#the dornish diamonds

[kingsmakers]

The Dornish Diamonds + Fathers

Elyana Sand & Criston Cole Rhyanon Waters & Daemon Targaryen Ceridwen Rivers & Harwin Strong

Forever tag: @juliaswickcrs @thatmagickjuju @starcrossedjedis @darkwolf76 @akabluekat

@drbobbimorse @mystic-scripture @iron-parkr @asirensrage @rhaenyraslaena

@arrthurpendragon @hiddenqveendom @emilykaldwen @themaradwrites

[domainedewinter]

The Price of Fire 1/4

The fire that shines under the moon

Summary: Aemond meets a mysterious silver-haired girl on the beach while facing Vhagar. Solving mysteries is an intellectual game he loves to play and what a magnificent mystery he now has in his hands.. Unbowed, unbent, unbroken, hm?

Warnings: DUBCON, TYPICAL TARGARYEN INCEST, profanity, innuendo, he/him pronouns, you pronoun, fingering, oral m receiving, oral f receiving, misogyny, toxic behaviour, Dom!Aemond, begging, underage HOTD style, nsfw.. (coming soon, I will indicate the chapters containing smut with a 🔥) 

Rating: 18+, MDNI

English is not my first language

If your life has always been beautiful, bathed in opulence and pleasure, your birth remains a mystery nonetheless. As you look at yourself this evening in the tall mirror of the room where you are staying during this journey, this thought crosses your mind once again.

You were still just a baby, a newborn, the day a man you know nothing about except that he was unpleasant to look at and had difficulty walking, offered you to your father with a lot of gold to leave the continent in the greatest secrecy. A wealthy and respected Dornishman, a Martell, who raised you as his own daughter, integrating you into his powerful family upon his return to Dorne and taking care to protect you as if the sky might one day open to take you back. When he couldn't sleep, he would look up at that same sky, scanning the horizon for a threat of which you knew nothing. Yet, with every dream of dragons, clouds, and storms that you shared with your father, he became increasingly vigilant.

It took a lot of persuasion to convince him to let you accompany him to the royal city, the same one he had always warned you about. But he had no choice, always preferring to know you were with him or with trusted people, like the family you had arrived at a few days earlier. And it was not without regret that your father had to leave for a week-long trip, leaving you alone here with your uncle and aunt who treated you like a diamond to be hidden from others' eyes. You never went out, and if you had to meet other people, it was always with a scarf to hide your hair, eyes downcast, so as not to reveal the lovely color of your eyes.

But tonight, awakened by yet another dream of growling, fire and the noise of wings flapping, you look at yourself, still sweaty, in the mirror. Your hair is long, slightly wavy, and moon-colored, as much as your eyes are a pale indigo, asking for answer you're craving to discover. You need to get some air, to be alone, far from this golden prison your father left you in. Gathering your courage, you climb out the bedroom window with grace and agility before slipping into the streets, guided only by your instinct and the sound of the waves calling you.

The sun has set for a while, but the night is surprisingly clear, the moon almost illuminating as if it were dawn. The crowded streets turn into alleys, then paths before your bare feet in Dornish-style sandals - like the rest of your outfit; mustard-colored pants slit at the thigh and a burgundy drape revealing your shoulders - touch the sand still warm from the day. You smile, sighing softly with pleasure and relief to be away from everything and everyone, until a strange noise, a purr or rather, a growl, draws you down to the sea. 

It is not a rock, as you first thought, that stands there, but something alive. And enormous. As you approach, hand outstretched, curiosity getting the better of you, a huge eye opens not far from you, making you gasp in surprise. And it is not the only thing that opens; an huge maw with the smell of sulfur parts, an unknown but dangerous light emerging from its depths.

“Vhagar! No!” 

The voice of a man makes you look up, waking you from the stupor that had paralyzed you upon seeing the creature open its maw before you, and not just any creature: a dragon.

“Who are you and why were you trying to attack my dragon? Do you seek death, little girl? Because Vhagar was about to grant your prayers!” says the voice again, a silhouette stepping between the monster and you, drawing your attention. This silhouette is none other than the prince to whom this dragon belongs, and you know this because your father has taught you. You know the princes and princesses of the great houses, the useful names, literature, philosophy, and religion too.

Tilting his head slightly to the side at your silence, the prince before you seems to be losing patience as you search for his name in your memory. You can see it in his one-eyed gaze, fixed on you. Not knowing what to do, and still somewhat shaken, you turn on your heels and start running, but the flight is short-lived for, after hearing footsteps behind you, you feel a grip on your arm, forcing you to stop your run and turn so quickly that you lose balance and fall backward. The sand cushions your fall, a gasp of surprise and pain escaping your lips as you find yourself pinned to the beach by him. You're not afraid and respond with courage, your thin eyebrows furrow and your gaze attempting to be threatening, even though the man questioning you doesn’t seem frightened at all. 

“That is very rude, turning your back on a prince and refusing to obey, hm? Perhaps you are truly suicidal...”

He almost seems angry that you are so reckless, but you only struggle more, apparently unimpress by him.

"I wasn't trying to hurt your dragon, I just raised my hand to touch it, so let me go!" you reply with rage, kicking and wiggling your hips to free yourself, but Aemond holds on and has a clear physical superiority over you; the rigorous training he engaged in daily since the accident had sculpted his body fiercely and effectively. 

However, despite all his hours of training with Cole and all the fighters he now beat, nothing had prepared him for such audacity from a woman, let alone one so young and in a definitely delicate position.

"Prince Aemond..." you murmur, your voice suddenly losing its courage as you recognize the man who has literally fallen on you. 

It is his single eye that helped you regain your senses and memory. Under other circumstances, you would have been quicker to remember, but the sight of a dragon and the confrontation with a man, alone in the middle of nowhere, had made you lose your composure more than you would like to admit.

Out of all the people living in this great city, you had to stumble upon a prince, and not just any prince; one of the king's sons, the one whose dark rumors reached Dorne. Being terribly close to him, you cannot ignore his hair of the same color as yours, and his eye, his only eye, which stared at you with the same violet gleam.

Your father would be terribly furious and scared if he learned about this. It shouldn't happen; you need to leave and disappear as quickly as possible, return to your chamber, and not come out until his return.

Just for a moment, you think you might be scared - not only of Aemond Targaryen, but of the consequences of your encounter. But the thought doesn’t have time to take root before the prince lifts you to better pin you against the ground again, wanting to bring you back to reality.

"You seem to know who I am but refuse to tell me who you are." The prince growls, the coldness of his fine features turning darker. He obviously isn’t used to being refused, let alone by a young girl lost on the beach daring to resist him. "Answer me, it's an order!"

You don’t know what you risk by refusing to obey a prince, but the mere idea of your father’s reaction or being recognized fills you with more fear. Trying to sit up, you growl in frustration. "Get off me! I swear I wasn't going to do anything, so let me go!"

Wanting to tip the odds in your favor and taking advantage of the element of surprise, you quickly lift your knee, managing to hit him, probably not hard enough to hurt but enough to surprise him. If he thinks he could intimidate you, he doesn’t know you because when Aemond’s eye widens in surprise, you quickly turn your head and bite his forearm as hard as you can, tasting the warm metallic flavor of his blood against your lips.

Vhagar growls in concert with his rider, who releases you with a hiss of pain, as if he has just put his hand in molten lava. Astonishment paints the prince's features, and it’s the moment you choose to stand up, finally finding yourself on your feet before him. But Aemond Targaryen is quick and just as swiftly on his feet, his dagger in hand. Both of you face each other, in an attack or defense position, no one could really tell.

The only thing you want is to flee. Run as fast as possible, as far as possible. Do not look back. Forget this evening, the dragon. Forget the prince and the fear.

You have not learned to fight, and now that the moon reflects the prince’s deadly blade, you know the fight is lost from the start. Yet, that’s not the only thing the moon and the fight have uncovered; your scarf is negligently stretched out at your feet, in the sand, revealing your entire hair and leaving no doubt about your astonishing resemblance. 

At this sight, the prince lowers his weapon slightly, fascinated by what he sees; not only by your similar traits but by you, just you. He looks at you as he has never looked at anyone, a new gleam born in his eye. “It seems we started off on the wrong foot. Will you stop struggling or trying to flee? On my side, I promise not to use this,” he says, showing you his dagger, “against you.”

The options are unfortunately limited for you, but curiosity wins over your reflections, abandoning all common sense. The worst is already done; Aemond Targaryen has seen how much you resemble him so, why to refuse? You nod gently and stand up completely, letting your hands hang at your sides as he approaches cautiously, scrutinizing every part of you his lilac eye can land on.

“What is your name?”

