. Both eyes search violet for an answer, and he cowers away under such a daunting gaze. He is exposed. Forcing his pride, his ego, and stare elsewhere, he shuts his only good eye, forcing himself into complete and total darkness- somewhere safer, and much more welcoming than the warmth of your eyes as they bear into his sole. Socket, and remaining eye.
Only a few years younger than he is, he doubts you intend to take pity on him. You are a child, but so is he. He can not recall feeling the urge to ridicule when he was your age, but he remembers the relentless mockery from his elder brother and his nephews- a wound that has been ripped apart and left without sutures to bleed out until the day he meets his demise- and he’s reminded of the brutality of youth. Perhaps, you are a wolf clothed in lamb skin, proposing viciousness under the guise of innocence. In the nothingness that surrounds you, he wonders what’s more laughable- being asked to dance by a child, or being pitied by one?
When he opens his eye, you still stand before him- though, now you do not attempt to hold his gaze. Aemond is granted a brief relief, that’s shadowed by dread the moment he considers that his physical appearance may have simply been too much for you to bear, thus you’ve opted to avoid his plaguing stare at all costs. His chest tightens. When he opens his mouth, the words are stolen by a throbbing in the empty socket that matches the frenzied beat of his heart in his chest. The center of your forehead pinches with concern, but he does not notice, and when he finally finds his voice, it’s gruff.
“You will find one,” He assures, curtly. Despite his tone, you appear hopeful, and he grimaces whilst he elaborates, “Indoors.” At the mention of finding a participant in the ballroom you’ve deliberately evaded, you gulp- fearful that he might order you back to the very place you’ve tempted to escape. “Perhaps a cupbearer or squire could aid in the technique you lack.” Aemond offers without sentiment.
It is a mask- his cruelness- meant to shield his anguish. At least, you wish to believe it to be. The rumors of a wicked boy are not true. Whispers of a horrifying beast are not, in fact, certain. Though it is hard to deny the angry, inflamed skin beneath his palm, you are not afraid of him. His injury is not something to fear- not when it is responsible for causing him so much pain. You have not seen the extent of his trauma, but it does not frighten you. He may be maimed, but he is suffering a unique torment- one that very few living know the true agony of. He should not be shunned for feeling. With both eyes, or only one, he is still a prince, and you will treat him with the respect and kindness he deserves. Even if he held no title, you would offer the same gentleness- for it is not in your nature to be unkind.
“I have little interest in dancing with a cupbearer or a squire, my prince.” With a timid step towards him, he startles a step back, nearly tripping over a large root before regaining his footing. If possible, his cheeks flush deeper. 
“Then why ask for a partner?” Aemond bites back, keeping his tongue cruel to deflect his embarrassment- and his pain.
“Some day, I will be forced to dance with lords and knights because it is what is expected of me.” He is vulnerable before you, laid bare whilst hiding behind a veil. Though his wound is covered, he is still before you, aching, in a way that is exposed and defenseless. If he wanted to, he could have turned you away or turned away himself. Yet, he stands before you, despite the pain he is in. If you can not offer him aid, you will offer him the truth- no matter how daunting it might be. “They will complain that I’ve stepped on their toes- or make mention of the fact that no matter how hard I try, I’m always a beat behind,” You shudder, at the thought of dishonoring your family and your house over something so trivial, but it is, perhaps, your most unnerving fear. “Until then, I much prefer the company of someone who won’t laugh at me because I misstep, but if you wish to be alone-“
He regards you carefully. For the sake of being sullen, he considers demanding evidence that he won’t laugh at you for the very same reasons you’ve shared, but he is not bitter. He is not rotten to his core. He is not a monster. He is simply grieving the loss of his boyhood and sight. Regardless, his resentment is not meant for you. The sharpness of his tongue is not meant to cause you pain. Unfortunately, for the both of you, you are the only one around to suffer his wrath. Still, his mother raised him to abide by manners and propriety- even whilst he aches with a numbness that is equal parts blazing and frigid. His jaw clenches tightly- muscles shifting to alleviate his pain- and he huffs a sigh.
“I wish to retire to my chambers.” 
“Very well,” A timid smile disguises the humiliation of his rejection, and you bow before him once more. “Good evening, Prince Aemond.”
He does not say anything as he scurries past you, down the same path he came, and when you are left alone in the solidarity of the gardens where you once found peace, you find yourself whispering to the stars. With your hands clasped together, you beg the stars to carry your message to The Seven, and you urge The Seven to end Aemond Targaryen’s suffering.
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10 years later 
“The King grows weaker and weaker with each day,” Grand Maester Mellos’ voice wavers as he delivers the devastating news to those seated along the long slab of stone that acts as a table. Few show no emotion, whilst others struggle to contain theirs- a quivering lip, eyes wide in disbelief, fists clenched so tightly that knuckles turn white- and it pains him to further divulge, “It is only a matter of time before…”
The silence that fills the chamber is haunting. Not even the steady sound of breath rivals that of the bone-chilling nothingness that hangs in the air with words left unspoken. Fearful eyes flit back and forth, searching for answers- desperate for direction, and guidance- but never voicing their concern aloud. To speak their dread would make it real, and no one is prepared to confront what has always been inevitable. Demise has finally caught up to their King, who is now too weak to outrun it any further than he already has.
“Is there no hope for his recovery?” Tyland Lannister, Master of Ships, is the first to find his voice- albeit shaken, and unsure. He fidgets with his hands, clasping them together tightly to stop them from shaking, but it’s no use. His nerves are too rampant to quell. 
“I’m afraid not, Lord Lannister“ Mellos huffs a heavy sigh. Somberness paints him ghostly. Grim with the knowledge he possesses- a curse and a burden more than it is esteemed- he delivers an eerie verdict. “He will not live to see the next sun cycle.” It is not a prediction- it is fact. “The gods are gracious, but they do not waste miracles upon men.” A pedestal has been shared between Gods of the Faith and Targaryens for years, with very little distinction between the two. To watch a once mighty man fall- a man so revered by all, he was oft mistaken for a deity- is harrowing. Even in the warmth of sunlight, the grand maester appears grey and cold. Both sullen and stoney. The day he has long dreaded has finally arrived. Regretfully, he advises, “It is time that we begin to prepare for…”
“I will do no such thing.” Outraged by such a suggestion, Lyman Beesbury- Mast of Coin- scoffs aloud. Overwhelmed by the sudden shift in demeanor, it’s difficult to tell if he is enraged, flustered, or deeply woeful. His face blotches red with color, his stare narrows and his brow lowers. The faint scrape of his chair against stone threatens to shriek, but he remains seated- albeit agitated. “He may not be well, but our king is alive.” He makes an argument plagued with denial. A glance around the table, one where no one meets his eye, confirms what he knows deep down to be true. Still, he revolts- challenging both mortality and veracity. “I will not consider the possibility of a reign without him at the helm until he has taken his last breath.”
There’s a finality in his tone that does not go unnoticed by the other members of the small council. Try as he might, Lord Beesbury’s chest heaves with each breath, despite his efforts to calm himself. He’s been shaken to his core, they’ve all been- except for Otto Hightower, Hand of the King, who remains calm and collected whilst the most wrenching threat looms overhead.
“With the utmost respect, Lord Beesbury, the dawn is nearly upon us.” Otto’s voice does not waver. His tone does not depict anything other than neutrality. His volume does not rise.“Time is of the essence,” He warns, “If we do not attempt to prepare for the inevitable, then we run the greater risk of being blindsided by not only the death of our king but the death of our nation.” 
Mayhaps the only thoughts more ominous than the passing of their ruler are figments of the days after. Some see fire, others hear screeching, but all gathered around the table know that regardless of what happens next, there will be blood.
“I know I do not have to warn of the consequences the realm would face if it fell into Rhaenyra’s hands,” Pursed lips deliver the foreboding caveat, dripping with bitter honesty and evidence to back such a bold claim. “With Daemon as consort, exercising both tyrannical and licentious behaviors to a Queen who is not equipped to rule, our nation would crumble.” Insults fly freely against defenseless subjects, provoking those in attendance to consider how much truth is behind what’s been presented as an opinion. Slowly, looks of sorrow harden into something much more determined. One by one, realization dawns on each member of the small council, and Lord Hightower takes the lull in both silence and contemplation to sink his claws of persuasion deeper and deeper into the flesh of his victims- until he grazes bone. “We would be transported back to the days before the conquest when any man could declare himself king and execute a power that has not been earned, I am sure of it.”
There is no proof beyond his word. Present evidence does not suggest the demise of their kingdom following the king’s passing, but Otto has planted a seed of doubt within the heads of his former council members and nurtured it with poetic of doom and ruination. With a chance to fester, no one can think clearly. Though he knows the answer, Lord Larys Strong- Master of Whispers- plays coy. His exterior is grim, matching those seated around him, and proceeds to inquire about matters he’s already privy to. 
“What do you suggest we do, Lord Hightower?” 
In a rare display of contemplation, Otto allows himself a moment to gather his thoughts before he speaks. “When our great King Viserys takes his last breath, I believe that Prince Aegon, his firstborn son, should succeed him.”
“Whilst I agree that a male heir should occupy the throne after the king passes, the king has named Rhaenyra as his heir.” Lord Lannister argues, “If he wished for Aegon to rule, he would have declared so, twenty-three years ago.”
Alicent Hightower sits at the head of the table, the only woman amongst a chamber full of men- only allowed to listen in and contribute on behalf of her ailing husband. Whilst she occupies his seat, a throne within its own right, she knows she is not welcomed. The lords in her company have grown so familiar in with her presence, that they oft forget that she is a woman herself- and they’ve made no attempt to conceal their true feelings about woman and power. Nevertheless, they’re respectful towards her when it counts. Even after years of power, she does not understand the extent of it. Perhaps, it’s because she realized early on in her marriage that it was never hers to begin with. She spares her father a glance and her stomach churns. The desire to be as distant from the conversation taking place as possible fills her, but instead she is captive. Besides her, the vein in Otto’s forehead pulsates. It fills her with a fear reminiscent of her youth, despite being well into womanhood, and she seizes the silence as an opportunity to finally speak. The tip of her tongue wets her lips. She licks the cracks, softening the dry skin before she takes a breath and clasps her hands above the table- hiding bloody nail beds behind her palm.
“My lords,” She commands the attention of her audience with a graciousness that many of them are unaccustomed to. With a polite press of her lips, she proposes, “Is this a matter of upholding orders given lifetimes ago, or protecting our people?” The question visibly divides the room, and she can hardly believe that she’s found the courage within herself to utter her true thoughts aloud. “You have been assembled to guide our king back to the light when he finds himself astray.” She reminds them carefully. “He is lost, and if,” A breath, and then a pause. A sigh, and then hesitation. Many remember when Alicent was just a girl- soft, quiet, naive- and it’s difficult to acknowledge that the same woman commands them now- rough, reserved, aged by duty. Still, they await their Queen. “Perhaps, if he could be suaded to name Aegon as his heir-“
“The realm would be better for it.” Otto interrupts his daughter, supplying his own words and thoughts in place of her own. With a gentle nod, she agrees, bowing her head and surrendering her voice to him once more.
“How do we proceed?” 
“Beyond that, would betrothing his eldest strengthen his claim to the throne?” Tyland interjects, demanding an answer of his own.
“How so?”
“If Aegon were betrothed to a noble house, perhaps even one the King has silently made an enemy of, then it would prove his ability to unite kingdoms divided by difference.” It makes sense. Perhaps, if they had more time, it would be something to consider, but they are pressed.
“If it were Prince Aemond, perhaps, but Prince Aegon is not…” Otto bites back the truth, refraining from speaking ill of the man he’s trying to convince his counterparts to support. “It is a more difficult task in practice than it is in theory.”
“If not for the sake of political advancement, then we should consider a match for the sake of convenience.” Larys offers, his eyes grazing those around the table until they meet your father’s. “You have a daughter, do you not, Lord Piper?
“I do,” The man sitting next to Lord Beesbury confirms suspicion with a nod of acknowledgment. “Though, I do not wish to bargain with her hand.”
Across the table, Otto scoffs. Perhaps, he is unfamiliar with honesty- enough so that he blanches in the presence of sincerity. The years have not been kind to him. Stress has caused him to wither away. Now, he’s not even the shell of the man he once was. In place of loyalty, he is self-seeking. Where he was once obedient, he is now rebellious. Under the guise of being dutiful, he is poisoned by greed. Always wanting more- bigger, better, bolder- he dreams of avarice for his generations to follow. Having taken hold of the reins their king was too frail to grasp, he’s appointed himself holier-than-thou actually is. Perhaps, he’s due for a humbling reminder that he is still a man that serves- not a man who commands men to serve- and who better to deliver it than the Master of Laws?
“You would deny a proposal from a prince of the realm, and deny your child the privilege and security of joining a monarch?” Equal parts anger and offense seep into his tone, drenching each word with resentment and outrage. It is not your father’s intention to slight the Hand, but the spitfire has always been prone to encouraging tempers to flare. Sullen eyes of stormy blue darken with something meant to provoke. Hungry for a fight- or, at least the chance to inflict defeat- he taunts.
“A proposal has not yet been made, Lord Hightower,” With an elegance that Otto is incapable of, your father replies. “And until a legitimate proposal is made, I will not entertain possibilities of figment.” The finality within which he delivers the statement does not go unnoticed by anyone in the room, and for the time being, the topic is put aside.
“Very well,” Otto yields- though, rather dismissively.
“Your Grace, might I suggest urging Aegon to consider any and all proposals for his hand?” Lord Lannister proposes. For a moment, he seems unsure of his own suggestion- brows pinching together as he contemplates a solution to their problem- but then the tension eases, and a look of clarity washes over his features. “If we are truly running out of time, then desperate times call for desperate measures.” He urges, more confident in his speech than he was not a minute prior. “I do not believe that we possess the luxury of scrutiny any longer.”
“How much time do we have, Mellos?” Your father inquires, going straight to the source and cutting out the need for a meddling middleman. Otto’s expression remains stoic, but the master of laws and the hand have been silently butting heads for long enough for your father to recognize even the most subtle shift in his glare. He’s practically seething.
“No more than a few moons, I’m afraid.” Another blow takes the air from the room.
“In seven weeks time, Aegon will find a wife.” Alicent declares, allowing a week for each of her gods to guide her son towards the right match- hoping that it would be enough time to allow him to secure a partnership of his choosing, whilst gifting him what was stolen from her- a choice.
“And what of the others?” Tyland’s brow raises, and Otto’s stare narrows.
“The others?”
“The other princes and the princess,” He elaborates, speaking of the King’s other children that still reside in the castle, and tucked away in Oldtown.“What of them?”
“That is a bridge we shall cross once the waters rise and force us to,” The Hand dismisses, sparring very little thought towards the idea. “Until then, let us not waste our time pondering over it.”
“Of course, Lord Hightower.” Lord Lannister yields.
Silence fills the chamber once more- though, it is somehow less and more daunting than it was before. Something ominous and foreboding lingers.
“If any word of what we have discussed here leaves these chambers…” Otto threatens, but the lords bow their heads respectfully- a silent display of surrender and submission to the man that’s always found a way to manipulate them as if they were puppets brought to life by his touch. “Good.”
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The clashing of swords serves as a beacon, coaxing you towards distraction with tiny sparks of light and the promise of forgetting what’s troubling you- even if only briefly. As you inch closer, the wrinkle between your brows softens- and it’s only once the crease has been smoothed over that you realize how truly upset you had been. Perturbance is a fleeting feeling, however. The sun is warm on your skin, and each step closer and closer towards the training yard stains the bottom of your skirts with evidence of your escape. Through rubble and mud, you march on. 