“Roxaene.”

"Judging by your clothes, your posture and your intact features, you come from a house with, at least a last name I imagine."

“Martell.” You finally add, a sigh of frustration escaping your lungs at having had to reveal so much to him.

His fine eyebrows furrow for just a moment, creating a line between his two eyes. “The Dornish women have quite different physical characteristics in my last memories; they are known to be magnificent and captivating and although I definitely don't question the beauty of your face - and what else I can see...” he says, letting his eye run along your body, your skin offered on your shoulders, seeing the paleness of your thigh and your bare arms. “..it seems obvious to me that if you live in Dorne, you are not originally from there. Isn’t that right?”

Uncomfortable, you swallow, your gaze unable to fix on anything, uncertain. You bite your lip for a moment and look at him again, not wanting to appear frightened or hesitant. “There are some shadows around my early days of life...”

Aemond murmurs in approval, circling you like a bird with prey, like a dragon before attacking, and it’s when he is behind you that you shiver as his blade appears in front of your eyes, just far enough for both your reflections to appear. “Shadows or not, you cannot deny what you see, can you?”

Feeling him so close to you, almost glued to your back, makes you tense, but you remain stoic. Of course, you see how your resemblance is unsettling, of course, you see the similarities that make you who you are. But your father never wanted to tell you more, so even if you wanted to, you couldn’t reveal more to the prince.

“Yes... but I’m afraid I have nothing else to tell you.” In a last moment of courage, you turn your head towards him, your gaze meeting his. “In fact, I was hoping that by coming to this city, I would be the one to get some answers.”

He remains motionless, staring at you while listening to you and yet, even if your words have reached his mind, the prince cannot help but smell the scent of orange blossom from Dorne's gardens filling his nostrils as he inhales you like a succulent meal to taste, pressing his chest closer to your back to feel the warmth. At that moment, the young prince knows that he will never want to let you go again. Aemond Targaryen loves to plan, think, decode, understand. Solving mysteries is an intellectual game he loves to play and what a magnificent mystery he now has in his hands.

Unbowed, unbent, unbroken. Without a doubt, you respond proudly and courageously to the dogma of your house, but this, instead of curbing the curiosity and desire of Prince Aemond, only increases his desire to unravel your mystery. To make you bow, bend and break for him.

[sapphire-writes]

•Hey Saf! first of all thanks for your beautiful work. i had this idea in mind of reader being a Martell so she goes to kings landing to visit, she falls for aemond but Otto doesn’t trust her bc he believes she can poison him or something , so things go down

thank you if you take it! again thank you for your work it helps a lot

Snake in the Garden ~ Aemond x Martell!reader

word count: 1.4k warnings: none, little angsty note: loved writing this! thanks for sending and thank you so much for your kind words I'm glad you're enjoying my work 💚 masterlist HOTD taglist

“Be careful,” Otto warns his grandson, as the wheelhouse pulls into the front courtyard. 

Qoren Martell’s firstborn was arriving from Dorne, on a visit to the capital. Aemond nods, slightly bouncing on his heels as though preparing for battle, not the arrival of a lady.

“They are slippery snakes, Dornish women,” Otto murmurs, lowering his voice as the door to the wheelhouse opens. 

You appear, a cloud of red and purple silks, dark hair pulled away from your face. Eyes wide you look up at the towers of the Red Keep, before suppressing a shiver. 

“Cold here,” you say, more to yourself than anyone else. 

Aemond watches you carefully as you step down, your delicate hand draped on a knight’s arm. Aemond’s eye follows you as she moves towards the royal family, as though she is a pit viper about to strike. 

“We welcome you, Princess,” Alicent says, greeting you, “you must forgive the King’s absence, he is not faring well.”

“Of course, your grace,” you answer, “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Your dark eyes move across the members of the royal family, and Aemond can feel his grandfather stiffen beside him as your eyes glance over at him. Then your eyes rest on Aemond.

You move to stand in front of him, staring up at his face. Aemond blinks in surprise, looking down at you. You are so close he can count the individual eyelashes that frame your sparkling eyes. 

“Why do you cover it?” you ask, causing Aemond’s brow to furrow. 

Bold. 

“To spare the women of the court, princess,” Aemond answers. 

You narrow your eyes.

“You have soft women in the north.”

“This is not the north.”

You laugh, the sound much like the peel of bells. Aemond’s mouth twitches into a smile, before his grandfather glares at him, causing him to retreat to his usual stoic expression. 

“Everywhere is north of Dorne,” you answer, swishing past Aemond, skirts brushing his hand. 

Aemond moves to follow you inside, set on not letting you leave his sights. Otto reaches out, clasping a hand on his arm. 

“What did I say?” he asks, voice low.

“I only mean to keep an eye on the serpent,” Aemond tells him, pulling free from his grandfather’s grasp. 

Aemond follows the Dornish beauty, not allowing you to leave his sight. Especially during the feast that night as you converse with Aegon, who has draped himself across your lap, cup in hand. 

Aemond, though not overly fond of his brother, is his protector nonetheless. 

He watches as Aegon says something to you, earning more musical laughter that floods through the halls. Aemond feels something inside him curl up with rage at the sight of how at ease Aegon is around you. 

It should be him.

Aemond wishes to shake the thought away but he cannot. It remains like the pain that sometimes lodges itself behind the empty socket of his eye, as though his body has suddenly remembered a part of him is missing. 

Aegon is the heir. It is he who should be fearful of you. Dornish enchantress. 

Aemond should be enjoying himself in your company, have your hands stroking his hair as you do to Aegon now. It is too much to watch. 

Aemond turns and leaves the hall, taking some air on a nearby veranda. The sky is black as death, lit up with thousands of diamond-like stars. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” a voice says behind him.

He knows it is you before you step beside him.

“You must have stars in Dorne.”

“Indeed,” you answer, chuckling, “but the northern air gives them such a glow.”

Aemond hums in response, feeling his heart beating hard in his chest, like a hammer against the cloth. 

“Drink?” you ask, holding the second goblet you hold.

Aemond looks at it a moment too long. You smile wolfishly, teeth glowing in the moonlight. You look the part of an enchantress. Temptress. Beckoning him towards an early grave.

“Scared?” you tease. 

“Should I be?” 

“If you are wise.”

An honest answer, you give him.

Aemond does not move. You bring the cup you offer to your lips taking a long sip, before holding it out to him once more. Your lips shimmer with the remnants of the Dornish red. 

“How do I know you haven’t been preparing for weeks, taking small amounts of poison to train yourself to withstand its effects?” Aemond asks, still not reaching for the cup.

You twist your mouth, as though deep in thought. 

“True,” you murmur, “but that seems like an awful lot of work, just to murder a second son.”

Aemond feels a rush of anger, it burns through his body. He meets your eye and watches the smirk that forms. 

“You jest,” he says, earning a nod. 

“I do,” you admit, “though, if I meant to kill you tonight, you would already be dead.”

Aemond is not easily frightened. Fear has not been an emotion he was familiar with, not since the taking of his eye. But something about the way you say that hangs in the air; it wraps around his throat like a tightening noose. 

He takes the cup from your hand, fingers brushing against yours. 

He lets a sip of the Dornish red slip past his lips, down his throat. You grin watching him swallow. 

“Still alive?” you tease, earning a hum. 

“You cannot fault me for valuing my life.”

“I suppose.”

You both stand in silence, staring up at the stars and taking sips from your cups. Your skin is warm from the wine, the taste reminding you of home, causing your chest to tighten. How you hate being so far from home. 

“Shall it take effect soon?” Aemond asks, draining his cup.

You laugh again, and Aemond allows himself to smile.

“You surprise me, my prince,” you tell him, “I did not expect you to be a man of humor.”

“What did you expect?” Aemond asks, curious about your answer. 

You turn to face him, becoming suddenly very serious. 

“A haunted man,” you tell him, “the ghost of a boy stretched tall.”

Aemond finds it hard to look away from you, instead settling his gaze on your mouth, still dewed with wine as though it is venom. No, the wine is not venom, but the words you speak are. They are clearly meant to incapacitate him. 

“A princess, and a poet?” Aemond murmurs. 

“I do not wish to offend you,” you continue, as he turns from you. 

“You do not,” Aemond assures, looking down at his cup, “I am not used to the directness, that's all. Most people avoid the topic.”

You wait to speak, sensing he is not finished. 

“Most people avoid me in general, I suppose.”

You bring a hand to his arm, and his chest warms at your touch. 

“Tis their loss then,” you tell him. 

Aemond purses his lips, unsure of what has made him confide in you.

“I understand what it is like, to be assumed to be something you are not,” you tell him.

Aemond feels shame run through him. He assumed you were dangerous, all because of his grandfather. He looks at you once more, your face glowing in the moonlight. 

“You must forgive me, my lady,” Aemond tells you, “we are overly cautious in the capital these days.”

You smile gently at him. 

“There is no need for apologies,” you assure him. 

“Still, you shall have mine,” Aemond says, taking your hand in his and placing a kiss atop your knuckles causing your breath to hitch in your throat. 

“Shall I escort you back into the great hall?” Aemond asks.

“I shall be just a moment,” you tell him. 

Aemond eyes you curiously. 

“You’re certain?” he questions and you nod.

“I shall meet you there.”

Aemond gives you a slight nod, before taking his leave. You stand on the veranda, leaning over the edge and peering down. You glance behind you, before pulling a small vial from between your breasts. Undetectable, small, and full of a ruby-red liquid. 

It would have been quick.

You run your fingers over it before breaking the wax seal. You turn the vial, letting the contents of the glass run down the stones over the edge like blood before smashing the vial underneath your foot. You brush the pieces away and straighten your skirts, before heading back to find Aemond.

HOTD taglist: @zillahvathek, @tempt-ress, @hangmanscoming, @bluevxnus, @thattargboy

if you want to be added to my HOTD taglist, link to google form is at the top! if you ever want to be removed, just send an ask 💚

[dyannawynnedayne]

Which character parallel is your favorite?

Myrcella and Sansa: art by @francy-sketches (1, 2)

Daena and Cersei: art by @jaydeewis (1, 2)

Myrcella and Sansa

Forced To Be Players in Political Conflict

“Oh, but they must, or see the realm riven once more, as it was before we wed the dragons. Father told me so. He said we had the Imp to thank, for sending us Princess Myrcella. She is so pretty, don’t you think? I wish that I had curls like hers. She was made to be a queen, just like her mother.” Dimples bloomed in Tyene’s cheeks. “I would be honored to arrange the wedding, and to see to the making of the crowns as well. Trystane and Myrcella are so innocent, I thought perhaps white gold … with emeralds, to match Myrcella’s eyes. Oh, diamonds and pearls would serve as well, so long as the children are wed and crowned. Then we need only hail Myrcella as the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and lawful heir to the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, and wait for the lions to come.” “The lawful heir?” The prince snorted. “She is older than her brother,” explained Tyene, as if he were some fool. “By law the Iron Throne should pass to her.” “By Dornish law.” “When good King Daeron wed Princess Mariah and brought us into his kingdom, it was agreed that Dornish law would always rule in Dorne. And Myrcella is in Dorne, as it happens.”

AFFC, The Captain of the Guards

I don’t want any Lannister, she wanted to say. I want Willas, I want Highgarden and the puppies and the barge, and sons named Eddard and Bran and Rickon. But then she remembered what Dontos had told her in the godswood. Tyrell or Lannister, it makes no matter, it’s not me they want, only my claim. “You are kind, my lord,” she said, defeated. “I am a ward of the throne and my duty is to marry as the king commands.”

ASOS, Sansa III

Daena and Cersei

Cosplaying as the Poors to See Their Boy

Daena quickly became known as the Defiant, for she was the most restless of the three sisters in her imprisonment, and on three separate occasions escaped disguised as a servant or one of the smallfolk.

The World of Ice and Fire: Baelor I

He remembered that night as if it were yesterday. They spent it in an old inn on Eel Alley, well away from watchful eyes. Cersei had come to him dressed as a simple serving wench, which somehow excited him all the more. Jaime had never seen her more passionate. Every time he went to sleep, she woke him again. By morning Casterly Rock seemed a small price to pay to be near her always. He gave his consent, and Cersei promised to do the rest.

ASOS, Jaime II

[bucknastysbabe]

Back to the Old House

Synopsis: The reader, daughter of a Dornish politician has found herself joining her friends-with-benefit’s summer vacation. As his fake girlfriend. Was it mentioned that the fwb is a Prince and that ���vacation’ is a week long nightmare with the royal family at their ancient creepy castle?

Rating: Explicit, each chapter tagged

Tags: Modern!AU, PINING, friends w benefits to lovers, Finger blasted on a private jet, family drama, Dornish!Reader, Switch!Aegon, Angst, Emotional range of a starfish Aegon and reader, hurt/comfort, smutty subby prostate play boom

A/N: So this happened I’m excited but I must draft some kinda story but make it E R O T I C. Basically these two idiots ACTUALLY get together in royal hell while destroying Aegon’s ass in multiple ways plus hurt/comfort and pining galore :)

Introduction: Mile high club? Mile cry club.

Aegon popped his gum, sprawled out in a chair on the jet. You stiffly sat from across and chewed your lip. The prince idly scrolled through his phone but you could tell your ‘friend’ was anxious. He couldn’t stop tapping, popping, jimmying— nervous energy.

You deadpanned, “Aegon.”

Violet eyes lifted to meet yours, him yanking out an airpod with a pout. You hated how dick-ish he got when he was anxious. Aegon was always being a dick but much more so in this mood.

“So I know you’re about to shit a brick but we need to come up with a backstory on how we started to…’date.’”

He blew out an exaggerated breath and snorted, “I think it’s pretty simple— We met at a fraternity social and started to date.” You stared blankly and he amended, “I asked you out first, of course my Dornish lady.”

You were nervous about your heritage. Your father was a former governor of Dorne and lambasted the figurehead monarchy. Most people with Rhoynish blood did, it had been like that since the Targaryens first took over Westeros in ancient times. Dorne had seceded and rejoined the country countless amounts. To your chagrin, most of the Targaryen men had nice girls of Valyrian or Andal descent. Never the licentious sandy Dornish with their lilting accents and stony eyes.

Snapping out of your own worries, You nodded in affirmation at his apology. Aegon moved to sneak his airpod back in before you joked, “Definitely need to leave the part out where I made you cum so hard you cried in the corner of the brother room, hm?”

Aegon’s pupils expanded and his plush lips opened slightly, a pink tongue darting out to wet them. You drawled, “Wanna’ repeat? Get some of that nervous energy out— you get so tetchy.”

The prince’s cheeks flushed and he spluttered, “Tetchy? The fuck does that mean? I have to see my crazy ass family I’m about to lose my shit!” Your lips quirked up at his outburst, crooking a finger towards yourself.

After some minutes of frantic clothes tearing on Aegon’s part and sloppy kisses, you had the prince spread out on the floor of the private jet. You knelt between pale thighs and hollered, “How much left on the ride?” Aegon pouted, tightening his legs around you.

The pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom, “One hour until landing at Dragonstone.”

You shrugged and tore a packet of lube between your teeth and smothered your fingers and Aegon’s pucker with the cold substance. He hissed and whined at the temperature. You smacked his thigh and hissed, “Hush. You’re always so fucking loud.” Aegon jerked his head to the side petulantly, biting on his cheek.

He knew you loved when he was noisy— just being a bitch got him harder than diamonds. Your pointer finger swirled around, easing him up. Aegon whispered, “C’mon, I can take it, fuck!” You pinched a pale thigh and jabbed, “Your whole body is taught as a bow, just lemme open you up slow. You’ll thank me for it later.”

A roll of violet eyes was your answer. You let it slide, from what you heard about Aegon’s family you were on edge too. Slowly you entered your pointer into the second knuckle, cooing at his cock throbbing in reaction. Aegon’s adorably red face begged, “Please- one more.” You obliged and slid your middle finger snug beside it.

You scissored and took your time. You growled, “So tight for me, such a slutty little hole.” Aegon’s voice pitched up into a mewl and his throat bobbed. You fumbled for another packet of lube, really slathering it on his hole to balls. The prince babbled, “H-hey, need it, need it, need it!” You used your free hand to rub at a trembling thigh. He never called you baby or any sappy pet names that suggested love— a rule between you two.

You promised, “Oh…you’re going to get it little dragon.” You twisted your fingers around, searching for that swollen nub. Poor Aegon had been so stressed lately with the impending summer vacation and the loss of your presence to visit Hellholt— there had not been a chance to milk him out. You knew he fucked plenty of other girls but your pride held to the notion that they didn’t get to see the Prince like this.

You found it with a gleeful laugh and a broken moan from Aegon. You lamented, “Poor thing. You’re so full.” The blonde’s unkempt locks shook with his head as he whined, “So fucking full- shit!” His pretty white teeth bit into his bottom lip as you began to stimulate the gland. Deep strokes and your thumb massaging from the outside had the Prince already frantic. His thighs had your waist in a dead lock.

It never ceased to amaze you how sensitive he was— you have no clue how Aegon is labeled ‘the frosh slayer’ by his frat brothers. He cried like a bitch the first time you had him…and about every other time after that. Aegon was a big touch-starved baby at the end of the day.