A spectacle has taken place near the center of the yard, drawing a small crowd of onlookers from the outskirts surrounding the field where the art of battle is studied and perfected through practice. Wood splinters against the impact of a weapon, sending shards of the Targaryen sigil into the mire- pieces of a whole that the servant’s children will dig through the murk for once the training grounds are unoccupied. The dance continues. Murmurs and gasps of awe are accompanied by polite applause, and when pointed steel meets flesh, all encouragement ceases in favor of silence and concern. Between a break in the crowd, you spot him, instantly. For only a moment his eye meets yours. It’s by chance that he’s able to find your face amongst the growing swarm of strangers- something familiar in a wave of unknown- and the distraction causes him to lose his footing, allowing his opponent a chance to lunge at him. Aemond dodges the attack, moving swiftly before the point of the blade has a chance to draw blood. His jaw hardens. With renewed vigor, he strikes. Back and forth, back and forth, both men dodge and attack one another until the prince’s weapon grazes armor. Stumbling back, the knight nearly topples over, and before he can steady himself back on his feet, Aemond threatens the tip of his sword against his rival’s throat, earning another round of applause from the meddlesome crowd, as he is deemed the winner.
His opponent- a seasoned knight and valiant protector- wipes the sheen from his brow whilst he struggles to catch his breath. In, and out- in, and out, again- defeat fills his lungs in labored breaths, but loss does not linger. The prince’s victory is not his failure, in the same way that his strengths are not the prince’s weaknesses, but a challenge- meant to provoke. There is a role he plays, a title he dons, and a weight- heavier than that of his blade and armor- that will crucify him if he does not honor the oaths he vowed himself to uphold. Copper spills from the split in his lip, and he welcomes the warm metallic into his mouth with the tip of his tongue. It tastes of progress- for his opponent grows stronger, and stronger, each time they draw their blades. 
Ser Criston Cole sheathes his weapon, and prepares to praise his opposer- though, he doubts it will mean anything to the boy who’s bested him more times than he can count. Still, he is courteous.  He turns to greet the prince, prepared to meet the sharp edges and flared nostrils of a victorious man trying to catch his breath after triumph, but such a sight is nowhere to be found. Where the line of his jaw should be tense, it is laxed. Where a violet fire should blaze, there are only embers of calm. Even the permanent crease between his brows seems smoother, creating the illusion of a boy, not a conqueror. He searches for the cause of the sudden shift in his demeanor. Following the prince’s line of sight, he finds his answer in the form of a maiden. 
“My lady, I believe you are not meant to-“ He approaches with warning, but isn’t allowed the chance to finish.
“Perhaps it is time for a brief respite, Ser?” Aemond suggests, but Criston knows that it is not a suggestion- it is a command. He is the prince, after all. However thinly veiled, he understands what’s being asked of him, and he respectfully bows his head prior to fulfilling the unspoken order.
“Of course, my prince,” His tongue swipes along his bottom lip, savoring another tang of metallic punishment before he presses his lips together firmly- smearing the blood that oozes from the small wound unintentionally whilst he turns to bid you a proper farewell. “My lady,”
“Ser Cole,” You return with a polite smile. He mirrors the gesture, though it lacks any sincerity. Sparing Aemond one last glance, he huffs a breath and takes his leave. Gravel crunches under the weight of his boot, and once the sound becomes distant enough- and the mass of supporters has started to disperse- Aemond turns to face you.
“And where are you supposed to be?” He taunts, mischievously inquiring as to why you’ve found yourself in the training yards during his lessons. The corner of his lip threatens to curl into a grin when a beat of silence passes and you roll your eyes at his questioning. It’s hard to believe that the man before you grew from the boy you met so many moons ago. He has grown considerably since the night your paths crossed in the godswood. Older, taller, wiser- leaner, stronger, more striking - and yet somehow, still the same boy that wept beneath the branches of an oak under the cover of nightfall. His fingers flex around the hilt of his sword as he sheathes the weapon back into its holster, and you swallow thickly when you realize that you still haven’t answered him.
“Lessons with my septa,” You cast your glance downwards, toeing a piece of gravel to avoid his gaze. Nerves twist in the pit of your stomach when a brief glimpse of a moment you’re trying to forget flashes before your eyes- an accusation, a threat, a scowl, and a suffocating certainty- and you quickly shake it away. “But I can recite our histories in my sleep, and I have little interest in learning to be the perfect wife for some lord, so I’ve decided to come watch your lessons, instead.” Whatever vexation taints your tone disappears completely when you offer a coy simper, “Besides, I find them much more captivating than mine.”
There's a wall of weapons that you find yourself gravitating towards. They glow and gleam in the sunlight. Silver, iron, and bronze twinkle and shine, and you can’t help but reach out. Perhaps, you’re able to find beauty in weaponry because you’ve been sheltered from its devastation. Either way, you reckon that you’d sacrifice your virtue to wield anything on display- even a sad, rotted excuse for a wooden sword.
“Is that so?” He muses, watching as your fingertips ghost over the hilt of a throwing knife. You barely graze the handle, yet you trace the carved pattern delicately. He watches with a hint of amusement. The training yard is no place for a lady. It is where war is perfected- battle practiced and strategized- and though it is oft less tragic than combat against actual enemies, it is not exempt from peril. Axes, blades, and spears sharp enough to cause much more than injury are handled daily, by men and boys with little to no experience. Regardless, the training grounds are a place of savagery, and you look out of place amongst the weapons you admire. Aemond imagines that a blade could never appear deadly in your hands. Not when you handle instruments of torture with such care.
“Perhaps,” You agree- though, it’s only halfheartedly. When you turn to meet Aemond’s stare, you finally feel the warmth of the sun upon your skin. It is inside of you, burning, flushing, and festering whenever you are near him. He is enchanting. With long silver hair, sharp angular features, and such cunning dexterity, he is bewitching. Mayhaps, it is not the sun that fills you with warmth. Mayhaps, it is him. “Or, perhaps it is because I Ionged for your company.” You hope that your exaggeration masks your shyness well enough to go undetected. Just to be sure, you flash a playful grin. “At the very least you tolerate mine- which is far more than I can say for others.”
“I should fetch a maester,” He replies, and the suggestion stills your step. Aemond halts alongside you, and you wonder if he’d been injured during his sparring lessons, or if he felt feverish. Worst of all, your heart plummets with worry when you consider that perhaps his eye is crippling him- as it tends to do every once in a moon- and the thought of pain you’ve never felt but witnessed vicariously through him, sends a dull throb straight through your right eye. With lips parted to question, you turn towards him, only to discover that the smallest semblance of a smirk upon his lips. “You seem to be riddled with delusions.”
When you sigh a breath of relief, he offers a thin smile. His teasing always teeters the line between jesting and sincerity, and even after so many years of companionship, you’re still never truly sure where his intentions lie. Though, he’s never once been vicious. Towards you, he’s never been spiteful nor callous. Perhaps there’s always been a gentleness reserved for your friendship. At times Aemond could oft appear distant, reserved, and withdrawn when he found himself in the company of others. Even when you were children, he never truly appeared interested in anything you had to say, but you’ve come to learn that even though he is distant, reserved, and sometimes withdrawn, his silence is not a flaw. Whilst he is a man of few words who prefers to listen rather than be the subject of attention, time has graced you with the knowledge that he is only distant to those who do not truly know him, only reserved in the company of those he has nothing insightful or genuine to offer, and withdrawn from those whom he does not care to consort with. 
By chance, you find yourself in the godswood. It’s reminiscent of a simpler time. Moss is neither soft, nor cold beneath your slipper, and petals of dragon’s breath and poppies remind you of your fleeting youth. It is not the same place it once was, but it is still a safe haven of sorts.
“The only person truly riddled with delusions is my septa,” You huff, agitated and overwhelmed at the mere mention of the woman who’s caused you such distress. 
When your back meets the thick trunk of oak, a strained exhale passes your lips.
“I am meant for more than this.” Breath betrays certainty, a somber huff diluting the sentiment of spoken word as the tips of your fingers retreat into the flesh of your palm. A wrinkle deepens across the expanse of your forehead, a crevice he is simultaneously unacquainted and familiar with, and he recognizes sorrow on the face of another- a strange sight when not his own. He needn’t ask what troubles you. Not when he knows you will reveal your despair to him- even if unprompted. He is silent as he listens. “More than a dutiful wife, more than just barring children,” Spite overpowers propriety. Too overwhelmed to hold your tongue and remember your manners, you speak freely- as you always have in Aemond’s company. With a finality that evaded your tone moments prior, you vow, “I am destined for more.”
His muscles begin to ache from overuse. Tendons have stretched past their limit to grant his lithe figure an advantage against an opponent much more experienced than he. The ache doesn’t register as pain. Not even close. If anything, he welcomes the soreness. It’s a reminder that he must become stronger, faster, and greater, than those that dare to brandish their weapons against his own. The strain of his muscles is uncomfortable- though, not entirely unpleasant. He revels in the feeling for as long as he can before he’s forced to confront the fact that he doesn’t know how to help you. As the only woman- beyond those of his blood- who has ever shown him any sort of amiability, he acknowledges your pain- though he can not make sense of it. He supposes if Helaena, his older sister, were condemned to the same punishment of breeding until she met her demise, he too would feel the same livid rage. But, as a prince who upholds duty and honor above all else, he struggles to bash the place in society you’ve fiercely scorned. Knowing not what to say, he remains silent, until you spare him a glance.
“Hm,” He hums thoughtfully, though it lacks the comfort you’re seeking.
“If I’m condemned to spend the rest of my life with only needlework to look forward to in times of solace, I swear I shall perish.” Your stomach churns at the thought of producing a babe. You would rather prick every single one of your fingertips twice over with an embroidery needle than be forced to care for a child you would always resent- because they would forced you into a role you have no desire to fulfill. “Do you think your creature would end my suffering if I asked nicely?” Aemond presses his lips into a thin line whilst his eye meets yours. Vhagar, his greatest victory was a beast- but you’ve never acknowledged her as anything more than a creature. She was more than flames and chaos. She was a heartbeat- a creature who felt grief, joy, and even weariness. She was more than wings, scales, and acidity. She was a living, breathing, soul- and perhaps Aemond’s only other companion. You’ve always held her in high regard. At the mention of her name, his interest piques. “What is it that you tell her?” You inquire playfully, attempting to banish feelings of fear and unease with a jest. “Dra-kar-es?” 
He tenses. There’s no hint of a smile upon his lips, no traces of amusement nor humor to be found in the aftermath of your childish gag. Both fermented and vexed at the sound of his mother tongue passing your lips, the strong slant of his jaw hardens as his brow drops into something much more irate- something much more perturbed- and any semblance of joy quickly fades once you realize that he does not find humor behind your words, but a taunt. 
“You would rather die than become a man’s wife?” The power of the dragon is not one that he underestimates. He would be a fool to, and he is not a fool. Still, he can’t comprehend what would drive you to such madness. Suggesting that the flames of his dragon would end a suffering you’ve not yet felt is cruel. To bargain with your life over the mere thought of what awaits you on the other side of marriage is lunacy. Try as he might, he can’t make sense of your sudden hysteria, and with a sudden tightness in his throat, he awaits an explanation. 
You ponder his remark, silently. He does not understand. If he thinks you spoiled or manic, he does not insult you by sharing his thoughts aloud. Instead, he waits for you to make sense of the absurdities you speak of- though, you struggle to find the right words to make him aware of your agony. The lack of an answer causes him to grow restless, and he parts his lips to speak, but you’re the first to find your voice.
“I imagine it would feel like dying, each day I’m forced to submit to a man who has not earned my love- a man who does not see me as an equal, but as a womb for his future sons,” It is much too crass of a reply to be given to a prince, but Aemond has been a companion for so long that you oft forget that he is of royal decent. Through the brashness of your words, his gaze softens. “And if I am to fail…” Your lip trembles, failing to reveal the consequences of actions that have not yet been attempted, and you swallow the rest of your fears down with the growing lump in your throat. “Yes, I would rather die than become the wife of someone chosen for me.” 
He says nothing. He does not know what to say. If there are words to quell the unease of your future, they escape him. So, he stays silent. Offering nothing more than a blank stare as you press your lips together tightly. His feet feel heavy- like he has sprouted roots from his toes and embedded himself in the soil below- and when he tries to force his limbs to move, to take a step closer towards you, he is frozen in place. With a quiet sigh, you bring the back of your hand to your eyes, wiping away the tears that you won’t allow yourself to shed, and take a breath. This time, when you meet Aemond’s eye, you attempt to offer him a smile. It’s then, that you notice the red that stains his skin.
“You’re bleeding,” Right below his cheekbone, on his left side, there’s a small scratch. The wound- if it can even be called such a thing compared to the more prominent, scarred gash on his right side- has already started to coagulate. It’s truly no deeper than the cuts and scrapes you used to get whilst playing in the gardens as a child, but the sight of blood upon the face of someone you care deeply about is still alarming, no matter how small. He has already suffered so much- lost, even more. He does not deserve to feel pain, no matter how slight. If you could somehow take it all away, you would. 
Hesitantly, you steal a quick glance behind you before taking a few steps forward- until the tips of your slippers touch the tips of his boots. His eye widens slightly as you hold up a hand, and when he makes no effort to evade your inevitable touch, you rest your palm against the sharp edge of his jaw. His breath hitches, but he doesn’t order you away. Gently, you trace the shallow cut with the tip of your thumb, and Aemond can’t remember the last time that someone treated him with such care- the last time someone handled him with such delicacy. The urge to lean into your touch is overwhelming. To seek the closest thing to comfort, to peace, he’s ever known is like being suaded by temptation. He nearly chases the feeling until the ruffling of leaves above- mistaken for footsteps of potential onlookers in search of gossip to destroy both your reputation, and his- causes him to release a heavy exhale through his nose, and pull away.
“It will heal.” He assures you, though the reminder brings little comfort. If the gods will not end his suffering, you will try your very best to.
In the silence that follows, serenity remains. There should be something daunting about the nothingness that hangs in the air. Doubt should fester, and insecurity should loom, but only peace is present in Aemond’s company. He is the thunder and lightning of a storm, and the dew left behind afterward. He is a wave crashing ashore, and the ripples left behind in its wake. He is the chaos, but with you, he is the calm. Bathed in soft, orange rays of the setting sun he is still the glimpse of silver from your childhood- though, now he is much more than a stranger. He is everything. To you, he is everything. You realize, then, that you would have him in any way- violent hurricane or dew, waves or ripples- as long as he could always be a part of your life, a part of you, you would have him.
“Aemond, I-“ You can’t fathom the words. They’re stuck in your throat and they’re sickeningly sweet with an intimacy that’s unfamiliar, but not unwelcome. Your pulse quickens, beating faster and faster as if to catapult the sentiment from the cavern in your chest to your lips, but to no avail does your voice find you. 
Aemond thinks you look terrified- with your mouth hung open, your eyes wide and brows pulled together- he’s concerned for you. He doesn’t want to interrupt, but you appear to be unwell. Sickly doesn’t suit you, and he wonders if you’ve overexerted yourself, somehow. Perhaps your corset is too tight, or perhaps you’ve had too much sun. Regardless, he notices a thin sheen of perspiration glimmering across your forehead and prepares to ask if you’re well, but his inquiry remains unspoken- along with the affection you couldn’t will yourself to express.
“Prince Aemond,” The sound of your father’s voice fills the garden with an authority that diminishes its tranquility- though it doesn’t present any harm or danger. Knowing that you’ve been caught in a rather compromising position, you immediately take a step back from Aemond- though the distance feels further than miles. Your father presses his lips into a thin line that reveals neither displeasure nor ridicule. Refusing shame and embarrassment, you bow your head low in humiliation- instead- and whilst you take the brunt of chagrin, Aemond remains unfazed.