You cooed, “S’that feel good?” You grinned at the slew of non-understandable words in return. His violet eyes were glassy and he drooled as you milked his prostate. A puddle of cum leaked onto his pale belly. A thought abruptly shifted your plans. You swiped two fingers of your free hand through the fluid and pushed it between Aegon’s gaping lips.

Just as expected he wailed and more cum plastered his belly. You murmured, “Knew you’d like that slut. Suck on em’.” The blonde did eagerly, thrusting his hips back onto your fingers. Drool dribbled down his cheek and his cheeks were hollowed. You pressed a couple of soft kisses to his chest and nipples, heart fluttering annoyingly.

You slid your ring finger in and really started to pump your fingers into Aegon’s ass— wet noises filling the empty jet. You purred into his ear, “Hear that? So wet for me Prince.” Pretty tears leaked out of the blonde’s purple eyes onto reddened cheeks. He moaned around your fingers, “Gahds! Mhm!” You knew he was close, jerking your fingers out of his swollen mouth and jacking him off.

Aegon’s sweaty head fell back and he cried your name sweetly. He whimpered, “Ah- gods- cumming! So close? Can I can I?”

You whispered with a smile, “Yeah, c’mon.”

He kept his amethyst eyes locked onto yours as he seized up around your fingers and painted cum up to his chest. Aegon lunged forward and tightened his arms around your body. Your friends-with-benefits kissed you achingly. He sobbed with the release— you shushing him and putting the pieces back together. Like you always did.

Aegon’s breath came in shuddery huffs while you snatched a cocktail napkin to wipe him clean. His eyes warmly watched you work as he calmed. Long ringed fingers twisted a strand of your hair. You sat back on your haunches, a hand possessively on the outside of his lean thigh. Aegon laughed airily and breathed, “Needed that, I think I need a nap.”

You rolled your eyes and helped the cum-drunk brat up. You slapped his ass and teased, “Go take your nap, m’lord.” Aegon playfully pinched your side and shambled over to the pull out. He placed the headphones in again, still naked as a jaybird and dragged on an eye mask. You cleaned up the remnants of the debauchery and tried to spray your perfume to cover up the stench of sex. Then aggressively washed your hands.

Sitting back in your original spot, you watched out the window. Dark clouds swirled about. Aegon had told you Dragonstone was a dreary, stormy place. Your nails dug into your palm, drawing blood. You were not ready for this at all. Recently every time you fucked around with the Prince your chest felt all soft and weak. You didn’t even really fuck other guys anymore, just didn’t care for it.

But Aegon was— has been adamant about no-strings-attached. He’d even given you a list of rules, the prick. But he dug his way into your twisted heart, like a damn firewyrm of Old Valyria. You played the free-spirited ‘I am an Uller of Hellholt, fuck you’ persona. At the beginning it was easy, so, so easy.

Turning to gaze at Aegon’s pouty lips you frowned. You grumbled, “R’hllor bless me. Or send me to a fiery doom.” Wiping a stray tear away with a huff, you turned back. You’d do your makeup in the meantime and wake the idiot up to get dressed in thirty minutes. Fool didn’t even know how to style his own hair, he was used to stylists and servants.

You needed a Xanax. Aegon probably had some stashed around. You called on the fire god again for good measure. Fuck.

Chapter 1

[chromiumagellanic06]

The Silver Knight: Warrior, Princess, Wife

Daemon Targaryen/Original Fem [Targaryen] Character

Chapter 11: A Feast

MASTERLIST

Summary: A feast. A dance. An interruption. A failure.

Word count: 3.4k

Warnings: nothing, really

Wine, food, silk gowns and garners, jewels and gold, and luxury were all Daemon saw. There were glasses, silver forks and knives, and the finest, most delectable foods of the realm, and there was laughter and lavish glee and music. There were servants passing around aged cheeses and tropical fruits, pouring sweet wine, and nobles dancing to the bard’s songs and music. There were torches and candles, and there was a golden glow to it all, while his wife alone gleamed silver.

Naera had changed out of her gown covered in horse shit and wet mud, and into a dress of white and grey accents, with diamonds as jewels, though the shine always evaded her, and braids in half her hair. She looked like a bride—ethereal, enchanting, enticing, with her bared neck and smooth skin—oh, he was actively resisting the urge to just consume her.

Daemon saw the way the men stared at her—it was the way the women stared at him, only but that ladies were trained to hide their lust and men were far too privileged to feel the need to shield theirs. He would repay them one day, but tubis daor—not today, when he sat beside his niece, his Valyrian Bride of pure descent, his beautiful lady wife who had defeated him just hours prior.

It made him burn, in a way not at all unpleasant—not at all unwanted, for he knew what would come after the droll of the banquet. He’d consume her completely, and make her his.

Right.

Their plan.

Fuck.

Daemon held her hand under the table, leaning towards Naera as she conversed with her father, and he whispered, “What of our…Naera?”

She turned her head towards him too fast, and he felt the burn of her silver-gold hair brushing against his face too fast, but she smiled at the end of it, as a wedded woman would on the banquet of her union, and said, “Is the boy drinking?”

Daemon passed a glance towards the end of the table. Aegon sat pouring a near endless stream of wine down his throat—Dornish Red, as Naera had specified to the kitchens, and a very special kind indeed that was a lot stronger than it seemed at a taste. Elysabeth Tyrell sat beside him, joking and smiling and bantering as a young lady is expected to do. Perfect.

“Yes,” he smiled fondly, turning back to Naera.

“Well, we must wait, then,” Naera winked, carefree, but not careless, with pride and freedom, and he held her hand tighter.

“Happy with ourselves, are we?” Daemon teased her victory. “You may not always win, Naera,” and he kissed her cheek, innocent to those who crowded the banquet hall, but it set something aflame within Naera. She clutched his hand, now sweaty, and sighed a calming breath onto herself.

“Are you suggesting that you went easy, kepus? I think not,” and she ran a finger down the healing cut across his cheek. She took a mouthful of sour Dornish wine, and leaned her shoulders just a sliver towards him. Daemon wrapped his arm around her tighter, and let his breath flutter across her neck.

Naera shivered, cheeks flushing. 

Daemon began, “I shall not lie—”

“What, are you too honourable for it?” Naera jabbed with a laugh, “Lies get you very far, Daemon. Lies made me a rich woman, in a walled city across the seas.” There was pride in her voice and none of the honour that spilled out of a northerner when you stabbed them. He was entranced by it, by her brazen hubris over being dishonourable.

“Where?” Volantis, perhaps? Where those descended from Valyrians lived within obsidian walls, and she had declared them dislikeable, thus she knew them with certainty.

“One day,” she repeated his words, grinning, smiling, laughing in all but those wine-stained lips. Ah, those lips, and he was leaning forth to grant himself a chaste peck, just a taste of her smooth, supple skin, of her delightful self.

“Princess Naera, Prince Daemon,” a strong Dornish accent drew them away from their thoughts. It was a boy, young, younger than Aemond, with caramel brown skin and wavy hair. He was dressed in embroidered red and silver, to honour the family the best he could, but the obligation of the situation was as clear as possible. They had come only for Naera, and not for House Targaryen.

“Prince Qyle,” Naera greeted the member of the Dornish company who had chosen to attend the wedding. Prince Qyle was the firstborn son of Prince Qoren Martell, as well as his second heir, should he need one, following Princess Aliandra. Given when she had departed from Dorne, she had not met the young boy at all.

“My father, Prince Qoren, sends his congratulations on your marriage,” the young boy, the prince, spoke aloud to the music and chatter of the feast. “He…he asked me tell you that he has…” Qyle was unable to voice the words, for they made him uncomfortable, nearly ashamed, even.

Silence fell on the King’s table as Viserys turned to the blossoming hesitation in the Dornish prince.

“Yes?” Naera leaned forward, smiling as a visiting adult would to a shy little baby, encouragingly, and sipped some more wine.

“Prince Qoren has kept on his rehearse of the lance with vigour, is what he asked me to relay to you.” The nervousness in Prince Qyle’s face drained him as Naera threw her head back with a delighted laugh—euphonious, delicate, like a blooming flower in the midst of spring that is laced with morning dew and sparkles beneath the dawn sun—perfection.

He smiled at her, at the boy who chuckled also, and she responded, “Tell him for me, Prince Qyle…that if he can name the Houses of the Vale whilst honing his skill with the spears, I shall be rather impressed, indeed.” Naera grinned at her old good brother’s son, no, at her old would-have-been good brother’s son. Her good brother now was— “Oh, your grace, my dear good brother,” and Daemon held his laughter, “I believe I must send a most beautiful spear to Dorne with the group as a present, and, of course, a list of the Houses of the Vale—”

“Thank you, my princess,” and Qyle excused himself with a smile, on to question whether he would have such a friendship with his own good siblings when he had some. If Alicent Hightower and Laenor Velaryon were anyone to go by, Daemon would bargain that Naera was a special case indeed. She was friendly and brave, and beautiful and daring, and cunning as she was wise—perfect.

Naera leaned back into his arms, watching the dancers bow and circle and spin in delight. The alcohol had taken hold on, for it was obvious she had lost some clarity in her actions and her thoughts.

“Do you wish to dance?” Daemon asked when the child prince left them to their wine and dine.

“Can you dance?” Naera referred to the horrendous stab wound his leg had suffered at her behest. Daemon wrapped an arm around her shoulders again—perhaps, just to burn the minds of whoever desired her as his own—and leaned close to her neck again.

“Do you believe me this weak? Angoda iksan, ābrazyrys,” I am offended, wife, and Naera couldn’t suppress the blush that overtook her at his words. She felt a breeze of the coldest winter brush past her face, in that they made goosebumps scatter across all her skin.

She stood up, taking Daemon by the hand, “Pār, ivestragī īlva lilagon, valzyrys,” Then, let us dance, husband, and Daemon shuddered at the words—delightful, an irenic, tristful endeavour that calmed his beating heart but set it ablaze all the same. He stood suppressing a yelp, hiding a hiss, if only to not let her win once again—there would be a lifetime for that, for he’d never leave her go.

Daemon held her hand and wondered why hers were always colder than his. He watched her spin around her chair, and she dragged him along, towards the open spaces crowded with nobles and guests, who had all paused frozen at their arrival. A few of them backed away as they approached, and others joined the crowd to share a dance with the day’s beauty. He watched, out of the corner of his eye, at Elysabeth Tyrell leading Aegon to the floor himself, at the silly, dazed smile on his face, enchanted.

The bards began a slow, shrill tune, one he hadn’t heard before, and he took Naera’s cold hand again, holding her waist with the other. She rested her hand on his arm, an inch past his shoulder—correct. He wondered who had had the pleasure of teaching her the dances.

Naera swayed a step with the music, eyes calmly closed in peace, and with the clutter of her shoes against the marble floors, she began her dance. The tune grew faster, and he dragged his lady wife to follow the dance he just knew how to perform. She moved with the tranquillity of a seasoned dancer, as though she had been dancing her entire life. She swirled and twirled and spun like a cat—agile, slender, and elegant. Like her sword-fighting, Daemon realised.

She danced with the sword as she did with him, pivoting at just the correct moments, bending and dipping low in response to his own movements which appeared stiff in comparison. He followed her tugs for a change, ignoring the stabbing pains in his knee, and he wished his wound did not bleed once again, for he could not stop now. He could only aid, help, and be the consort to her free musings.

He gazed, and gazed, and thought, and thought, of the gold and the silver that twinkled in her purple eyes, and he asked, with his own identical eyes, he told, as well as he could, you are beautiful, and Daemon clenched her waist close, leaning close, closer and closest, to watch her eyes flicker and darken, to feel her flesh warm beneath him, burning.

Naera gasped small, shuddering breaths, her lips parted in a broken smile, her lips, which were painted the perfect shade between rouge and rosewood, with not a smudge out of place and not a whisper out of sound. Perfect. She pivoted her weight on a single foot, her chest rising and falling with tumultuous breathing, her chest, her bodice, her jewel and her lace, adorning her waist and her rounded breasts—Zyhon litse ābra—his fair woman, and his heart shuddered, his blood rushed to pleasant places at the thoughts.

“Ñuha gevie ābra,” he whispered close to her ears, and Daemon felt his face warm too far, he felt his hands sweat profusely as they held hers, he saw the shimmer in her eyes, and he knew, my beautiful woman.

Naera averted her eyes, her pale cheeks red, redder and reddest with the rush of blood, and perhaps, he hoped, lust, pressing her lips into a thin line, wetting them, making them shine, and his Silver Knight twirled away in sync with the song, and fell back in his arms with ardour, as the music came to standing still. She curtsied as a woman is expected, and he bowed in respect to his lady wife.

Daemon rested his hands on her shoulders, and let them drag up, up, up her delicate neck which he would scar himself, and the ivory skin, and cupped her cheeks—her burning face, and he leaned forward and brushed his lips against Naera’s. Her face was tender, as were her lips—gentle, soft and welcoming, unlike everything she had been just hours ago. Oh, just hours ago when she had defeated him with more ease than the Hightower’s cunt had all those years ago. Perfect. She was perfect.

 “I wish the royal couple all the fortune of this world,” they turned to face a man in indigo garb, silks and satin, with dark, curly hair ending at his ears, and a face with a twisted nose. The man smiled, as expected, and bowed a fraction as a display of allegiance.

Daemon let his hands drop, and Naera responded, “Thank you, my Lord…” but it was obvious that she couldn’t recognise the man. Daemon couldn’t, either.

 “Akka, davra atthirar, Khaleesi,” He understood the words, or rather, he heard them, but could not determine their meaning.  

“What did you call me?” Naera asked, her voice barely a whimper over the music that had already encompassed the room again. He saw her shudder, her hands shook, and her jaw trembled.

The man smiled, dark, “Khaleesi, ven’r hash,” and the Dothraki words rolled off the man’s tongue in a way more natural than his lips ever seemed. Daemon could not understand a word, but the tone, the tenure was hostile. Threatening.

Naera spoke the words with fluency, might, fight, with power, and the harsh words spoken by Naera’s lips seemed the same as the finest Valyrian poetry to Daemon. He sensed panic, however, in the way Naera clutched the white lace of her gown, her breathing bated, her eyes set on the lord who had just arrived.

“Naera?” Daemon watched the noble lord cautiously, unable to recognise any crests or emblems in his features, cursing himself for never learning the languages of the east. Dothraki, she spoke the language of the Dothraki.

“Sek,” the man agreed, speaking slow and drawling, yes, “Vosma yer addrivat jin khal Roq’ko—Haji yer hash jin Khaleesi,” Daemon recognised the word again—Khaleesi—a Queen of the Dothraki. Naera squeezed a handful of her gown, wrinkling the fabric irrevocably. She was afraid, the first time since Wisestone’s disappearance, he noticed. She was afraid.  

“Here,” the man smiled, as though no fear reached his face, no fright sweated his skin, and he spoke once again in the common tongue, “A gift for the princess of the Seven Kingdoms,” and the man, the noble lord, led them to the doors without, to the cold corridors leading up to the rooms. The guards were missing, Daemon noted, as a pitch-black chest was handed to Naera.

Naera fiddled with the steel clasps cautiously, perhaps only because her hands trembled uncontrollably. Daemon let his warm hand cover hers, and she sighed at his actions. She did not face him, but her gratitude was taken nonetheless. She cracked open the onyx chest, throwing back the covers, and Daemon’s blood ran cold.

It was a face—a face he had never seen, and he thought back to her drunken squalor the other night when she had recalled the tale of a man who wished to hack her face off. No.

No, but caution must colour every action in King’s Landing, and Naera held down Daemon’s hand, for she knew how he’d react. She was right to do it, for Daemon did not take to it well—he eyed the thin, parchment and silk-like mask with sun-dyed skin, and lips, and closed eyes, and dark hair, and structure. It was a face, but just a carving of it, as though someone had taken great care to flay a man of his face and preserve it also.

Naera did not move, barely breathed. She only gazed, and gazed, and gazed, and closed the chest with a thud. The man did not speak. He did not smile. He stood there, motionless, watching, waiting.

Naera spoke first, adopting another tongue he had never heard before, and spat out a dozen words too fast for him to register. Then, she turned to him, the chest clattering on the floor, and she held his hands, leaned close, and said, “Nyke jorrāelagon ao naejot nārhēdegon bisa, Daemon,” I need you to forget this, Daemon.

“Naera, skoros…” what?

“Daor, kepus, rȳbagon,” No, uncle, listen, and her face had paled beyond health, her eyes were no longer pools of dark lust, instead only shallow splatters of fear. He glanced at the man—the man who had feared her, ignoble, lanky, weak, and yet he threatened her as so. “Nyke jorrāelagon ao naejot dōrī ȳdragon hen bisa, dōrī pendagon hen ziry, sesīr…” I need you to never speak of this, never think of it, even… “Dōrī ivestragon mire issaros ken skoros ao ūndan.” Never tell any person of what you saw.