“Lord Piper,” The prince returns, easily enough to convey nonchalance, but his stomach twists with uncertainty that his tongue does not divulge. All at once he’s burdened with realization. He’s forgotten duty and honor in favor of temptation. For a few uninterrupted moments of your company, he has dismissed propriety. It is equivalent to sin, to be caught alone with an unwed maiden, but you have been an acquaintance longer than you’ve been a maiden- or so it seems. He oft forgets that he is no longer a child, and neither are you. Guilt nearly swallows him whole, but his eye does not show remorse nor does his throat bob with repentance. He will suffer penance for his wrongdoings, but you should not be forced to answer for his crimes. A shrill voice silences the declaration that sits atop the tip of his tongue.
“Wretched child!” The round face of your septa blotches red with anger. Whilst you’re no stranger to her temper, her chastisement feels much crueler when it’s shared with company- opposed to in private. “I told you she’s rotten.” The old woman berates, directing the insult towards your father, who towers over her. She’s a petite woman, but her fury is equivalent to that of a large man- and nearly as intimidating. Her frown accentuates the deep lines around her mouth-making her appear years older than she actually is- and you wonder if she’s ever smiled, or if she was born with a frown. You can’t imagine that a smile on her face would be all that inviting, and the thought alone is one you can’t fathom. With a heaving chest, she demands an explanation from your father, “What girl leaves her lessons to sneak away with-“
“Forgive me, my prince.” Your father ignores the woman glaring daggers into the side of his head- rather, the side of his jaw, since her gaze only reaches so high- and addresses the man beside you. Aemond isn’t sure why he’s the one asking for forgiveness. He is not the one who has insulted you. When he looks at your septa, she turns away with a huff, refusing to meet his stare. He almost wishes that she would have finished her thought so that he had reason to reprimand her for such vile insults. Alas, his nostrils flare. “Might I have a word with my daughter?”
“Of course,” The line of his jaw is sharp whilst he grants permission. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he wonders what it might feel like to deny what is asked of him, but he refrains from flexing such power. Instead, he turns to you, only meeting your eye for a second before he bows his head politely.“My lady,”
“My prince,” You return the gesture, gripping the skirts of your gown between your fingertips and dropping down into a curtsy. It’s graceful, but the mire that stains the bottom of your dress reminds him of a time when it was not. With a final nod, he bids you farewell, and your chest aches with longing as you watch him leave. Alone, except for the presence of your father and septa, you feel like he’s taken a part of you with his departure. It’s an odd feeling, one that can not be explained. Yet, it lingers.
You miss the silent exchange between your septa and father, but you hear the scoff that leaves the unpleasant woman’s lips, and the sound of her angry footsteps as they depart. In her wake, she leaves a trail of crushed flowers. You look at the crumpled petals and leaves with apprehension- knowing what it feels like to be trampled over by such a neglectful woman- and wish to nurture them back to health. Perhaps, you’ve always felt inclined to heal what is thought to be broken.
Time passes. Following your father’s direction as he leads you through the castle grounds and down river row until you reach the river gate. Away from your septa, away from the small council, your father trades the overbearing horde for the gentle rippling of water as it trickles into the rush. Sailcloth ruffles in the distance, carrying ships to and from shore. Even with the shouting of merchants, ship captains, and the fish market vendors, it’s considerably more tranquil than the stuffy air of the palace.
“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” Your father prompts, and you offer a tight-lipped smile that does little to conceal what you’re truly feeling inside. “What troubles you, darling?” 
“It is my septa,” A heavy sigh follows the confession. Revealing your worries frees a weight that’s settled in your chest. For the first time since the one-sided dispute, you can breathe. Surrendering your banners, you’ve laid your sword at your father’s feet, ready to embrace whatever awaits on the other side of attack- knowing that it will bring you the peace of mind you seek. “Today’s lesson consisted of reminders of duty, and the prospect of shame if I do not bear my husband’s heir within the first year of our marriage.” Too overwhelmed by the memory you wish to forget, you don’t notice your father tense beside you. “She suggests that if such a thing were to happen, then I am likely barren- and it was then that I decided that I would much rather watch the swordsmen than be ridiculed for an act I have neither attempted nor committed.” 
Much to his dread, he understands why you’ve fled. He can not condemn you when he shares the same perspective. As much as it pains him to admit, the day he has long feared has finally arrived. His only daughter- once small and delicate- has become a woman grown. Forced to embrace a truth he wishes to deny, he dons a grim look of reluctance. He thinks about what he desperately wants to convey- pondering words of sentiment and merit, whilst mulling over the importance of fantasy and dreams- and struggles to exude the guidance he had hoped to. In every wrinkle, sunspot, and sunken crevice of his skin, he wishes to express his desire for you to embrace your youth. He wishes to preach about the importance of education and adventure, and happiness whenever and however you see fit, but nothing fills the silence that has settled during the lull in conversation- except for the sounds of water. A butchered version of all he wishes to say remains lodged in his throat. Nearly suffocating from the words he can not find the voice to amplify, his vision starts to blur.
“I am a woman, yes, but that does not condemn me to marriage or motherhood.” Unaware of the inner turmoil your father is silently suffering beside you, you continue to divulge your deepest, darkest secrets to the only man you know will truly understand.
“At least, it shouldn’t.” With a dejected breath, you huff. “I know that when the time comes I will have to make peace with the fact that I will never be more than some man’s property.” For a moment, you hold your head up higher- seemingly accepting the role you’re being forced into- and for just a second, your father catches a glimpse of your mother in the elegance you exude. “I hold no figment of love, no hope nor imagination for such a silly thing, but until I am sworn to wed, I would like to bask in my freedoms whilst I still can.” The confession pains him, especially when he wishes nothing more for you than to experience true happiness and love- if that is something you wish to seek. 
Propriety, duty, and honor be damned.
“Then bask away,” He urges with a severity you do not understand as he reaches for your hand and squeezes it tightly- fearful of letting you slip away. “And do not let anyone attempt to darken your light.” 
You would not heed his warning until it was too late.
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a/n: massive thanks to both @em-writes-stuff-sometimes and @becauseicantdecide for easing my doubts about posting this, and for reassuring me that it wasn't absolute rubbish
tagging a few writers I admire: @mypoisonedvine @aemonds-sapphire @prince-aemond-targaryen @aemonds-war-crime @targbarbie @winterstellars @sapphire-writes @oneeyedvisenya @aemonds-fire @aemxnd @princeaemonds @ewanmitchellcrumbs
series taglist: @just-emmaaaa
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tongue in cheek - four
Tom Bennett x f!reader
masterlist ▪︎ part one - part two - part three
The reader and Tom continue to dance around other, flirting and sharing stolen moments. But where is it all headed?
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You don't get to finish the words.
The door opens, and Lois barges into the room. Balancing two saucers of tea in her hands.
"Oh!" She exclaims, sheepishly, noting how close her brother is to you. "Sorry, I just - "
"Aw, Lois, come on." Tom nearly whines at his sister.
"Sorry," she says firmly, not having any of Tom's attitude. "I just thought that y/n might want some tea as well. You can get your own." She hands one saucer to you with a knowing smile.
You sit down on your bed, and take a nervous sip, scanning the wallpaper patterns to distract yourself. Tom is still watching you, his eyes intently looking at your lips.
"So... what were you gettin' up to?" Lois' eyes twinkle with mischief. Obviously she's deduced what was about to happen.
Oh nothing, it's just that your brother was going to kiss me. You raise your head, and meet his eyes. He simply smirks at you, and you can't help but feel warm inside. And it's not because of the flippin' tea.
"Y'know," Tom shrugs, then gestures to you. "Just getting acquainted with this beauty here."
You narrow your eyes at him. Try me.
"Riiight," Lois eyebrows rise as high as they possibly go. "Well, I guess I could - "
"I'll head downstairs for a moment. See what Douglas is up to." You stand abruptly, your teacup rattling as a result.
Tom calls your name, telling you to "Hold on, doll."
God, I can't bear to look at him right now, otherwise I just might snog him in front of Lois.
"I need some air," you glance at him briefly, before slinkering out of the bedroom door, and out of Tom's bloody reach.
You take a deep breath, and try to compose yourself while at the top of the staircase.
Tom's and Lois' hushed voices could be heard from the room, and you catch hints of what could be - "Bad timing" - "Don't be a fool!" - "... my friend" - and of course a lovely contribution from Tom - "Bloody cockblock."
Douglas spots you after you descend the staircase. He kindly asks, "You alright? You look flushed. Tom wasn't being rude or anything, was he?"
Rude? Maybe he's rude for not kissing me fast enough.
"Oh, not at all," you smile sweetly, joining him at the table.
"That's good. I know he can be..." Douglas trails off, and you shrug in understanding. Tom can be a lot of things, alright. Is he a good snog though? I almost found out.
"Well, I was just makin' dinner," Douglas points to the steaming pot on the stove. "Should be ready in a few minutes."
Heavy booted footsteps come pounding down the stairs, and Tom materializes in the kitchen. He stands beside your chair, hand resting on the back.
"Alright?"He throws out a nonchalant greeting. Douglas merely hums in response. When Tom notices that you barely acknowledged his presence, he leans in close to your ear, "Alright, doll?"
He's so close that if you turn your head to the side, your noses might bump into each other. You give him a sideways glance, before dryly saying, "Oh, I'm just dandy, sweetheart."
He's making your heart race, and he knows it. Enjoys it even.
This prick. This... handsome prick.
Tom, due to his godforsaken lack of shame, quickly presses his lips to your cheek. The resulting kiss is fleeting, and lasts for but a millisecond. But you still feel him, even when he leans away, the lips that just grazed your cheekbone stretched wide in his enduring cheeky smile.
He jumps back on his heel, as if nothing out of the ordinary has just occurred.
"Quit pesterin' her, son," Douglas scolds, then gives you a look of sympathy. You wonder if he caught that little kiss Tom gave you, but you know it wouldn't matter to Tom either way.
"Need a beer," Tom simply says, as he walks over to the fridge. His prize in hand, he brings it to his lips and expertly uncaps it with his teeth. You can't help but watch him with intent, wondering why he even thought to kiss you in that moment.
"Call when dinner's done," Tom heads back to the staircase, and you twist in your chair, and mouth what the fuck at him.
He gets the message, but true to form, opts to answer you with a bloody wink. His expression remains smug even when he reaches his bedroom.
Tom - 1, You - 0
For now.
-------------------
For the next week, the tension is heightened, each and every moment you're around Tom.
In the room you both share with Lois, he always makes sure to give you lingering looks when she's not looking. Or purposefully initiating skin-to-skin contact whenever he brushes past you.
A gentle hand on your shoulder. On your back. Once he even claims to spot an eyelash on your cheek, so his brilliant solution is to grip your face with both hands and gently blow on the supposed spot.
For a long moment he just stays in place, even with the rogue eyelash gone. You feel his strong, callused fingers moving against your skin. His bright blue eyes land on your lips, then back to your wide-eyed stare.
"Like a pretty little deer in headlights," he hums.
Well, he isn't wrong. If only Lois... wait, Lois!
That realization renders you alert, and out of your Tom-induced haze. You quickly step back from him, and with a nervous laugh, and a glance at Lois who sits by the boudoir, you make sure to raise your voice to say, "Gee, well, uh, thanks for that, Tom."
Tom merely gives you a nod. You notice his usual smirk is not in place, and his brows are furrowed as he examines his shoes.
"I've got to go," Tom mumbles near incoherently. He seems careful not to touch you as he walks past, giving you as wide of a berth as he can.
The bedroom door shuts behind him, and you slump down on your bed. It's just never the right moment, is it?
"You fancy my brother," Lois nonchalantly declares, as she skims her book.
"What?" You swivel around to look at her, appearing shocked at her observation. "I... I don't - "
"Come on," Lois throws you a meaningful look, and you know for certain that you can't deny the truth to her. "We both know that if I weren't sharin' the room with you two, then you'd have bloody bonked each other already!" She laughs towards the end, and you can't help but mirror the gesture.
"Okay, well," you sit up cross-legged on the bed, as if preparing to have a discussion. "What do you really make of all this?"
"I think," Lois leans in, like you're schoolyard friends sharing a secret, "that you've caused my brother to go insane."
"Lois! Be serious," you groaned.
"I am serious!" she insists. "He's never been like this. Around anyone. And I've seen him with plenty of dames before."
"He likes me," you repeat, your tone unsure. "This isn't all just some cat and mouse game?"
"Mhmm," Lois happily asserts.
Tom - 1, You - 1
But where did that damn rascal go?
-------------------
Much later, in the wee hours of the night, Tom wonders what you would think of him in the present moment.
Whether you would care that Suzy Collings from down the road is perched on his lap as they're necking on the couch in the concealed back end of the pub. If you would simply glare at the sight and walk off, or if you would grab Suzy by the collar and drag her away.
Tom thinks of how your lips would feel, as Suzy nips at his neck. He imagines how soft your hips would be, as Suzy grabs his hands and presses them to hers. His mind is occupied with the image of your face and how he adores every feature of it, as Suzy smiles at him with rouge-stained lips.
He thinks of you, when he shouldn't be. It's you every time.
Why does this all feel wrong? Tom realizes that he does not feel the slightest bit aroused even with Suzy clad in only her brassiere on top of him. The sight of your bloody knees when your skirt rides up an inch would do a much better job. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Tom thought he just has a mere infatuation with you, and he has those all the time, doesn't he? And isn't like most dames are shy about their affections towards him either.
He thought he could just go on with usual antics, and shake off this weird feeling - one that he can't quite point his finger on.
But he keeps thinking about you... you... and the two of you are not even together.
I haven't even bloody kissed her yet!
And yet... It's as if I'm already hers.
"Sorry, doll," Tom turns his cheek, avoiding another kiss. "I'm just not in the mood right now."
"Are you kidding me? When are you not in the mood, sugar?" Suzy responds, in a honeyed voice, tracing patterns on Tom's face.
"Now," Tom lifts her from his lap, and props her to the side. He then makes a flippant comment, saying, "You should get dressed. Might catch a cold and all."
"Prick," Suzy calls out as he walks away with no further explanation.
Tom leaves the pub with no clear destination intended, but he only has one thought running through his head.
You.
-------------------
In celebration of Tom Bennett's brief return in World on Fire S2!!! A regrettable 3 minutes of screentime, but even that is a damn miracle knowing how rare it is to be granted a look at our Iceberg 💙
series taglist: @greenowlfactif @schniiipsel @tssf-imagines @aemond-secondson @ahdushenka @bat-revival @mefools @mischiefmanaged71 @svtansdaddyx @chainsawangel @tinykryptonitewerewolf @yentroucnagol @nightdiamond8663 @bookwyrmsblog @rwdkarla @saminalloxo
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silens-oro · 6 months
Text
Sin
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Osferth x f!reader
Masterlist
Synopsis: Some teasing on the road. Word Count: 516 Content Warning: Some talks of humping, but this is pure fluff.
AN: I've been absent from this blog for a very long time and wanted to write a quick drabble to get me back on track with my other open fics. Osferth and his silly lil haircut are a good place to start.
This blog is 18+ only
The Last Kingdom requests are OPEN
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“You’re tellin’ me that our fiercest maiden to grace our presence hasn’t humped you yet?” Osferth’s face turned beet red at Finan’s question. 
“The monk remains pure, Finan.” You called back over your shoulder with a laugh. “I do not wish to be the reason his soul suffers in -what did you call it, Osferth?” You asked with a snap of your fingers, “-Ah! The flames of eternal damnation,” You looked to a blushing Osferth who merely nodded with his head down, trying hard not to laugh lest he be smited by God himself. 
You winked at Osferth when his eyes met yours before you turned forward once more. 
“He has his reasoning,” You shrugged, “and I respect him for it. Not every man has the will to stave off the serpent of temptation, Finan. You least of all.” You teased.