Never speak of this, that a false lord had called her queen and gifted her a face of a man, and she had cowered in fear, never think of it, as though he was the strongest man alive—as though he could resist the thoughts, never tell any person of what you saw, and he would do it all. For her, it was little to fulfil.

“Kostagon gaomā bona syt nyke, kepus?” Can you do that for me, uncle? Her voice was trodden and strangled, as though her heart had jumped up to her throat, as though it threatened to lurch out of her, as though endless dread churned within her. Fear, for him? A fear he had not witnessed in her before. A fear that came out of a life well lived when the terrors of a childhood tale no longer bothered, for the greatest evils have been seen and felt and lived. What has she seen? What has she done, that destroyed her? And with calm, and decisiveness, Daemon accepted. He'd know it all, soon enough. 

“Issa, ābrazȳrys,” Yes, wife. He nodded, slow, gazing cautiously at her sweat-laden face, at her trembling, cold fingers.

The man was gone. The chest remained.

“Thank you,” she whispered, “One day,” she quoted him, relief washing through her, calming her, warming her hands and cooling her mind at the same time, “I shall tell you every tale.” A promise.

She sent the chest back to her solar, paired with the express order to leave it closed, and she returned to the corridor outside the banquet hall, holding Daemon’s hands, fear drained thus.

“Naera, I…” he had a question—just one, and surely, she would answer him. “Who was he?” He asked, harmless, for he could not be faulted for forgetting the name of a lord.

“No one,” Naera answered quickly, shaking her head, interrupting any thoughts he may have had, “One day, kepus, you must believe me, it was no one,” and the way she said the words retained the ominous absolution to them he recalled from those nights past. Faces, no one, flaying?

Hark, footsteps, clicking and clacking of timber heels against the marble. Elysabeth Tyrell approached them with a sour face. Her rose-coloured gown was stained with a spill of red wine by the side, though the patterning hardly striked hard enough to scandal.

She stopped before them, grasping Naera by the forearm, she leaned close to them, and said, with an annoyance beyond words, “The boy’s asleep.” Defeated, they were, it seemed.

Naera sighed, her shoulders slacking, face dulling, “Thank you for trying…I…” she shook her head, the panic and fear had left her dizzy. Daemon held her shoulders with care. Naera turned to smile, bleak, but something told him that half a glass of wine worth its gold would chase away these thoughts well enough.

“Oh,” Elysabeth smirked, brown curls waving, “It was a daft plan, by all means,” and Daemon flinched at her bluntness. “Come up with something better when you’re finished gazing lovingly at each other, will you?” Yet, the Rose’s glance was sinful and suggestive, passing a blame most carelessly owned by them both. They had been far too distracted to think of a better scheme.

Naera sighed through her nose, biting her lower lip, blushing, and he would be a liar if he claimed that he did not also. Naera chuckled, “Thank you, nonetheless,” of the fun you have lost, which you would have lived by after Aegon was slapped in the face by his whore of a mother.

“Oh,” Elysabeth laughed in glee, and when her eyes dropped to where their hands lay tightly clasped, she spoke with a deviant tenure, “I most certainly intend to have my fun, still, Naera,” and with a look of intemperate evil, she pulled at Daemon’s arm which was closer to her, and turned to the hall, “I believe it is time for the bedding!”

MASTERLIST

[absurdthirst]

Okay….which story to drop next….

The Carnal Checklist {Marcus Pike}

The Power of Persuasion {Max Phillips}

First Come Marriage {Agent Whiskey}

The Assassin and the Cam Girl {Dave York}

The Cinderella Effect {Javier Peña}

Accidentally Mrs. Bravo {Dieter Bravo}

One Night on Tatooine {Mando}

Pink Powder & Diamonds {Ezra}

Protective Big Brother {Frankie Morales}

One Night Leads to Forever {Max Phillips}

The Dornish Sun {Oberyn Martell}

Landlord From Hell {Frankie Morales}

Married to the Mafia {Dave York}

Crossing Enemy Lines {Max Phillips}

A Fork in the Road {Dieter Bravo}

[unpun1shable]

Dreaming in Rouge- Chapter 1

“Diamonds are a girl’s best… friend…”

Word Count: 3.1k.

Moulin Rouge!AU - Christian!Aemond - Pretentious! Aemond - Satine!Reader - Miscommunication - Sex Work - Not Beta Read.

Last Part , Next Part.

Read On AO3.

Aemond was never a fan of smoking. Pipes were far too eccentric for his tastes. A flashy, winding piece of ivory to wave around in others faces. Cigars were fat and obnoxious. Puffing thick, black clouds of tobacco. Cigarettes? Once an indulgence for the elite tainted by mass production. Now, it was a pleasure for both the wealthy and penniless man.

Tonight, Aemond was most certainly a penniless man. A small, white stick pursed between thin lips. Legs bent and body curled on the windowsill. Smoke drifting out after long drags. Amethyst eyes lazily scanning the nightly crowd.

Three days had passed since Aemond arrived in Pentos. Three days into this little stakeout. Three days since he had lied to his mother in writing. Having spent the little coin he had for a carriage ride to King’s Landing, a ship to Dragonstone, and another ship across the Narrow Sea from there. That- along with some minor bribing and a dingy motel room across from the “Moulin Rouge”- left the boy with nothing but a few coppers to weigh down his pockets.

The streets of Pentos were reminiscent of King’s Landing, in a way. Aemond had been taken to Oldtown with his mother at a young age. However, with what he knew of King’s Landing from visits over the years to see his ailing father, Aemond saw the same, square buildings toppled over one another and running down slopes. The red light district, in particular, just had an aura of patheticness. Its inhabitants clawing and clawing to this unreachable point. In Pentos it was beggars of skin and pleasure, instead of politics and power. He supposed the only difference, other than that, was that the air of Pentos only vaguely smelt of excrement.

That was, until he heard the wind carry in from the north. A soft, running hymnal carried along on its bite. It was like a bell in the fog. A siren’s song to a wandering, bereft sailor. It caught the boy’s ear in a snatching grip. The delicate, winding hum distracts Aemond from his makeshift stakeout. His gaze shifted from damp streets to the compound that was the Moulin Rouge.

His eye befell the giant, center building of the compound. An elephant. One that he’d find himself staring at for no reason at all these past few days. Something about that building just jumped out of the skyline and grabbed him. Like poetry from the page- it took hold of his brain. Not even the echoed sounds of pleasure and excitement from the main theater of the Moulin Rouge could keep his attention. He’d come attuned to blocking it out after the second day in the city.

A heart-shaped balcony. A peak of deep, wine red. A curved silhouette against dim candlelight.

“Diamonds are a girl’s best… friend…”

The next morning, Aemond woke to the sun sitting high in the sky. The ascension of noon, and the fall of drywall. The starch, white fiber coating the sleeping man and causing him to jolt awake in a coughing fit. A passed out dornish man dangling from the broken ceiling as Aemond was curled up on his side in the dusty bed.

This led to Aemond’s current state. Clad in a sleeping blouse and a pair of breeches in a motel room that was certainly as dingy and cramped as his, but was filled to the brim with set designs and props. The grumbling blonde ignored by the band of hyperactive thespians who woke him from his sleep in the first place.

The one who roped Aemond into all of this, the dangling dornish, was splayed out over a mattress. A narcoleptic, he learned. One who was meant to play some… goat herder? The sets constructed like the alps of Sweden. A pint-sized man, Mushroom, shushing Aemond’s complaints as the four thespians were caught in a heated debate.

“The hills are animated-”

“The hills are vital-”

“The hills are incarnate-”

The thespians preened and droned. Dragging over their words as if they were trying to be artistic for arts sake. Not because it was what truly came from them. It was an imitation. Trying, desperately, to breathe the bohemian whimsy. Long words that bumbled over one another for no other point than sounding complicated.

“- euphonious symphony…”

“- intoning the descant…”

“- symphonic melodies…”

It was like a spit of fire. The flick of a match against red phosphorus. Aemond, who had just come to berate the bumbling playwrights, snapped above them all. The writer deep within him, the sense of superiority instilled in him from Oldtown, roared above all else. Flaring and rearing its ugly head as he watched these “wanna-be poets” twist and tangle their tongues.

“The hills are alive! Gods damn it, just say the hills are alive!”

***

First light for a whore came well into the afternoon. Body sore from the night before and makeup smeared. No second wasted. Not when it came to Illyrio. No diamond was left unpolished beneath his gaze. Each performer was up, practicing and cinched into tight costumes. Flaking powder puffed like a chipping building painted over with a new coat. Deep charcoal set to the water lines. Rouge adorning lips and cheeks as noon turned to dusk.