“Eternal damnation?” Finan wrapped his arm around Osferth’s neck and pulled him close to speak into his ear. “You’d be witnessing the gardens of Eden, Baby Monk. The second best wonder next to the Pearly Gates,” He led Osferth’s gaze to your strong backside as you walked ahead of them none the wiser. The men’s eyes met each other once more, identical grins overtaking their features. 
“That is your devil talking into your ear, Osferth,” Uhtred chuckled beside you, joining in. He glanced back. “Do not fall for his tricks.” Osferth signed the cross on his chest but the smile never left his face. 
“I don’t know, Uhtred,” You started, “what is life without a little bit of sin?”
“Boring,” Sihtric called back with a chuckle. You gave him a pointed look in agreeance.
“Exactly!” You exclaimed, walking a few more paces before you turned back to Osferth and continued on, “One of these days I will bewitch you, Osferth. It is not a matter of if…but a matter of when.” The men hooted and hollered at the monk’s expense, but the teasing was all in good fun. You sent him a soft smile and another wink before turning back to keep up with Uhtred.
Osferth’s eyes never left you and neither did the smile on his lips.
“You’re thinkin’ about it too much, Baby Monk.” Finan coached Osferth.
“I know she is just jesting.” He spoke softly with a sigh. “I could never be worthy of her gaze, let alone her touch.” Finan pulled Osferth to a stop. Sihtric gave them both a look as he passed them. “And it would be a sin to act on those urges even if they were reciprocated.”
“The fiercest woman in the entirety of the Heptarchy has her sights set on you, whether you can believe it or not. She’s never given any of us sad sacks the time of day, but she extends herself to you. That’s got to count for something?”
Osferth thought for a moment. He looked to you once more, laughing at something Uhtred said before punching him on the arm.
“She is a sight to behold.” Osferth breathed with a lovesick look overtaking him as he continued on, leaving Finan to watch with his jaw dropped in gleeful shock.
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imcherrycola · 1 year
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Ewan Mitchel: *breaths*
Us:
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megalony · 1 year
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You’re mine, you hear me?
I have finally started to write again, and this is my first Osferth x reader imagine from The Last Kingdom. I hope you will like it, any feedback is greatly appreciated and spurs me to write more.
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Masterlist
Summary: (Y/n), a Princess, is secretly being courted by Osferth, but while being back to Winchester, (Y/n) gets captured and Osferth promised to keep her safe.
Enjoy.
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The road they were taking seemed to be one that had no end and it made it impossible to check how far they had travelled or how far they had left to go. Part of (Y/n) wanted them to finally reach Winchester and find the nearest place of rest, but the other part of her, the more selfish part wanted this trek to continue. The longer they followed this path, the more time she had to spend with Osferth before they were once again separated.
The young Holy man had captured (Y/n)'s heart almost as easy as if he had simply asked for her name. But with (Y/n) being the King's daughter and Osferth being one of Uhtred's warriors, it meant that time wasn't something they got a lot of and being together wasn't something anyone else could know about, at least not for now.
He made (Y/n) want to stay amongst Uhtred's men, he made her want to join them on their journeys to battle and different lands because anything would be better than stuck behind the walls of a fortress with no prospect or opportunity to leave.
A small smile curved at (Y/n)'s lips when she felt Osferth's fingers gently gliding against the back of her hand like petals flowing in the breeze. Their fingers interlocked and (Y/n) brushed her thumb over the back of his digits as they slowed down their pace just a little, keeping a few paces behind the rest of the group but still close enough not to be suspicious.
They couldn't get much time together without everyone else realising there was something between them but they could have little moments like this. The pair chatted as they made their way down the trecked paths each day and it went unnoticed with Finan and Uhtred and Sihtric making their idle gossip amongst one another.
Osferth could feel the way (Y/n) tensed beside him when they started to trample through the leaves, leading off the usual mud path and into the surrounding trees.
"You'll be safe, Princess, do not worry." His words were quiet, almost a silent whisper whistling through the trees but his words caused a tingle to run down the base of (Y/n)'s spine and a fluttering in her heart. It had been a curtesy for him to call her Princess when they first met, a first-name basis wasn't appropriate even though (Y/n) begged for him to use her name. But now the courtesy was a nickname and it was something that shook (Y/n) to her core in the best way possible whenever she heard it.
"I know, I just feel like we should keep going while we still have the light."
For a brief moment, (Y/n) leaned her head on Osferth's shoulder, relishing and sinking into the feeling of being close to him and when his arm moved to swoop around her waist, she could feel her panic subsiding.
Osferth knew that (Y/n) didn't feel safe even when it was dark and they decided to take a rest. It was the thought of being vulnerable that worried her whereas when they were on the move they were always putting a distance between them and any Dane who had decided that she would be a good hostage to gain leverage over her father, the King.
"We will protect you... I will protect you."
(Y/n) closed her eyes, relishing in those words and the feeling of a kiss being pressed to the top of her head before she felt Osferth distance himself a few inches from her so it looked more friendly and platonic between them when they caught up with the rest of them.
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A hum passed through (Y/n)'s lips, her eyes closed to soak in the small streaks of sun cutting through the tops of the trees while her fingers played with a few strands of her hair, forming a small plat. When she eventually opened her eyes, she scanned the branches and twigs at her feet to see which ones to put on the embers of the fire before they were back on their way to Winchester.
But the hum got caught in her throat and her body rooted to the spot she stood on when a sound caught her ears.
Hooves, voices, laughter.
None of which belonged to any of Uhtred's men who were still sat round the fire waking up and getting ready to set off again on their journey. Whoever was on the road was not part of the few men who had sworn to protect (Y/n) and help her get back to Winchester safely. They might even be Danes who would use her as bounty, as a bargaining tool because she doubted any of her father's loyal men would be leaving Winchester at the moment.
Shaking her head to herself, (Y/n) turned on the spot and tried to tread as lightly as her body would allow to make her way back towards the safety within the woods.
Her breath held within her lungs as she slowly but steadily tried to get back to the warriors- to Osferth.
A gasp broke free from (Y/n)'s lips and her body stumbled forward until her knees were scuffing in the leaves and dirt when an arrow swept past her hair and landed in the dirt in front of her. Her fingers curled in the dirt that fisted in her palm and her breaths came out fast and light when she heard voices getting close.
"A woman."
"Out here, alone?"
There had to be more than four of them, (Y/n) was sure but she couldn't make out all their voices or what all of them were saying and trying to whisper but when they started to raise their voices and their loud thudding steps could be heard, she knew she had to run. One word she had heard stood out and it was that one little word that made her blood run cold.
"Dane! Danes are here!" (Y/n) shouted as loud as her voice would allow, praying that her echoes would reach the men in the woods and gain their attention and their help.
The strangers had been close enough to see she was a woman in the woods and they were approaching. Trying to run but go unseen wouldn't go in (Y/n)'s favour when she needed Uhtred and his men to help her. She didn't even have her sword on her person. she was defenceless.
Reaching her arms out, (Y/n) scraped her palms against trees as she ran, propelling herself from them and gaining their energy to push her along.
"Come here, girl!"
(Y/n) felt rough fingers mangling into her hair and yanking on the strands causing her to yelp. It wasn't the touch she wanted or was used to, it wasn't Osferth's fingers slowly and gently raking through her locks, slowly parting them like he was ridding them of knots. It wasn't his gentle fingertips brushing against her scalp in the dead of night when they weren't being watched by others.
The touch made her shriek and stumble backwards before she went on her knees to steady herself. With a straggled breath, (Y/n) let her shaking hand scour through the leaves and soil beneath her before her fingers curled round a sturdy, hefty rock.
Her teeth locked together and her energy pushed to her arm that she swung out at her side before bashing the rock into the man's face. Watching with triumph and fear as he stumbled back from the impact, blood pouring from his eye socket. That gave her enugh time to stumble to her feet and try to keep running away, if they recognised who she was this situation would get worse.
"Finan! Osferth!"
(Y/n) could hear the warriors all shouting but they were just a little too distant for her to work out what they were saying. she couldn't hear Uhtred giving orders, Finan shouting a response or Osferth calling out to her, not even Sehtric grumbling or yelling and grabbing his sword. Their voices were jumbled and their words mushed so she couldn't understand them.
A body collided with her back, a hard, heavy chest forced into her and pushed her to the ground, weighing on top of her like a boulder stopping her from moving or even breathing. His weight was suffocating, as was the stench of him and it made (Y/n) scream with what little air she had left after their tumble to the ground.
She could feel his dirt-ridden nails digging into her skin, his breath hot and sticky on her neck and his chest pushing into her back while he roughly hauled her up to her feet and turned her in the other direction.
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"Where's the Princess?!" Uhtred scanned his eyes around the small camp they had made for the night, his hand on the tip of his sword as he started to hurry. She wasn't hear and there was a ruckus somewhere in these woods that put him on edge.
"She was-"
"Finan! Osferth!"
A shudder ran down the tip of Osferth's spine at the way his name sounded so shrill and horrid in his ears like that. It was the girl he loved screaming his name in the most awful way, he never wanted to hear her say his name like that. His eyes scanned round the camp, his hands curling around a sword left on the floor before his eyes turned wild like a rabid dog about to unleash anger.
"Who was supposed to be watching her?! Someone should have gone with her! Come on." His words had never been so driven and cruel before but he didn't care. Someone should have gone with her wherever she went and no one had leading Osferth to now be leading them running from the camp to find his Princess.
It seemed like the woods were against him, growing ten times more with each step he took trampling through the mud, shit and leaves at his feet. The more he tried to run, the longer the trees stretched out in front of him, trying to hide (Y/n) away from him and keep them apart.
A small slither of relief trickled through Osferth's blood when he could see the road they had been taking finally come within his sight. But along with the road, he could see scuffle marks in the mud, drag marks, leaves scuffed and dents in the ground. There was a rock soaked in blood but that seemed to be from the Dane who was stumbling around a little ways away from them.
(Y/n) let out what scream she could to try and let the warriors who were more like her family, know where she was but her screams and cries were becoming weaker from the way she was being dragged.
They knew she was a Princess, and they didn't seem to want to take her as a hostage in exchange for silver.
"What would your father do if he found out you were taken and living amongst the Danes?"
Raising her chin as high as she could with one man's arm around her neck, (Y/n) tried to look as stern as her grandmother did and conjured up what little courage she had before she spit in the man's face. The liquid trickled down near his ginger beard and cleaned a little dirt from his filthy face but he was less than impressed.
"Hmm, I think an example will be made of you. A heartbroken King is a weak King."
For a few seconds, (Y/n) wasn't sure what he meant by that until more hands were holding onto her and pushing her down to her knees. There were so many things she knew they could do to make an example of her, they could strip her bare and parade her through villages. They could take her dignity and virtue and then parade her and allow others to do the same. They could use her and kill her.
But as (Y/n) tried to control her panicked breathing, she felt a cry bubbling up at the back of her throat when a thick rope was moved in front of her face and then pressed against her delicate neck.
"No! No don't-"
Tears blurred (Y/n)'s vision when the rope pulled her head back despite how hard she tried to pull on it. She could feel one of them knotting it behind her head, they were going to hang her!
Her blurred vision focused on men running in the distance. She could see Osferth leading them her way, they were going to help her.
A frightened, coarse scream left her lips when she was pushed onto her back before the men were suddenly walking away from her in a hurry. Were they going to leave her laid here? Had they been frightened? Uhtred and his men were the stuff of legend, it wouldn't surprise (Y/n) if they left before a bloody battle could happen between them that they wouldn't win.
A frown formed on Osferth's face and his brows narrowed as he watched four men crowding round what he suspected was (Y/n). But they seemed to be moving away from her, surely they weren't just going to leave upon seeing them? Oh God, had they already done something to her? Had they killed her, stabbed her and left her for dead? Had they forced themselves upon her-
No. (Y/n) hadn't been gone long enough for them to be able to do anything of the sort, Osferth was sure of that.
He could hear Finan swearing beside him as he slowed a few paces before Osferth himself paled until he was almost a ghost in front of them.
The four men got back onto their horse's along with the three other men who were sat on their steads, watching things play out. As the tall, bulky figure Osferth presumed was the leader began to head in their direction, such a scream tore through him and made him shiver.
The man had a rope in his hand... that was wrapped around (Y/n)'s throat! (Y/n) snapped her eyes closed but she couldn't help the scream that left her lips when her body was projected backwards, scraping briefly against the gravel and dirt before she felt herself being lifted in the air. The overwhelming, blinding pain in her head and neck made her feel like she was swelling up and her head was about to burst. Her neck was pulsing and throbbing from the rope while the rest of her body was full of air, of drugs rumbling through her system making her feel like she was flying through the air.
Her fingers curled into the rope, nails splitting and scratching into the rough material to try and pull it away from her windpipe but she couldn't, it was holding her up when gravity was trying to pull her back down.
Her eyes were full of tears but she tried to open them when she felt she was no longer flying up towards the sky.
She was a few feet from the floor, her legs kicking and her body swaying as she started to choke on air that she could no longer find. Her blurred eyes made out Uhtred and his men, and she could see a blurring mop of ash blond hair getting closer and closer to her. The shouting and roaring of men around her made it hard to distinguish who was saying what but she didn't care.
She needed to be let down before she died.
Osferth felt tears welling up in his eyes when he watched (Y/n) flail up in the air, her legs kicking and swaying from side to side, her body twisting and writhing, begging to be freed from the rope cutting into her neck.
He didn't feel anything when he dived his sword into the belly of a Dane trying to block his path towards his lover. He didn't care what happened to him, all he knew was that his mind was screaming prayers to God to let him free (Y/n). He couldn't lose her, God couldn't let that happen or Osferth would die too because (Y/n) was his heart and soul.
They had taken down three times the amount of men here with just the four of them before so this was a rather easy task to them but Osferth needed his fellow Warriors to hurry up.
When he was close enough, Osferth dropped his sword at his feet before he hurriedly latched his arms around (Y/n)'s upper thighs, digging his nails into the back of her legs like he was devouring the soft, supple flesh. Once he had a good grip on her, he pushed into her and lifted her weight onto his upper body, holding (Y/n) up higher so the rope wasn't as tight around her neck and she would be able to breathe.
"I got you, I'm here Princess you're okay." Words rambled from his chapped lips before he could even process what he was saying but (Y/n) could hear the strain in his voice.
Her body was being pulled down by gravity, held up by the rope and pushed up higher by Osferth. There were three different forces at work all with different motives and she couldn't help nor fight any of them. Her fingers burned and her skin started to shred against the rope she was pulling from her neck, ragged, blistering breaths left her discoloured lips as she panted for air.
(Y/n) could feel Osferth's head pressing into her lower stomach but it was not like how he had done so many times before. His head wasn't gently nestling into her body or worshipping her body with kisses and his touch, he was pushing into her with a desperate need of love and survival. He started to groan and shout into her skin because he couldn't let her go to cut the rope in case she blacked out or worse, she was hardly breathing at the moment and he was doing his best to keep her high enough to breathe.
The strain was crippling his shoulders and upper back but not as much as the agonising pain it caused his heart.
"Ugrhh... Finan! C-cut the rope!" He all but screamed, trying to look around them but he couldn't move too far because all his strength and attention was on pushing (Y/n) up and resting her on his shoulders and chest. "Noo!"
(Y/n) had never heard Osferth shout in such a brutal, barbaric voice like that before and it rattled her core deep within her. His scream echoed through her stomach and pierced her ears when she saw one of the Dane's try and bash into him, narrowly missing his stomach with the sword he carried.
The blow forced Osferth forward and (Y/n) yelped when her body lurched down again like the hangman had removed the floor and sentenced her down the gallow. Her leg muscles tightened and froze and her stomach lurched into her mouth when she couldn't breathe again. She could feel her head popping, the blood stopping in her deaf ears and her body became hot all over.
Osferth smashed the side of his head into the Dane's nose, cracking it down the middle before he grabbed his sword and screamed, thrusting it up through the man's chin and up behind his nose.
The moment the Dane stumbled back, Osferth turned and grabbed (Y/n) again and hoisted her onto his shoulders, screaming the names of his fellow Warriors to come too his aid.
"Okay, okay she's coming down. Grab her!" Finan ran beside the tree when the last Dane lay slaughtered on the ground. He watched Osferth stand on his tip toes, one arm around (Y/n)'s upper back and the other keeping her legs on his shoulders before Finan hacked at the rope until it frayed in two.
Osferth hadn't quite expected the sudden weight and tumbling when (Y/n)'s body loosened, jolted down onto his shoulders and then fell forward, pushing him onto his back with a thud. His head became buried in her chest in a different way than he was used to and her body engulfed him. He mustered what little strength he had left to curl his hands against her body and twist to his left, groaning as he flipped them over and rolled (Y/n) off him and onto her back so he could help her.
His hands and knees scuffed through the mud and stones as he scrambled to get beside (Y/n). He cupped her face in his hands, pushing Uhtred away when he tried to help.
She was breathing, he could feel her pulse weakly against his fingers and he could see her chest rising and falling but when he removed the rope from her neck, he knew the markings left behind weren't going to heal very nicely.
"Princess? I'm here, you're safe... open those eyes for me."
The moment he saw those beautiful eyes starting to flutter, Osferth pressed his lips against her burning temple, thanking God for sparing her and letting him keep the one closest to his heart. He breathed in her scent, his heaving breaths fanning against her hair that was scattered all around her face but he brushed the strand aside so he could see her better.
He lost himself in the moment.
He just couldn't help himself, he had to scoop her up and kiss her. His hand cradled the back of her neck which he knew would be sore and was lucky not to be broken right now. His fingers smoothed against her skin and the small hairs at the back of her neck while his lips hungrily smothered her own, his tongue exploring her mouth like he was trying to make sure every part of her was still here and not hurt.
It didn't matter that the others had just seen him kiss the Princess they were supposed to be escorting home, not falling for. He couldn't wait around for them all to ask her if she was okay, check her over and fuss and for them to get back on their way before he could hold her close and kiss her and tuck her into his heart.
He wanted her for himself and he didn't care who saw.
(Y/n) let her trembling hand knot in his hair, pulling him closer so she could feel his raging heartbeat pounding through her skin. Her breaths were crackled and broken, she heaved each breath she took but it didn't matter. Her face buried into Osferth's neck, breathing in his scent that made her feel even more lightheaded.
He could feel her struggling to breathe and he moved his other arm to circle around her waist, hoisting her gently onto his lap and leaning her against his chest. He wanted to feel (Y/n)'s weight on him, he wanted that reassurance that all of her was merged with him and that she was okay, he had done what he set out to do.
"Thank you." (Y/n) could barely breathe but the moment she spluttered those words, she couldn't stop herself from starting to cry and haggle for her breath.
"You're mine, you hear me? No one's going to do that to you again, ever. I'm going to keep you safe, Princess."
His lips smothered her cheekbone as he slowly started to rock them both back and forth, clinging to her tighter when she curled into him more. His eyes looked around the other three men watching, seeing Uhtred raise a brow before he looked at the mess around them, Finan scratch the back of his head in shock and Sihtric just tried to smile. They couldn't say anything, at least not yet. It wasn't as if all of them were innocent in things like this.
They just didn't expect it from their baby Monk.
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alyshiba · 1 year
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Lilagon hen zaldrizoti
Part One: Debts and stale oaths.
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Read on Ao3
Summary: AU where Visenya, Rhaenyra's only daughter lives and is born as her eldest child. To all of Westeros she is seen as the only trueborn child of Ser Leanor and Rhaenyra, but in truth her father happens to be Deamon.
Author's note: Hello lovely readers! I have desappeared for a while.. life sometimes gets in the way. I have thought long and hard about this fic, and, as much as I love it, re-reading it made me cringe at some of the hearliest chapters.. so, as I have hinted in the last author's note, I have decided to rewrite everything until chapter 8. There will be some minor changes, for the better. I cannot possibily move on writing this without fixing the beginning, my brain doesn't allow me to.
Since I found transalting in Valyrian a mess (also becouse every translator gives different translation), for longest phrases I'll simply put them between asteriscs . So if you see anything that is being said formatted like this <<*dialogue*>> that's meant to be in high valyrian. So, if you are a new reader and you wish to know what happens next.. both here and on Ao3 you'll find all of the 12 chapters I've written so far. Here on Tumblr, once I'll have the rewritten chapter ready I'll delete the old one and post the new, both in the master list and in the index at the beginning of each part. On Ao3 each chapter will stay up until I've completely rewritten everything that needs to. If you have any suggestions, please feel free to comment them down below. I'd love to hear them and better my work!
Prequel | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11
&lt;<Go home, pup, and tell the bitch your mother that the Lord of Storm's End is not a dog that she can whistle up at need to set against her foes>> Said Borros Baratheon with a smug look on his face. 
The round hall of Storm’s End was packed with people, how many it was impossible to say. The gargantuan hall was too big and dimly lit to possibly ever count every single present. Worse still, all the nooks, pillars and columns offered the perfect hiding spot for all of those who were curious to just get a glimpse of the two Targaryens present.
The entire room fell silent for a long moment, as if holding its breath. The only sounds that could be heard were those of the raging storm outside. 
Everyone was too eager to hear how the young prince would respond to such insult thrown at his mother.
That, perhaps, was why no one paid any attention to the angry footsteps that were fast approaching.
Lucerys was about to open his mouth and speak, slightly trembling between the imposing figures of the Lord of Storm’s End and the uncle he didn’t expect to find there, but he was cut off before he could make any sound by a stronger, angrier, voice. &lt;<Then all of Westeros will know that Borros Baratheon, the Lord of Storm’s End, is an oath breaker and a man without honor>>.
She could see Borros stiffening in his seat, Luke’s back straightened recognizing his eldest sister’s voice. The young prince was bracing for impact: either her anger was directed at him, for the failure of that diplomatic mission, or at the Lord of Storm’s End. His head  shooting in her direction, a wave of dark curly hair falling in front of his eyes wide opened in shock. She passed him, and just quickly, taking care that no one saw, squeezed his hand in reassurance. 
Immediately she took notice of Aemond, almost hidden in the dark side of the room, not far from the stone throne at the center. She forced herself not to stare, nor think, at the silver-haired prince, and locked her gaze on the high lord in front of her, but she did not give him her entire focus. Never, that she left for Aemond alone.
A young page, drenched from head to toe, came running, halting just a few steps in front of her. He bent over for a moment with his hand on his knees catching his breath. It was a gesture of physical need, rather than a curtsy towards his liege, he was supposed to announce her presence. &lt;<The princess Visenya, of the houses Targaryen and Velaryon, my lord>> He said, between heavy breaths, <&lt;my prince>> he added, when he noticed Aemond staring in their direction. The young man was immediately dismissed with a wave of Borros’ hand, not to be seen again.
Visenya lifted her chin, and  took note of her prey: the man on the high seat. Borros was a middle aged man, heavier in shape, but still the hint of the warrior could be seen hidden under the heavy furs. Not that she really thought the man did any sort of physical fighting in the past years. His body was tense, like a rope.  He was clutching the throne’s handle so hard his knuckles became white, and she imagined the tips of his fingers would soon bleed, either from broken nails or from the scratch of skin on the rough stone. He was a proud man, like the crowned stag flappin on the banner atop his head. And the insult she threw at him had rendered him so enraged he could hardly think straight. Just as she had wanted him.
&lt;<And worse still>> She continued, moving two steps closer to the object of her own anger, <<may I remind you that we are kin by blood? My grandmother, the princess Rhaenys is your cousin, no?>> Visenya felt now how Borros was already tasting the bitter accusation on the tip of his tongue. No one, in the huge round hall of Storm’s End had yet dared make a sound, <<what would her uncle, the late Lord Boremund think, of his son waging war on his own flesh and blood?>> His face was slowly, but surely, turning all shades of red by now, <<is that what you wish? To forever brand your house as Kinslayers? Men without honor? Is that what the men of the Stormlands wish to become?>>
Visenya had given up on winning House Baratheon over to their side the moment she landed in the yard. Parts of her had known ever since her mother decided to send Luke, just like her father had known. Still Rhaenyra was hopeful, and naive, that this man would abide by the vows of his father.
Yet even if the high lord was a better man, there was something that they could just not grant him: a marriage. The princess allowed her gaze to wander the room for a moment, three girls stood on one side of Borros, his daughters. One behind Aemond. Who wouldn’t wish for their blood to mix in the royal family?
Borros had no love for Rhaenyra, and had taken his decision long before even Luke stepped foot in these halls, but, if she played her game the right way, she could persuade his lords to mutiny. And now she was indeed winning. 
She could see, clear as day, the seed of doubt in the eyes of the lords around Borros, the fear, not for her, or for her parents, not yet, but the fear for what the gods might bring them should they follow that man into war. That was her only chance.
&lt;<Do not mistake the Queen’s offer for weakness, my Lord>> Visenya willed her voice to become gentler, softer, more diplomatic, <<my mother, unlike the Hightowers,>> and yourself, was what she didn’t say, <<does not wish to plunge the realm into war, or else I wouldn’t be here to talk>> she moved her gaze towards her uncle then, the only true danger in that room, or outside of it, <<but if her hand is forced, then I will have no other choice than to fly Balerion the dread to war once more.>> Aemond hadn’t moved a step from his position. He was standing at ease, his hands locked behind his back, a sardonic smile gracing his features, as if he was enjoying the scene.
Everyone else straightened at her words. 
It was now widely accepted that at least one battle was going to be fought over Viserys’s succession. Or else the negotiation would take place among the royal family, yet no one had dared voice what, deep down, they feared: a Targaryen civil war would never be fought on land with an army. It would be fought on dragonback. And everything else might as well burn down by the time they were finished.
&lt;<My sweet niece>> Aemond purred. His voice sent a chill down her spine, Visenya wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating Aemon’s abilities only because of the lack of one eye. She remembered seeing him best Ser Criston Cole with ease in the training yard not even a moon ago. So her hand, as useless as a gesture it was, went instinctively on the hilt of the dagger her father had given her upon parting from Dragonstone. He was, after all, the only reason she was in Storm’s End to begin with. Upon flying home, she had felt Balerion sensing the presence of Vhagar. And in that specific moment she realized she had no other choice: there wasn’t a scenario where poor Luke was going to make it back to Dragonstone unharmed, not if Aemond were in sight. Not after what had been done to her uncle, which still angered him to no end, apparently.
&lt;<I fear your time here is wasted. Lord Baratheon has already declared his support for Aegon, and surely, he cannot take back his world>> She looked between her uncle and the man still mute on the throne, whose muscles were still all contracted in rage. Aemond’s offer had been indeed an offer of marriage, as she had thought. 
Visenya decided to take in his figure for a moment: he was tall, lean, and his leather clothes -riding gear, perhaps- were clean and dry, where hers were drenched by the storm outside, and her boots were covered in the mud that now flooded the yard. Her hair were equally as wet, and fell in loose waves attached to her face, neck and leathers, his looked like a straight soft curtain of silver silk. Aemond had been here for at least a day. A day he could have used to devise whatever plan to ensure his brother’s ass would sit on the throne at least a while longer. Because it was obvious to anyone that messengers would go on about every corner of the realm to ensure the support of the major houses.
She felt the grip of anxiety taking a hold of her stomach: what if he had anticipated them being here? After all, when not on Balerion’s back she wasn’t that big of a threat, definitely not to a warrior with his skills.
&lt;<He offered his hand in marriage to the eldest daughter of Borros>> Whispered Luke in confirmation. His tone still betrayed his fear, and broke her attention by the dark pit that her mind had become. She willed herself not to be hostage of her fears <&lt;worry not>> she whispered back, looking him in the eyes, <&lt;you should leave>> she said. Luke didn’t listen. 
Aemond’s hatred for her brothers was well known, especially for Luke, the one responsible for his, probably still very painful, injury. She noticed the way he eyes Lucerys every now and then, how he was completely trained on her brother’s every move, like a predator waiting to strike. 
&lt;<Oh>> She said, willing all of her nerves to calm down. Visenya lifted her upper lip, in a childish expression, <<then I shall order Balerion to burn the keep to the ground, and end this treason before it starts>> Aemond smirked, it was clear that he did not believe that she was actually thinking about it. Visenya was considering it as an option though. Yes, Rhaenyra wouldn’t be happy, on the contrary, she would be furious if she did, in fact, start this war. Yet Visenya couldn’t help but remembering her father’s words “you cannot allow this treachery to take root” Daemon had angrily said in the privacy of their chambers, is anger amplified ten folds  after the news of the stillbirth, “they have murdered Viserys, our daughter, any faithful Lord we had in the capital. They had signed their own death sentence. Or ours, if we do not act”. In stark contrast with his wife, Daemon would rejoice greatly if his beloved daughter started a war. And, at times, she felt much more like her father’s child rather than her mother’s.
She understood both sides though: Daemon was like the dragon, fiery, proud and untamable. Rahenyra was like that too, but she was a woman: considered unfit to rule only for the missing cock between her legs, she had grown to be wiser, calmer, prone to choose diplomacy over fire and blood. For she couldn’t afford becoming also the one who started this war, even though right now, battle seemed inevitable, Visenya could hear it, what everyone would start to whisper then Maegor the cruel come again, Maegor with tits. Yet she could see the truth in Daemon’s words, if left unchecked the Hightowers will eventually eat away any support her mother has now. Seven hells, they were already doing that. &lt;<Princess Visenya..>> Spoke Borros at last, uncertain of his own words.
The threat of Balerion seemed to have awakened him from his rage. He looked calmer now, paler. All redness faded from his face, his hands were not clutching the throne with the same strength, and, as she had imagined, she could see dried blood on the tips of fingers, where his nails had broken. He was old enough to have lived in the last year of the Old King’s reign, old enough to be at the great council in Harrenhall. Meaning that he had seen first hand the blasted ruin Balerion had made of the greatest keep that ever existed in Westeros. He saw what her dragon was capable of doing.
&lt;<I must assume that my uncle has promised you a wedding>> She said, playing ignorant. The high lord slowly nodded, turning his head towards his daughter. It was confirmation enough. She too looked again in that direction, only to find Aemond’s surprised expression. He knew what she was about to say, he probably thought that she would not actually go through with it.
&lt;<Yet he is not free to offer his hand in marriage>> She said with gritted teeth. Visenya reasoned that she could, indeed, walk out of the Round Halls, climb atop Balerion and order him to burn the keep to the ground. It was what Daemon would do. Rhaenyra, however, would try to be diplomatic. In one swift stroke Visenya could avoid the war for a while longer, in either case she would take the second largest dragon in the world out of the picture. But there could be a twisted, dark pleasure in turning Aemond against his family, just like Alicent and Otto had done.
&lt;<What do you mean?>> interrupted Borros, with an irritated tone. His daughter, Cassandra, if she recalled correctly, instinctively moved closer to him.
&lt;<In his wisdom, and with the hope it would bring unity back to our house, the late King Viserys, in his very last act as King, declared my betrothal to Aemond. His eldest unwed son, to me, the lawful heir to my mother’s throne>> The stormlord pursed his lip, he had been used and played, in the end, truly like a dog that had been commanded at need, yet not by Rhaenyra, but by the Greens. His pride wouldn’t allow him to let this go easily, or, at least she hoped so, <<does she speak the truth?>> he asked Aemond, rage once again gracing his features. Borros instinctively gripped the handles of the throne again, only to let go almost immediately. Probably because of the stinging pain of broker nails and ruined fingertips.
Visenya wasn’t happy to bring this up. In truth, amidst the sorrow for the loss of a grandsire, and the rage for the ease with which Otto and Alicent Hightower had usurped the throne, she had been relieved the day her grandmother had brought news from King’s Landing, for it meant that her betrothal to Aemond had no more reasons to be.