“The gods lonely men pray too” Illyrio would look at his dancers and preen, strutting around like a proud cock amongst the hens. Well, not all hens. The Moulin catered to all tastes. Evident by the prim, stark blonde by your side.

“Use the brown lip and then dab most of it off with a napkin. It’ll add some depth to your natural pink.” You tried to guide Aegon as you sat in side by side vanities. Both primping for first shift. Eventually, though, you reached a point you couldn’t sit back and watch the grungy boy fumble. Instead, you perched your rear on the wood of the vanity. Hands fussing over delicate, porcelain, Valyrian features. Trying to simultaneously tame and bring the man’s silver locks to life. Keep the dog on a muzzle but let it bark a little. Nurse the poison in small doses to keep it desirable. Heavy enough to drag you through the muck but light enough to keep you feeling high. The never ending balance of a man’s impossible fantasy.

“Stop fussing over him and get to yourself, darling.” An old whore turned madame, Saera, scolded you. She was a veteran of the streets. A mother of fledgling whores. A fledgling you still were, but more like that of a raven. Staying behind to help Mama and Papa with the new hatchlings still in the nest, even though your wings were still growing themself.

“I still have a long time before I have to go on in the middle of the number, Marie. Aeg’s barely got his pantyhose on and he has to go out first.” You laughed to the older woman as the boy himself scowled. It was always a fine line with Aegon. The boy was like the tides come to life. Coming in with unstoppable force one second and pulling out with a rip the next. Constantly toeing between pushing for affection and scratching at the hands that pet him. Like a little kitten, sopping wet from the rain.

“I may be a whore but I'm no cross-dresser!” Aegon huffed, standing up with his white, form fitting tee clinging to thin skin. A pair of black trousers trailing down long legs, set with a pair of jeweled suspenders. “That was one time!” He adds at your knowing look, already guessing the cheeky quip that was about to fall from your lips.

Truth be told, Aegon was a bit of a prude. The boy had some leftover Westerosi shame hiding between the layers of his flesh. Creeping like crawling ivy. But once he was on the floor, there was no denying the light in those shining, purple eyes. Like he had just smoked straight from the opium pipe. Like an addict with a bottle. He found something on the stage, something you did not see. Something that kept him coming back.

“One time I'd pay to see again” You smirk. “You looked like a little doll in that pink slip, even if you stank of rum” A bubbling giggle accompanied by shaking shoulders. Saera half heartedly swatting you with a hanky to play nice. Aegon sends you a narrowed glare. Such a soft warmth hidden behind costume fabric, fishnets, and spotlights.

***

“Mission accomplished, we have successfully invaded seat one.” Mushroom gave an impish grin. One that Aemond already hated, despite knowing the dwarf for only an hour or more. The man was a fool. One that belonged in a bouncing hat adorned with bells. A deluded little creature, as well. One that had him dressed in gentleman’s garb and snuck into this den of red lights and debauchery.

If there were two words to wrap up the dizzying experience of the Moulin Rouge, it would be “a show.” Every aspect of it was a performance. One that came bright and bold and all encompassing. Diamond dogs run around, the can can resounding in ears and feet.

“Here we are now, here we are now…”

“Can can can can can…”

After only hearing the sounds of the night for three days, Aemond had to say the show up close was just as… noisy. The girls ran and swayed and bucked on the floor. Their skirts turned up to show the garments that laid beneath. He supposed they were meant to look like flower petals revealing the bud beneath. However, to Aemond’s eye, it was like a chimpanzee curling up their lip. Baring yellowed teeth in some barbaric mating ritual.

He was not a fan, to say the least. Much less when he caught sight of the ringleader. A man of curling hair and white, painted face. A garish clown, pumping his cane into the air. Repeating that same word “can” over and over and over again.

For some reason, Aemond thought of Helaena in the midst of the storm. He wondered how she would’ve reacted to this display. Perhaps she would have jolted away like she does from mother’s touch. Curled up with her hands over her ears. Perhaps she would look at the dancers like she looks at her prized bugs. She did seem to like controlled chaos. Twirling and swaying to the drums of string bands at feasts she chose to attend.

“Exquisite! Incanfederous! You two simply must write the show together” Mushroom had cheered when Aemond spoke his piece on their lyricism. “Oh! We should take you to our star! I’m sure she would adore you, considering how she primps over that other Valyrian boy.”

That was what had drawn Aemond in. The simple mention of his brother had him with his nose to the ground like a pig after truffles. He had to bring Aegon home. Back to his mother and back to Helaena. That was why he was in this city of sin. That was why he was dressed in the narcoleptic dornishman’s best suit and down a cup of absinthe. That was why he was in this noisy den. For Alicent and for Helaena. Nothing else.

That was, until the world was doused in blue. For a moment, he thought the green drink had taken him. This was it, this was death. I’ve been killed by a thespian dwarf whose weapon of choice is a bottle of liquor. A shining light bathed the writer in its encompassing glow. That soft, supple hum from the winds the night before reaching his ears.

“The Pentoshi are glad to die for love…”

That voice. That silhouette once a wine red now a moonlight blue. Caressing and enveloping him like a baptism. A tunneling wave breaking above the surf.

***

“Is lord Tyland here?” You ask, heaving and full of nerves. Crouched in a circle of upturned, ruffled skirts. Switching from the blue jewels and black canvas to pink lace and white fur.

“Of course he is- just for you, my little kitty cat” Illyrio said with one of his famous grins. One that could trick death itself.

“Will he invest?” That question comes first as you shimy the top of the corset. Tugging to get it to fit your chest just right.

“After a night with you, my darling? A man would buy the moon.”

“What do you think’s his fancy?” A furrow caught your brow as you spoke. “Wilting flower?” A soft whimper and a pout. Eyes up like a doe in the grass. “Bright and bubbly” A beaming grin and giggles. Shoulders rising and falling and body lilting to the side. “Or a smoldering temptress?” A cocky grin and a growl. Eyes half-lidded and predatory.

“I’d say smoldering temptress” Illyrio smirks, fussing over your features. “We’re all relying on you. Remember, leave him satisfied and leave him-”

“With his balls empty- yes, I remember” A dismissive giggle left your lips. Then, it was time for the show to go on. Illyrio and you popping out of the ring of diamond dogs like the prized pieces of a cornucopia.

“Which one is lord Tyland?” You turn your head to the side to whisper. Back to back as your hands rock in side to side arches. Your hips following the movement of the song.

“In the booths in seat one- pale hair and light eyes.” Illyrio returns and spins around. The man takes you by the arms and spins you. You only have one chance to catch a glance at the velvet nooks. A shimmering, lilac eye and flowing, silver hair catching your gaze like a moth to a flame. A light emanating from that single eye more intense than any seen in two. Holding your form in its possession like a knife.

“Oh, light eye’s an understatement” You mumble, before Illyrio throws you to the VIP section. The costume was a subtle nod to the god, Pantera. Adorning six tails instead of six breasts. Plush pink and creamy whites adorning the furs that sprouted forth from your backside in a ruffling arch. The tails sway as you swing your hips. Putting on a show for the man that would make all your dreams come true.

“I believe you were expecting me?”

***

You were a whirlwind. A temptress. A feline who had him caught between your teeth like a pitiful mouse. Sprouting out of a bloom of skirts and pantyhose. Bursting through it like life from a womb. A shining, radiant, splendored thing.

“I believe you were expecting me?” That voice came like a purr. Lidded, wanting eyes staring through him. Making Aemond excruciatingly aware of just what he was. Skin and bones. A sack of skin, bones, and blood at your feet. At the mercy of your fingers that brushed down his chest.

“We should take you to our star!” Mushroom’s earlier words break through his sputtering mind. The machine is on and reeling but the cogs are not exactly turning. Or, perhaps they turned too fast and all flew off.

“Yes!” He said, eager like a boy with a wrapped present. Desperate to just get something out instead of sitting there with his lips parted and collecting flies. Before he remembered himself. A wave of embarrassment and shame became the man as he coughed and regained his normal pitch. “Yes, I-”

“I see you already met my Westerosi friend” Mushroom cut in, from his spot by Aemond.

You were like a spitfire, grabbing Aemond before he himself could even process it. Hauling him off, not even listening to the drunken dwarf as he called out.

“He writes the world’s most modern poems!” Mushroom’s words fell on deaf ears. Your siren’s song of flesh calling to Aemond like a feast to a starved man. His feet forced to fall in line with the cacophony of steps. Stiff and unsure. This was not like the dancing of Westeros. The fluttering sways and brushing touch. Your form encapsulated him. Rough canvas against his borrowed suit. Legs so close they almost intertwined. So wrong. So, so wrong. Burning his skin like forbidden knowledge. Burning.