Yet now it seemed the only reasonable thing that would end this mess without bloodshed. She hoped that, at least, between a devastating war fought with dragons, rather than armies, and the prospect of Aemond eventually ruling the kingdoms by her side, the Hightowers would choose the latter. Even though she knew that a similar match had been bitterly refused by the queen dowager once.
She hoped that this one time she chose to be like her mother, the aftermath wouldn’t come to bite in the arse later.
&lt;<We do not need your armies, Lord Borros, for I’m sure you have been thought what had happen the last time Balerion had been sent to war against other dragons>> She looked at Aemond while speaking, the one she would be sent to kill should war break out, or the husband she would have to wed, <<we came to offer you peace, under the one true Queen of Westeros>>.
There was a long pause before anyone spoke out loud, many lords, or advisors, she didn’t care to know, spoke in hushed tones to Lord Baratheon, likely weighing their options. At last a guard came, from outside, given the pools of rainwater he left at every step, surely to confirm the presence of her dark monster within the castle walls. As if she could have appeared out of nowhere in any other way.
&lt;<Out, all of you>> Screamed at last the Stormlord, <<as I already said, the Stormlanders are not dogs to be whistled up at need>> Visenya guessed that this was the best result she would ask for. Borros would’n support Rhaenyra, but he wouldn’t either give his support to Aegon.
Once more she pushed Luke back, with more urgency now. 
As long as they were under Baratheon's roof, she knew Aemond couldn’t really harm him, or at least she hoped so. But once they were out it was another story entirely. Arrax, after all, could easily fit in either Balerion or Vhagar’s mouths.
Finally Lucerys understood the message, and turned on his heels, followed suit by some of the guards that were stationed at their side. He quietly bowed to Borros, a gesture of respect that had Visenya raise a brow, and started to walk outside.
&lt;&lt;Wait>> Called the velvet voice of Aemond. It sent a cold chill down her spine, <<my Lord Strong>> -don’t turn- Visenya angrily thought, -keep walking- yet of course her brother had to stop and turn her head.
&lt;<Did you two really think that you fly about the realm, trying to steal my brother’s throne without consequences?>> Visenya’s hand gripped the dagger she had hidden, praying that dark, hateful Aemond wouldn’t consider harming a woman. Not that she was afraid of her life, she had quit feeling any sense of self preservation the night she had claimed Balerion, no, she just knew that if Aemond went for Luke and ignored her, she could have an opening to push her blade right in his black heart.
&lt;<Is it truly stealing though, when you are merely taking back what is yours by right?>> She said, stepping in the middle of the fight against all common sense. It took one look towards her brother to realize how terrified he was of Aemond. And that sent her mind spiraling again: if she wasn’t fast enough? <<Do you think yourself so inadequate, incapable, of ruling to spit like that on the prospect of sitting the Iron Throne by my side?>> She saw then the anger in his one eye, Visenya had definitely hit a sore spot. 
In one swift, graceful movement Aemond stepped closer to hte siblings, grabbed his own dagger and removed his eyepatch. Revealing his ruined eye. The scar, still looking red and fresh despite the years passed, covered half of his handsome face, the eyelids of his missing eye had been cut open, she noted, and instead of an eyeball, or a dark hole, a glowing sapphire was nestled in his orb.
She would have considered it bald, even beautiful, were it not for the murderous gaze on the remaining eye.
What possessed her to move she didn’t know, Visenya heard Luke stating that &lt;<they came as messengers, not warriors>>, and for as much as she loved her brother, it sounded too like a pathetic and fearful attempt at a quick escape. So maybe she acted because, despite the fact that Luke was trained with the sword and she wasn’t, she felt like he wouldn’t be able to cause harm to anyone. She quickly found herself inches from Aemond’s face. Her dagger pressed on the soft skin of his cheekbone, right under his good eye. Visenya was sure that, to protect her loved ones, she could turn into a cold killer. She was, after all, Daemon’s daughter.
Visenya willed herself to set her gaze on Aemond’s remaining eye, and banned all fears and all sense of doubts from her mind, &lt;<I may have sworn not to fight>> she whispered, which was a lie. She had sworn to behave, her mother not thinking she could ever pick up a blade and use it. How naive of her. <<But I will defend myself, and my brother>> her tone was cold and angry, and her words were underlined by the added pressure she put on the blade. Aemond didn’t move, his breath appeared calm, and even, yet he didn’t dare move a muscle. Not when she threatened to blind him forever, <<Balerion made no such promises, and if my wellbeing is threatened…>> she had no need to complete the sentence. For how terrifying and huge Vhagar was, the Black Dread was ten fold. And he craved the fight. Everyone knew that.
The words, or her tone, she couldn’t say, awakened her uncle from his trance. Visenya registered the hushed footsteps of Luke, taking the bait and leaving while Aemond was distracted, just like she had told him to. &lt;<Seems like your strong brother doesn’t share your courage, princess>> Aemond mocked when he noticed his missing nephew. They were so close now that she could feel his breath caressing her skin. He slowly allowed his hand to fall, and sheathed his dagger with a blatant gesture, to be sure that she could see it. After a long moment she decided to imitate him, and she didn’t miss the relieved huff that escaped Aemond’s lips. <<It is good to see that you can be made to see reason, uncle>> Visenya said not breaking the stare, and not moving a muscle, <<it would be a great inconvenience for me having to carry you around completely blind, should we truly become husband and wife>> he smiled, that sardonic, infuriating smile that she couldn’t understand the meaning of, he looked both furious and turned on. Visenya couldn’t decide what scared her the most.
&lt;<I am sure>> He said, his voice like velvet, never betraying any emotions, <<your offer comes with terms, niece>> Visenya took a moment to think. She hadn’t thought this through when she spoke the words in front of Borros Baratheon, she hadn’t thought Aemond might actually consider the scenario, and that is why he asked. Or maybe, he liked the idea of himself sitting on the Iron Throne in place of the brother she knew relentlessly bullied him in their youth, alongside her own brothers. Or maybe he understood that he wouldn’t win the Stormlands today, and was merely buying time.
&lt;<Your brother will bend the knee to the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms>> Visenya said in her most stern and cold tone, <<my mother is willing to welcome back her siblings, and Helaena’s children, back into her heart, for she is sure>> she decided to put emphasis into the words that Visenya heard her mother speak to the messenger she had sent to King’s Landing, <<that you have been misguided by the greed of one man. Any lord and knight who will swear fealty to their Queen will be pardoned. Our marriage will seal the deal, and in time, when I will ascend the throne, we shall rule together, like the Old king and his good Queen Alisanne>> She thought her demands would be met with a grin, or laughter. Either way she expected Aemond to dismiss them, just like Otto Hightower had dismissed any of her mother's terms on the bridge of Dragonstone.
Yet Aemond seemed to be considering it, &lt;<I swear that there shall not be any treachery, on my own blood, or on any gods you choose to believe in>> it felt like the right thing to say. She couldn't know whether her uncle was a pious man, but her mother obviously was, considering how she had redecorated the Red Keep, so maybe swearing her intentions to their gods they so much loved might make the offer a little more considerable. Still, Visenya made a mental note that all of those hideous godly decorations would be the first things to disappear once they took back her mother’s throne.
&lt;<I shall bring your terms to the king>> Visenya rolled her eyes, and decided to switch to High Valiryan so that they were the only ones who would understand, was Aemond truly so thick? What game was he playing? <<*I remember the way he treated you, and I’m sure you do as well. Do you really think he would hand you over the throne?*>> Aemond opened and closed his mouth. He didn’t know how to respond, or rather, he did but he didn’t wish to speak the words, no to her of all people. Her uncle’s silence showed that this was a weak spot, and finding that out emboldened her. so Visenya stepped even closer to him, and rested her hand on his muscular bicep, <<*It is us that are offering you absolute power, not your brother, not your grandsire, not you mother. Rhaenyra is, and I. Remember that when your family will refuse the terms we offered and chose war and death rather than seeing the more capable brother on the Iron Throne*>> Visenya knew she had hit a bare nerve when she noticed how strongly he was biting his lower lip. Aemond did want the throne, now she could see it, in the way the light in his eye changed, and in the way he was forcing himself not to speak. He thought himself better than Aegon, probably better than Rhaenyra too. He thought himself Jahaerys born again, probably. <<*That is why it is to you, that I was instructed to offer our terms, and no one else*>> A lie. But she couldn’t help herself from trying, not when Visenya knew he was truly beginning to consider the terms. She couldn’t let the opportunity slip.
Visenya at last removed her hand from his harm and offered it to him, he immediately took it  and kissed her knuckles. &lt;<Do not make me wait long for a response. Uncle>> She purred. He nodded, a quick, elegant gesture, and proceeded to leave the round hall of Storm’s End. When Aemond was far away enough, she let out the big breath she had held up until now. Apparently, they all survived.
The rain outside was pouring so strongly it was hard so anything past one’s nose, and the winds were so strong that on two occasions, on the short trek where her dragon was waiting, she thought it would send her tumbling on the muddy ground. 
How people chose to willingly live in such a place, was beyond her comprehension.
When she made it to where Balerion was waiting, a short walk that took twice, if not trice, as much time as it should have, she found the now familiar tall figure of Aemond standing still before him. She was about to shoot a snarky remark at him, when she realized the reason why he stood where he stood.
Balerion was blocking his way to Vhagar.
She was familiar with the old she-dragon: it had been her aunt’s for a long time. She remembered admiring them fly together in the skies above Dragonstone and Driftmark, she remembered standing nose up, somewhere on one of the two islands, and remaining absolutely speechless at how big Vhagar was, how huge, compared to all of the other dragons she had known.
Now, even in her vast, scary form, she looked almost tiny, in comparison to her black monster.
He was doing that on purpose, she could sense it. Balerion was not scared of Vhagar. In truth, he was not scared of anything, and how could he, when he was the largest living creature in the world? He could kill Aemond right then and there, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Even Vhagar would only be able to stand and watch. From the low rumbling that was coming from the she-dragon it was evident that she understood this as well, and she hated it.
&lt;<Tell you dragon to move, princess>> Said Aemond, when she got close enough for him to sense her presence.
She could let him do it, Visenya realized, she could let Balerion kill Aemond, and nothing would happen. The dragon was known for acting out of his own accord, no one has been able to bend his will ever since the death of the conqueror. That’s why it has been forbidden to try and bond to him ever since the death of his last rider, princess Aerea. So, no one would blame her if Balerion killed Aemond, who could testify that she gave the order?
&lt;<He rarely does what’s ordered to him>> She responded, still uncertain, <<unless i order him to kill. Then he grows obedient like a hound all of a sudden>> Visenya had never killed someone who had a name. She had been to stepstones recently, with her father and Lord Corlys, to crush the triarchy for the second, and hopefully final, time. She couldn’t avoid it, being the rider of the largest dragon in the world. Yet the men she had ordered to kill were nothing more than nameless ants, they were not her uncle, whom for good or worse she had known her whole life.
She couldn’t bring herself to do it. Balerion huffed, bored. Visenya decided to turn once last time towards her uncle, right before starting to climb atop Balerion, &lt;<the next time I see you, uncle, could be on our wedding day. Or on a battlefield. Either way, good luck on what’s to come>>.
Taglist: @hawsx3, @readsalot73 @tempt-ress @but-i-write-so-i-must-count @arignipanja574 @scaraxmouche @softyelfdragon @avidreader73 @whore-of-many-hot-men @heavenly1927 If you wish to be added to the taglist, and notified as soon as I post any update, please comment!
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cosmoeticss · 9 months
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Fanning the Flames | Masterlist
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PAIRING: Bassist!Aemond x Singer!Fem!Reader (modern au)
CHAPTERS: ?/10 COMING SOON
WARNINGS: 18+ minors DNI. This story will contain mature sexual content and themes such as drug and alcohol abuse.
SYNOPSIS: After gaining traction on social media, your up and coming band Zaldrizes embarks on their first ever Westerosi tour. Led by your passion and musical talent, your dreams of success intertwine with the simmering tensions that arise from your enigmatic bassist, Aemond Targaryen. Amidst the pressure to maintain the band’s rising momentum, you must navigate the complexities of your newfound fame, the challenges of touring, and unexpected desires.
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THE DANCE OF DRAGONS WESTEROSI TOUR
PROLOGUE WINTERFELL coming soon THE EYRIE CASTERLY ROCK HARRENHALL PYKE HIGHGARDEN STORMS END SUNSPEAR DRAGONSTONE KINGSLANDING
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ZALDRIZES
READER on VOCALS
DAERON TARGARYEN on LEAD GUITAR
HELAENA TARGARYEN on KEYS/BACKING VOCALS
AEMOND TARGARYEN on BASS GUITAR
BAELA TARGARYEN on DRUMS
A/N: HANG ON GUYS IM COOKING
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dragons-and-handcuffs · 4 months
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Ewan Mitchell x actress/singer!reader
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Imagine Ewan Mitchell and actress/singer!reader. Ewan has always been a fan of your music and when he found out that you have been cast as his niece, his love interest, his wife, he felt kind of nervous. He knew HOTD would not be complete without your character but he never thought his celebrity crush would play the role.
Imagine when you two first met he was confident but also trying very hard to cover his shyness even though you are a little younger than him. He is the perfect gentleman and a very professional actor, but what he thought was just a fan crush soon started to develop into something very real.
He kept telling himself that it's just a crush and would soon fade but he was very wrong. Your sweetness, your kindness, your smile, even your laughter pulled the strings to his heart. You would be lying if you said that you don't feel a certain way towards him but you are so sure that he would never go for something more than a friendship, especially since he is also so professional and something he even avoids you. Maybe it's because he gets tired of your presence since you two already have to spend so much time together filming. Oh, how wrong you were!!
Ewan is a method actor who prefers to stay in character even during the breaks, and you are someone who just sings or hums, socializes and have fun with the other castmates during breaks. Imagine Ewan falling more in love even when he is in character. Imagine the jealousy he feels when he sees you being close to everyone else. You respect Ewan and his method of working so you thought it would be best not to disturb him much, but he actually wishes you would come to him, disturb him, laugh with him.
Imagine feeling a scene so intense and emotional that it made half of the people in the room cry. A scene where Aemond finally confesses his love to your character as a last resort to stop you from marrying someone else. It's raining heavily, both completely in the zone and into your respective character. Both you and Ewan are in an extreme emotional zone as you act out the scenes.
Imagine you two actually confessing your feelings for each other in the scene and that's what made the entire thing so real. The kiss was so real and passionate but also unscripted, which played out perfectly for the scene. You two both felt your actual emotions during the kiss.
You were in each other's arms even after the director cut the cameras and complicated you both heavily. Both of you only snapped away when everyone started clapping. You didn't even realize when the fake rain stopped, how could you when you were drowning in his perfect eye.
You immediately stepped away and ran to your trailer to dry off, not giving a second glance at Ewan. Both your heart beating faster and for each other.
The feelings are so strong but the problem is you think he doesn't want you and he thinks you deserve someone much better.
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aemondwhoresworld · 4 months
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RHAE rec. (still UPDATING)
( a place where i will recommend all of my favorite HOTD work )
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𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄. 𝐀𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍
≡ i read mostly angst stuff but ofc with happy ending also some don’t .
≡ pairing aemond targaryen x reader
≡ there are some fic that i listed in a one-shot list might be a 2 shots or more but i’m not sure if the author will update more to that fic so if there is another part to it, i’ll surely update. thank you!
≡ i don’t own any of these work, this is just a recommendation list. also thank you to all the writers.
≡ please be free to recommend more fic if you have any other angsty, fluff, etc fic
𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐀𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐒 𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐍. rec
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⌗ one-shot
SALT AND ASH — by @clints-lucky-arrow
THE DEATH OF A LIFE — by @fan-goddess
SCAR — by @runningmunson
DRAGONS, KNIGHTS AND PRINCESSES
BALANCE THE SCALES — by @ichorai
WON’T LET GO — by @vhagarlovebot
BEWITCHED — by @achaoticeternal
IN A WEEK — by @oneeyedvisenya
MY DRAGON — by @sapphire-writes
A FATHER’S LOVE — by @drakoneve
HOW LONG CAN WE BE A SAD SONG — by @namelesslosers
HIS LADY WIFE — by @aemondsladywife
ELECTRIC TOUCH — by @achaoticeternal
AEMOND’S CROWN JEWEL — by @dreamfyrie
BASTARD — by @maidragoste
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⌗ multi-part
THE OTHER WOMEN — by @bichachonacho
part 01. the other women
part 02. retribution
part 03. repentance
part 04. appatent
part 05. enamoured
part 06. atonement
alt ending. night changes
OF FLOWERS & DRAGON — by @aemonds-sapphire
MOONBLOOM (can be read as part 2)
MY FIERCE LADY — by @runningmunson
part 01 ; part 02
WHISPERS UNSAID — by @theold-ultraviolence
part 01 ; part 02
WORK FOR IT — by @lovelykhaleesiii
part 01 ; part 02
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⌗ modern!aemond
BLACK CHRISTMAS — by @valeskafics
A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE
BE QUIET — by @youraverageaemondsimp
ALL THAT I’M LIVING FOR — by @valyrianglass
TIL DEATH DO US PART — by @asumofwords
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⌗ headcanon
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fan-goddess · 16 days
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Chapter Five: Loving your husband
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Catch up on the fic here!
Chapter Summary: You’ve arrived at your new home, and Abraham it seems has already decided on how he wants the night to go. But will your anxieties stray him away from his original plan?
Authors Note: Thank you to everyone who’s been on this Abraham journey with me! If not for your support I wouldn’t have had the motivation to finish this! So thank you again my loves ♥️♥️♥️♥️
Taglist: @valeskafics, @omgbrcat @humanpurposes, @watercolorskyy, @blue-serendipity @anjelicawrites @lexwolfhale @helaenaluvr @scarletbedlam @tssf-imagines @vhagar-balerion-meraxes @arcielee @targaryenbarbie @ilikechocolatemilkh @tumblin-theworldaway @skintoskinsstuff
Warnings: Nicknames, dirty talk, p in v sex, teasing, kissing, soft at fuck, teeth rotting, angst, f oral, consent checks, praise kink, breeding kink, probably an incorrect description of a virgin losing there virginity, (if I miss any let me know!)
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“I think, if it’s alright with you little, we continue what you left me with at the stables…”
You lean into his touch eagerly, and yet you cannot deny the familiar mix of anxiety and sadness that wallows in your stomach at his words alone. Guilt rising steadily up your throat and bubbling within your whole body.
It’s so obvious though that Abraham can clearly see it in your eyes alone. To him, they appear glaze over in thought so deep that it’s only when his thumb softly grazes your bottom lip, do you snap out of your trance.
“What’s wrong?” He asks, an unfamiliar look of sincerity on his face.
“It’s nothing…” You murmur, but still, Abraham appears unconvinced. Especially with how he grips your chin firmly to force you to look at him whilst your mouth opens in a silent gasp.
“No no no, none of that little one. Tell me what’s wrong, or I’ll have to make sure I punish it out of you. And I don’t think I want to be doing that to you on our wedding night.” His whole body practically oozes with confidence as his words are purred with such dominance, that at that moment, you can’t help but deny the feelings his words seem to have ignited within you. You can’t help but think about how his words haven’t made you want to withhold your answer for just a little while longer, just so you can witness what this so called punishment would exactly entail. Still though, the underlying guilt that had clawed its way from your throat earlier wins your minds inner tennis match, so even if you didn’t want to say it, the words still can’t seem to stop themselves from spilling out of you quickly like water from a broken pipe.
“I’m a coward…” You mumble, eyes looking as far down they can while your hands clasp onto Abrahams wedding jacket that you’re surprised he hasn’t taken off yet, given the fact you’d assume he’d get uncomfortable being in such fancy clothes for such a long time. “I couldn’t admit to my feelings to you in the stables, and I ran from you when I shouldn’t have. I’m so sorry Abraham…”
An uncomfortable silence rings through the air, only broken by the deep breathes coming from yours and Abrahams chests. Yet you can’t help but lightly gasp at the sudden feeling of Abraham’s hand tightly clasping your body and his lips leaving a firm kiss on your forehead.
“Don’t you dare be sorry little one,” He whispers deep into your skin, and you can feel the emotional undertones underneath his words as they effectively manage to pour themselves over you. “I understood. I was… inconsiderate when I told you about how I felt about you. I didn’t think about your own feelings. How my words would affect that pretty little head of yours like it did. I’m sorry for being a massive fucking idiot who only thought about themself.”
Abrahams silent as he allows you to continue to hold him and think. That is however, before you pull him down into a deep kiss, and somehow in his moment of shock, manage to push him against the nearest wall and hold him there without a single murmur of a fuss.
“We’re both stupid…” You murmur against his lips, his own mouth though eager and embarrassingly enough really fucking desperate for a taste you, as he tries to reclaim his earlier dominance. Even though he can’t deny how much your uncharacteristic act of confidence has affected him. Especially with how he finds himself unable to ignore the harsh ache radiating from his cock that you gave him.
He tries to ignore it though to the best of his ability by making sure he kisses you back fiercely. His tongue sneaking itself into your mouth to caress your own in a wet and hot kiss, so that by the end of it, the two of you are red cheeked and breathless. Practically panting into each other’s mouths as you admire each other’s broken down selves.
“So fucking beautiful…” He murmurs, giving you one last but deep kiss on your lips, before he all of a sudden grabs you while you shriek in surprise. You cannot see where the two of you are heading, but you can’t deny the fact thatyou very much hope he’s leading you to where lies his -no, the both of yours’- bedroom.
You give the room a once over as Abraham places you surprisingly gently on the bed, and you can’t help but feel genuinely surprised by what you see. For one, it’s actually clean. The bed you could tell looked pre-made before he’d put you down, and there were no dirty clothes flung about the room like most other boys rooms seemed to have. If you could you’d have observed longer, but Abraham makes sure to quickly drag you from your thoughts once more as he dots wet kisses along the curve of your neck, most likely leaving marks with how fiercely he’s currently claiming you.
He doesn’t even stop his assault on you though as he murmurs another a question to you, but that doesn’t mean you don’t hear it. If anything, you can’t help but think it’s the clearest thing he’s said to you all night, and it leaves your lower half tingling in anticipation. “Can I undress you?” He’d murmured, stopping only to look at you with those intense blue eyes of his that leave you utterly desperate for more.
You nod, too worried that you’d let something unsavoury slip if you dared opened your mouth. But Abraham it appears is less than pleased at your lack of an answer, as in retaliation he lightly bites at your collarbone, drawing a sound from your lips you didn’t even realise at first you’d made.
“I won’t accept that answer little one. Answer me. Speak.”
“Y-yes you can undress me husband…” You say, and from his reaction, it was exactly what he wanted to hear. He pulls you up slightly so he could reach the back of your dress where all the complicated buttons for your dress lay to be conquered, and by the way Abrahams face was slowly turning red and his brows were furrowing, he was definitely not having a very successful time conquering. You can’t help but giggle at how the situation has turned, but his fierce stare turns to you suddenly, and the laughter quickly dies on your tongue.
“Oh you think this is funny do you?” He growls. His fingers once softly touching your back now gripping the delicate fabric with no thought to your possibly discomfort, which to be honest was anything but that. “I’m trying to be good… so don’t you go about tempting me to just rip this thing off and take you where you lay. You don’t deserve that treatment… not this early at least…”
You whimper at his words, and yet the imagery of what he could do to you hits you hard and fast. While you were innocent in body, you were certainly not exactly innocent in mind. Flashbacks of a younger you gasping and giggling with a hand over your mouth at the lewd tales of what men and women do, hidden within the back shelf books of the adult section.
“Are you listening to me doll?” Abraham murmurs, biting slightly on the reachable skin of your chest to draw you from your thoughts once more. It seemed your brain was all over the place and unable to stay in the moment you most wanted to be, much to your own annoyance. “I can’t be good for you if you can’t even bloody listen to me.”
“I’m sorry…” You whisper, eyes closed as you relish in his almost sinful feeling touches. “I’ll be good, I swear!” You shuffle yourself away from him slightly and carefully manage to unbutton the mass of buttons on your back, trying hard not to giggle at Abraham face while he looks at you in disbelief when you manage to take the white dress off your body and place it carefully on a random chair within a few minutes. “See!”
You move your hands in a mock sort of demonstration, and yet Abrahams eyes are not on them. They’re very clearly on your breasts, that are currently naked and clear for him to see and ogle at to his hearts content.
“You say you’re a good girl, but here you are, braless. I don’t think good girls do that sort of thing darling. Only naughty little girls who let any kind of fella fuck them do that. But you aren’t one of those sorts of girls, are you little sweetling?” His words drip with sweet nectar, and like an innocent bee you’re lead straight to it all too easily and naively. His touch alone on your now bare skin feeling practically electric and addictive. Even his words practically make you dizzy. It’s all so overwhelming you almost forget what’s expected of you tonight. You almost somehow manage to forget that tonight, you’ll be losing your virginity to him.
You can feel Abrahams hands and lips giving pure devotion to your uncovered breasts. The whole act leaving small gasps leaving your lips when he bites down slightly at random intervals, leaving you completely on the tip of your toes. It’s a completely intoxicating feeling you never want to stop.
Only you’re so caught up in the feeling of pleasure Abraham provides you, mixed with the anxiety of the night, you don’t feel his lips beginning to kiss down your body, leaving small marks in his wake as he makes his way to your underwear. That is where he stops though and looks back up at you with hooded, almost predatory eyes. So dark it was if you were looking at the night sky, all the possibly constellations old and new included.
“Look at me.” He commands, your anxieties and previous thoughts stripping away the moment you make eye contact with him. “Now tell me. Clearly. Can I take these off you?”
“Yes…” You say almost instinctively. Like you didn’t even need to think about it at all. Though as Abraham is about to take your underwear in his hands, you can’t help yourself but ask Abraham your own small question.
“Can’t I see you though?” You whisper, looking up at him with such innocent eyes that it leaves Abraham seemingly speechless as he practically gapes at you from bellow. You almost believe he didn’t hear you the first time, and are about to repeat it for a second, when he responds with a very enthusiastic, “Of course!” before moving to undress himself. Every item of clothing that he strips himself off leaving your mouth wider and wider open.
By the end of it, when he’s left in front of you in only his off-white boxers and his golden chain that hangs around his neck, and you’re practically breathless and shaking as you lay there half naked yourself. Your eyes unable to look themselves away from him as you make sure to admire every single part of him with your eyes. You can’t help but notice how the chain contrasts almost sinfully against his skin, though what really takes your interest, is the tattoo on his back you see when he turns around. The tattoo that had brought your such invigorated attention to him barely even two months ago.
“What’s the meaning?” You find yourself asking. Watching as a pauses and tried to peer at his back to see where it was you were looking while his back was to you.
Like you had thought to yourself earlier, compared to the other tattoos it was definitely softer. Especially since how now you could really look at it and admire it. Abraham sat half naked in front of you back to your chest, and your hand seems to almost move to touch it instinctively. Too curious in your nature to think about asking permission to touch him. Though you definitely noticed the way his body seemed to shiver at the feel of your skin on his.
It’s a lily, you eventually realise looking at it more closely. A Lilly of the valley flower.
“I got it when my mother left.” Abraham explained. The warmth of his back rumbling under his words. “I never resented her for what she did. I understood it. But I just thought, if she can’t be here with me, then at least she could be here someway or another...”
Unlike the unnerving and uncomfortable silence from before, this time it’s layered with a deep underlying sense of trust and devotion. Yet even still, too worried about a hidden meaning for it and what could be going on in your pretty little head, Abraham is all too prepared to turn around and look you in the eye. That is however, before every thought in his head manages to pause, once he feels your soft warm lips kissing the inked flower so softly, that he could barely feel it. Your hands, being the delicate things they are, rub up and down the right side of his body so tenderly he almost thinks clouds have fallen into his and your bedroom.
Yet still, as this is all happening so quickly, he cannot deny how it’s made him feel. How with a slight wave of emotion coming over him, he realises how your actions have made him feel so loved so quickly.
“Well it’s beautiful…” You murmur, laying the side of your head on his back as you move to wrap your arms around his torso. Even smiling against his skin as you feel Abrahams arms tightly hold onto yours with a possessiveness only he could provide you with. “You’re beautiful…”
This time, Abraham is able to sense the comfort in this bout of silence that the two of you bask in, and how the sound of his and yours breath, as well as the feeling of the both of yours’ hearts beating in your chests, is easily the most relaxing feeling in the world.
The two of you have no idea how long you were basking in each others holds, but the only thing you do know, is that Abraham very nearly scares you to death when he turns around suddenly and kisses you so deeply you almost let out a noise of shock. He kisses you so deeply in fact though that he pushes you easily so you fall with your back to the bed, and his frame is hovering over you, trapping you against him, not that you minded of course.
His tongue swipes at the entrance of your mouth and you open it cautiously, though you definitely can say you’re surprised with how much you find yourself enjoying the feeling of his tongue caressing yours. Unlike earlier when the two of your were focused on the action, you realise now that you’re able to bask in him whole, you can taste the whisky that he drank earlier on your lips and tongue. But it’s mixed with a smell that’s just so Abraham, that you can’t really define it as anything else. You’re not lying when you tell yourself that your husband seems to be addictive in every aspects of himself.
His hands appear to rediscover your body with a new sense of passion, as there’s not a single patch of skin that isn’t soon touched by Abrahams fingertips. His lips leaving small pools of spit with how long he makes sure to kiss and worship the skin, small murmurs of affirmation following after each time. By the end, your skin felt as if it was on fire with it all. So warm and sensitive with each word from his charm cursed lips. You had no idea Abraham was such a sweet talker, but like all other aspects you’ve discovered of his, he’s mastered it flawlessly.
Though when Abraham eventually gets to your underwear once again, he looks back up at you with if possible, even more lustful eyes than before, and repeats the very same question he’d asked earlier. “Can I take these off you?” To which you eagerly nod and verbalise your agreement, sending Abraham into what you could only describe as being a frenzy.
His hands eagerly rip off the underwear off, throwing them somewhere in the room blind as his eyes widen looking only at your lower half. You try to lean up to see him, but one of his hands quickly moves to push you back down onto your back so your eyes can only stare at the ceiling above you.
Yet even so, your eyes find themselves quickly shutting as you suddenly find yourself absolutely immersed in pleasure. Abrahams fingers you can feel to your surprise, tracing against your leaking pussy eagerly, and with obvious experience, as he seems to already know where to stroke and where to give special focus too. The feelings he provides only heightening when a single finger of his is pushed slowly inside of you, prodding something of yours deep within you that leaves your hips somehow already wriggling to get closer to him, to the addictive pleasure he provides you with. The books you had looked at when you were a teenager certainly hadn’t ever talked about this…
Yet when you feel something else down there, you quickly realise it to be Abraham’s tongue on you, and that’s when you feel like you’ve gone absolutely mad. You can’t hear yourself, but later on that night, Abraham will tell you how your voice went so loud, so wanton even, that he almost needed to place a hand over your mouth in fear that your parents, who mind you lived on the other side of the caravan sight, would hear you. He’d say it with such a smug face you couldn’t help but smack him with a pillow, drawing a chuckle from the poor man who mocked an injury.
“Fucking delicious…” You hear him grunt, mixed with the embarrassing sounds of your own wetness, and you feel your face turn a whole new shade of red from it all.
It’s a different feeling you have bubbling in your belly from the one you felt when you rarely would pleasure yourself in your bed. Yet this is a hotter feeling somehow, and a thousand times more intense. So intense even, that you feel your hips judder and jerk away from Abraham’s hold, to which he merely tightens his hands to lock onto your skin and makes his movements faster within you.
You feel your eyes beginning to roll into the back of your head and as it all begins to go quiet, you can feel your thighs begin shaking, cramping even from the way you try to clench them harder around Abrahams head to keep him where he was, in fear for some unknown reason to you he’d move away. Though when you try to tell him what it is you’re feeling, it’s almost as if he already knows. Only chuckling with a mocking amusement when he hears your pitiful attempt at words and going back to what he was doing. Making you feel utterly complete and meaningful.
When you feel what must be an orgasm shatter through you, it’s like a blinding hot pleasure is travelling throughout your whole entire being. Your lungs feel as if they’re about to collapse with how hard you try to bring the air you’d lost back into your body, and your legs begin to make you wince as they start to ache slightly. Though when you make eyes with Abraham after you somehow manage recover, you feel your air go right back out of you when you see him looking at with such hunger, such desire, that for once in your life, you felt wanted more than anything.
But with the way Abraham finally pulls down his underwear and reveals himself in all his glory too you, you’re very much fiercely brought back to the thoughts of your earlier anxieties.
Oh my god how big is that thing!? You think, your mouth no doubt hung wide in shock at the size of his… thing.
“I take it by your reaction that your pleased with what you see?” He teased. His smirk dripping in smugness and carelessness, as if he’s had the same reaction before. Has he had the same reaction before?
“Well, there isn’t exactly a lot for me to compare it with…” You tease back, smiling slightly at the way he shrugs and laughs in a halfhearted agreement to your words.
Yet he quickly gets over it, and a familiar look of seriousness spreads on his face which to your surprise, manages to send a wave of arousal through your body so strong you feel the need to shut your legs and hide from him. Yet when you try, strong rough hands clench almost dutifully around them and forcibly pries them open.
His eyes burn holes in you as he makes sure to take his time admiring you, and the way he can visibly see your juices and your cum dripping out of you. It almost makes him loose it and go insane there and then.
“P-please Abraham.” You beg, flushing red from the shame of it all, and the way he brings you so out of character, it’s almost amusing. You never would have thought back when you were thirteen that you’d be married to Abraham and laying in his bed, eagerly awaiting for him to fuck you. “Please…”
You’re obviously a bit hesitant on saying the exact words, but there aren’t exactly any nicer ways of begging him to have sex with you. Though it seems to your relief that Abraham is all too delighted in helping you through your worries.
“Say it…” He murmurs, his lips practically scorching as he leans down and kisses random patches of your skin. “Say how much you want me… I won’t fuck you until you say you want me too. So say it little one, and I might spare you some undeserving mercy.”
You gasp, and you can’t deny the way your breath hitches in your throat, and the way your fingers itch to bury themselves in Abrahams hair. The same way your lower half seems to ache in need for your husband. The man you can’t help but seem to have found a deep sort of affection for.
“Please Abraham…” You murmur, unable to stop the words from spilling from your lips. “Please… fuck me.”
Soon as you utter those words, it’s as if Abraham becomes a man possessed. His lips turn harsh as they suck deep marks once more into your skin, and his fingers turn equally brutal when they dig tightly to hold you in place as he grabs his cock with one hand and cautiously moves it closer to your entrance. Which by now, you’d be surprised if he didn’t find you dripping with physical arousal.
His eyes stare into your own as he pauses himself, and they make you feel small as he practically towers over you like a predator to a defenceless prey. Yet somehow, there is still that rare softness within him that you find yourself loving, as his eyes manage to ask you a thousand questions.
Did you still want this? With a nod and a small reassuring smile, you manage to convey your answer of yes to him. “This’ll hurt. I’m sorry.” Is all he says before with a deep grunt, he slowly pushes his erection deep inside you, while you yourself hiss at the stinging pain that begins to harshly throb within you.
"Feels so good," He grunts, making sure he stops to let you adjust to his size as he rubs his hands up and down your sides as a sort of comfort. A thing you’ll realise is almost an exact mirror to what you did to comfort him earlier that night. "You feel amazing darling… you're doing so fucking well little one, that's it..." With every presumable inch he pushes deeper, he murmurs new words against your ears that make you feel as if you were floating above the heavens as pleasure envelopes you whole. That pain you were feeling earlier practically nothing compared to what you were feeling now.
You can't even find it within you the words you want to say to say to him at that moment. The only thing you find yourself able to do is moan and whine and plead wordlessly for more, as the familiar delicious feeling of pleasure bubbles slowly in your belly again.
"Please Abraham!" You manage to say, your eyes clenched shut as your legs wrap around his waist whilst his hips try so hard not to begin thrusting in you as fast as they can. "Please go faster!"
He groans a deep feral noise, and his hips begin to slowly thrust against yours. Slowly building up a pressure that begins to brew in your stomach the longer Abraham moves in you.
“So good!” You whine, addicting to the feeling he provides you as his own noises of pleasure do nothing but fuel your inner fire. “Please husband please faster!” You feel so uncharacteristically greedy begging for more, and yet Abraham seems all too happy to provide with whatever it is you ask for, little or small, as his hands turn harsh as they grip roughly at your hips, and he thrusts his cock into you so hard you can practically feel him in your stomach. It’s so much, and yet it’s so little compared to how much you know you could actually feel. For once those darn books helping.
“So good for me…” Abraham groans, his eyes screwed shut as he indulges himself in your warmth that consumes him. If he could, he’d live in this moment with you. The feeling of him just merging with you being the best thing he’s ever felt in his entire miserable fucking life. “Best little wife of mine I could ever fucking ask for. Maybe I should give you a baby… get you pregnant so I can see you round and full all because of me… would you like that little one?”
You let out a gasp, and can’t help yourself from clenching around Abraham tightly as the imagery slips through your head. The idea of months passing and your stomach being swollen and round with his child, driving you somehow past the point of known insanity. It makes your head spin and your thoughts loud with want.
“Yes Abraham I want it! Please do that please please please!” You whine, scream even, while your eyes screw shut once again like earlier, imagining the scene while he continues fucking you with a new found passion as the imagery also passes through his head as-well. It seems the both of you are all too eager for what the future could hold for the two of you.
Your nails scrape along the bare canvas of your husbands back, and you can feel his sharp intake of breath against your ear as he groans deeply and loudly at the feeling. His thick thighs smacking against your own with an audible sound as he thrusts deeper and deeper into you. You can even feel the slightly cold chain that hangs around his neck scrape delicately against your skin. Everything he does for you, purposefully or not, driving you absolutely mad, if you weren’t somehow already.
Your eyes feel as if they roll into the back of your head with how good Abraham makes you feel, and you swear your voice somehow manages to get louder as you feel the knot in your stomach tightening again like earlier, and your toes curling at the end of the bed. “I-Im so close Abe!” You let out, the nickname sounding so strange on your tongue yet also so right.
His face becomes somehow more furrowed than it already was as he hears your sighs, and his face becomes focused as he thinks of only making your words a reality.
“Gonna have you cum on my cock,” He groans, gasps of pleasure leaving your lips as he somehow manages to thrust his hips against you faster, practically pounding into you now. “Gonna fuck my cum deep inside of you, and leave you absolutely full and dripping of me. Would you like that little wife of mine?”
You can’t handle it as your face turns a whole new colour at the shame of it all, but still with a sick grin making its way on your face you find you like the shame of it all, and the way it feels as your husband pleasures you. The only thing you can really say at that moment, is that it’s absolutely fucking addictive, no doubt about it. “Yes yes yes husband I want your cum deep inside me! Please fuck me please fuck me harder I want it all!”
Your face burns, yet it’s nothing compared to the feeling of your whole body shutting down as your walls clench hard around Abrahams cock, while for the second time that night, you orgasm from your husbands efforts alone. And by the way Abraham himself groans loud and proud in your ear and thrusts himself as deep as he can inside of you, you can guess you’ve made him cum too.
Whilst the two of you are slowly regaining your breaths and allowing your hearts to slow, you can’t help but let a distinctive feeling of pride come over you as you realise you’ve managed to make a man cum.
In the most non-strange way possible, you can’t help but think how your mother would be proud of you right now.
“Are you alright?” You hear Abraham murmur in your ear, and when you turn your head to look at him, your mouth curves into an involuntary way when you see he’s already looking at you with such soft eyes, and an equally soft smile on his own lips. Fuck, he look so fucking pretty in your arms…
“Yeah…” You murmur back, a smile you don’t even realise you’re making clear as day on your face as you bask in your happiness. “Perfect…” You close your eyes, and all seems right as you listen to your husband’s breathing, and feel his warmth slowly consuming you. Absolutely everything in that moment feeling more perfect than perfect. Better than better. Greater than great.
“I love you…” You whisper, not even aware if he heard it or not as you find yourself falling deeply asleep in his arms that somehow had moved you to lay on his chest while he laid on his back. But if you had managed to stay awake, even for just a minute, you’d have seen the way Abrahams eyes watered with a single happy tear than ran down his cheek, and heard his own small murmur back.
“I love you too little one… so fucking much.”
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Hey! Hope you're having a fab day <3 I came across your lil Daemon/Matt 'crackfic' and it gave me such a giggle...plus also got me thinking about a similar scene with Aemond/Ewan..! Obviously no pressure to write this, but what about a sorta Aemond x reader scene where they're maybe filming a sparring scene? Fight training/flirting vibes? Doesn't have to be anything spicy, maybe just fluffy flirty good times but also realistically aemond x reader sparring = *sexual tension* so lol, take from it what you will. As I say, no pressure at all to write this. I love your blog so much and am such a fan of your work! Wishing you a wonderful weekend xoxo
Choke 'Em
Ewan Mitchell x Actress!Reader (low key Aemond x Reader)
Summary: You and Tom were very much convinced that Ewan is good at everything, so you had a bet that even if you took Ewan surprise in one of your sparring takes, he could 100% overpower you. Things don't necessarily go as planned.
Word Count: 1k+
Warnings: fem!reader, drama instigator!tom glynn-carney, puppy!ewan, idk how to choreograph action 😞, fluff, typos, etc.
A/N: YES IN A MILLLION LANGUAGEs, i watched like this one of 3 actors from the last kingdom saying they think ewan is good at everything or something along the lines, and then theres this gif set of tom glynn-carney saying that he was going to bite ewan and ewan was basically "aw yeah!" and ASFHLASHFHASFHFHA PUPPY im love him, anyway, i had those stuff in mind when i wrote this i hope you like it my love floofdeloop. i did an express pass on your req cos i have been writing rpfs lol also this gif T_T HES SO ??????????? HOT ????? HELP ME WHY DO I THINK THIS OF HIM ???? HWELP? Tagging: @pinksirensong @deniixlovezelda
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"No!" I exclaim, shoving Tom from the floor we were sat on. He nearly chokes on his salad as he falls to his side and laughs. His hand darts out to keep him upright, his laughter dies down when he turns to me.
I continue, "I can't attack him outside of the choreography we practiced!"
"I'm not telling you to do that!" Tom says, raising his voice in amusement, "I'm saying maybe just-" he breathes out through his nose, "go a bit harder than normal? Or-or add a few licks to-"
"Tom," I deadpan.
"Oh, please," he blows a raspberry, "against him? You're dead meat."
"He's not immune to accidents, lame brain," I take the final bites of my sandwich.
"All I'm saying is, Ewan is probably, like, secretly a swordsman."
"Dude," I point, "there's nothing secret about that."
I look out to the set, watching as Ewan, who quickly finished his lunch to rebuff on our choreography, twist the prop sword in his hands with much ease and mastery.
I chew slowly, "maybe I could tell him I'm doing extra attacks beforehand."
Tom, who stuffed some salad into his face as he too watched Ewan from afar, turns to me, perking up in intrigue. He speaks with a mouthful quite excitedly, "yes, yes, yeth, weth!"
I give him a look then purse my lips as I shove a tissue to his mouth
When we got to filming the dialogue part of our scene, we already set a pretty high bar for our consequential fight sequence, and so when I offered the idea of adding an extra few jabs in my sword fighting, not just to Ewan, but to our fight choreographer and director, they were all on board with it.
"I was thinking I could," I start, raising my imaginary weapon up, pointing at Ewan, "try to jab at you by your throat, then," I slowly step forward, twirling the way we did in practice, "once you evade me, I could elbow you," I bring my arm by his chest and slowly push him back, "and shove you against the wall."
Ewan, following my train of thought and movements, steps back and leans back on the wall. He nods, looking down at me with a soft smile, "I like it," he turns to the choreographer, "I think it adds to their tension."
I turn to our choreographer and director, nodding, "then we could add the dialogue we scraped off cause there was no room for it."
The director claps his hands, "I love it," he motions to us, "then you can grab her, and try to make her confess."
I turn to Ewan, leaning back into him a bit so that he could bring his arms around me. I turn front then look down at his arms that were coming around me. I pull him tightly around me like a jacket.
Ewan has no choice but to lean into me; my back was against his chest and I could hear his breathing. He was a welcome presence in all honesty. Quickly, I relax against him and he seemingly does the same against me.
"Well obviously not like that," the director calls, "you look like a married couple if you do that."
We break into a laugh. I lean against him, "it's not too late to change the script. She and Aemond could away together."
Ewan hums, as though he was in character, "I think he would like that."
I snort, turning to Ewan and his eyepatch, "I would like that."
Ewan's eye darts down to me quickly. He purses his lips, holding back a chuckle. I pull away from him when I see the pink in his skin, laughing a bit louder.
"Shall we give it a go?" the director asks.
One nod later, and were back in our marks, ready to tryout our added choreo.
"You lied to me," I heave, "you told me you would release my father if I gave you the information you needed.
Aemond walks over to me, hands behind his back, "I said I would think about releasing your father."
My expression drops, my nostrils flare, "liar."
He hums.
"Craven!"
He chuckles.
"MONSTER!" I lunge towards him and the next second, Aemond has his sword unsheathed. We go against each other, weapon against weapon, then he overpowers me, sending me reeling back. I push against the crates behind me, as the prince calls out, "let me offer you another deal you surely cannot refuse."
I fume, groaning, "I think we're past deals, oh prince."
"Oh, but I-"
Aemond's eye widens as I press forward a few lines too early. Like clockwork, I attack him just like we practiced earlier, except, he was clearly taken off guard and reacts a bit too late.
Once I have him pressed against he wall, he looks down at me, shocked, heaving.
He's forgotten his line.
I make up for his silence, "perhaps you are prettier up close."
"CUT!"
I pull away from Ewan, turning to him, dropping my prop. I reach out to his cheeks, giving him a worried look, "are you okay? I didn't injure you, did I?"
"I-" his hands come up to my wrists, "no, no," he chuckles under his breath, "I was just a bit floored by how fearsome my lady is."
My face contorts into a smile, "my lady, am I?"
"I-" he opens his mouth, "well, I mean... yes."
We both break into a chuckle. It seems we both had blood rising up our necks now.
"That was amazing!" the director calls, walking up to us, making us pull away, "I like these turn of events more than what we had planned."
"What if they have more contact?" Ewan pipes up, coming in front of me, "in this part, instead of being turned back," he looks at me intently, "you can lift your sword to my neck then choke me."
I gasp when he takes my hand and places it by the base of his throat. It was quite softly spoken, but it seems it was not soft enough, "damn, that's kinky."
Ewan's jaw slacks.
I break into a chuckle, playing it off, just as the director laughs, proceeding to say, "I like it! The more sexual tension the better." He turns to me, "choke him real good."
Ewan begins to stutter. My own jaw slacks as I feel my face heat up. I awkwardly nod and salute, "will do."
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