“So wonderful for you to take an interest in our little show” Your voice rolled over the second word. Catching it in your mouth and rumbling the syllables. Tossing it over your tongue to vibrate against Aemond’s ear and send a buzz straight through his body.

“You two simply must write the show together!”

“Oh” Aemond cleared his throat, on his toes to keep up with your flurry. Your movements were like a storm. Pushing and pulling and swaying and shaking like the winds of a hurricane. How blessed he was, to be in its eye. How cursed he was, to think it a blessing. “I assume he told you it would be a private… poetry reading… of sorts. But, I-”

“Ohhh” You giggled after a second, cutting the man off. “Hm. A poetry reading? I do love a little wordplay.” Gods, that voice. It curled around Aemond and held him like savory molasses. Like a pool of tempting, shimmering tar tearing him from faith.

“I shall dine on your words tonight.” The promise burnt his skin like a brand. Aemond’s entire being stuck to your form as your palms dragged down his chest. Drawing him in so tantalizingly close before pushing him away. Like a fleeting night of drinks and passion, followed by a heavy, withering withdrawal. Aemond’s legs simply were not the man’s own as they stumbled back and his ass landed on the upholstery of the private booth. Your form swung and drawn away, effortlessly taken to the skies by trapeze.

“… Who was that?” The words fell from Aemond’s voice. Well, no, not Aemond’s voice. This was not the prim and proper man of Westeros. This was… trembling. Breathless like a newborn. Quivering in naked vulnerability.

“That?” Mushroom, whom Aemond even forgot existed for a moment, spoke. A look of momentary confusion on his face, before a knowing, impish grin replaced it. “Ohh, that, good sir, is the shining diamond. Stage Name: Satine.”

“Satin?” Aemond echoed, looking down at the dwarf.

“Satine” Mushroom corrected.

What a stupid name, Aemond thought to himself. Adding an extra flair just to give it that bohemian twist. However, the man did admit… it fits you perfectly. That soft, smooth voice. Those legs, dangling from the edge of the trapeze. One hand brushing over the crowd of reaching men. Just grazing their fingers, so close yet out of reach. A beaming smile fluttering about the theater in an arching circle.

Petite Mort.

[starcrossedjedis]

hi! mumfriend! i was wondering what your thoughts are on having an oc and then finding out there are others who have the same name for their oc as yours? or same faceclaim part of same family x canon pairing? is there an etiquette or protocol or understanding? wanting to get into fandom and sharing my fics again instead of just rambling to my significant other and keeping them for myself. i haven't really been involved since i was a teen, now well into my 20s lol

hello! 😊

first of Imma need to preface this reply saying that a) we always need more OCs and more creators, so of course you should share what you have <3 and b) naturally I cannot speak for the whole community on this, but at least in my little bubble of the community here's how we roll-

(under a cut, because long answer, obviously)

FCs are all up for grabs. always. We all scramble for resources and we all go where they are good. eg I can't go "Oh Bruna Marquezine as Catarina de Lurton has such a beautiful aesthetic for a Dornish OC" and then be pissed when others use her, too. The number of FCs is finite, overlaps happen and that's nothing to be mad about.

I'd say - personally, for me - the same goes for names. I spent literal days in the alphabetized "Westerosi names for Women" list to find Elyana's name. Poor Discord girlies really suffered those days. I was so, so happy and proud when I decided on Elyana, made my first edit, posted and THEN realised that one of Madz's Dornish Diamonds was called Elyana as well 😬 It happens. We see or hear names we think are pretty and sometimes we don't even realise we might have seen them on another OC.

Now for the last bit - the background/story aspects - I think this is where it gets a little bit trickier to navigate. And again, just my very own. very personal opinion -

we all play in other ppl's sandboxes with our fanfictions. that comes with limitations or in world circumstances that are the same for us with all our OCs. So there are things that are bound to overlap - would I get mad at everyone else who has an OC who is friends with Lily Evans and/or the Marauders and ends up with Sirius Black, just because that is the premise for my girl Moira? No.

Now, if someone had an OC who is friends with Lily Evans and/or the Marauders, ends up with Sirius Black, has a daughter with him, wants to become a nurse, but then decides to lead a hermit's life instead after Sirius is imprisoned and ends up homeschooling her Sirius-Lookalike daughter while selling herbs for potion making and wood for wand making? Now THAT would prompt me to seek a conversation with that person 😅

Long story short - the universe is infinite, resources are not and as long as you don't lift whole chunks of background/story/plot from other people's OCs, you're good 😉

[reignfms]

𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 ,  robin  !  the dornish kingdom awaits the arrival of aravis baratheon within the next 24 hours or risk reopening. the following fc(s) are now taken: coco jones

⟨ coco jones. female. she/her. twenty-seven. ⟩ we welcome aravis baratheon to king’s landing, the lady of storm’s end. keep an eye out for their manipulative nature, they tend to cover it up by acting valiant. rumor has it they are against the peace treaty, and their loyalties lie with house baratheon. you’ll know it’s them when you get flashes of genuine laughter, the sound of hooves pacing hard against the sand, diamonds  so bright they look like snow . — robin. she/her. 25+. est.

[whiskeynwriting]

Entertain Me

Oberyn Martell x Female Reader

◆

Kinktober 10/21/2021: Entertainment

Kinktober 2021 Masterlist

◆

Word count: 2.9k

Warnings: 18+ (minors DNI) dirty talk, slight praise kink, use of aphrodisiacs, use of lube/body oil, masturbation, some booty stuff (m receiving, if it don’t catch your eye then scroll on by), handjob, vaginal sex.

◆

A/N: Good GOD I’d do anything to please this man. This fic can 110% be tied directly to the Insatiable Series. Enjoy my lovelies!

… should I make a part two? Or add this into the series maybe?

◆

Oberyn Martell Masterlist

Join My Taglist!

◆

 It was something you’d never done for him before, and truthfully, you have no excuse as to why you haven’t. Oberyn spoiled you relentlessly, appeasing your every desire or need, pleasing you in ways you could never even comprehend. The man might as well be a god, because in your eyes… he absolutely was.

You’d been planning this night for weeks, each and every detail tailored to the prince’s liking. His favorite scent was currently diffusing, the oil wafting a pleasant aroma through the air. You’d bathed, rubbing a light cream across your skin with a similar scent. You kept your hair down, knowing Oberyn loved it best when fully displayed. Your makeup was done, too, a natural tone to every shade applied.

Lastly, you adorned your body in simple, silver chains. The body jewelry was small and light, littered with small diamonds here and there. The sequences of silver loops covered your shoulders, running down your outer biceps, as well as down your front and looping around your breasts. There was a string that dangled down your back, too. A small detail you thought he’d especially appreciate was the chain sitting snug around your left thigh, a long snake hanging from the band. The jewelry did nothing to cover your most intimate parts, though, that wasn’t necessarily the point. For now, you cover yourself in a short, black robe.

You shiver with excitement, smirking to yourself while you light the candles around the room. A few larger, taller ones sit on the floor, while others adorn the tops of the multiple dressers and countertops throughout the room. The mood was now set beautifully. The dim light reflects off the colorfully glass stained along the chamber’s walls, the pleasant scent filling the air in the most wonderful of ways. The bed had also been made; each lavish pillow set before the next. The prince’s most desired Dornish wine sits in a pale of ice with two glasses on either side.

Oberyn was more than knowledgeable, and more than experienced when it came to your intimate acts. But tonight, you wanted to show him what you’ve learned, to have him sit back and relax while you take care of him. He found desire in many ways, and you’re prepared to fulfill those needs. You’ve gathered the many oils and lubricants from the prince’s collection, setting them out on a silver tray laid out on the bed.

Lastly, you had ordered an array of snacks for the two of you to enjoy. Oberyn enjoyed many meals, but he had a certain taste for aphrodisiacs. Milena, one of your closest servants, had rolled the cart with your various of treats. There were small bowls holding each type of berry you could buy, along with melted chocolate, figs, and cut up bananas.

“Okay,” you whisper, bringing your palms together and holding them to your lips, carefully analyzing the room. “I think everything is set.”

While waiting for your fiancé, you lay out on the bed, bringing the bowl of raspberries with you. But just as you get cozy, Oberyn walks in. You glance up at him, a wide smile on your lips upon seeing your most fanatic lover. Immediately, he glances around the room, closing the door behind him with a look of confusion crossing his face. when his eyes land on you, the corners of his mouth perk up, curling mischievously as he strolls to your side.

“Inamorata…” he mumbles lowly, reaching down to hold your chin between his thumb and forefinger.

You’re laid on your stomach, resting atop the sheets while staring up at the prince. He sighs out, a happy sound as he admires his bride-to-be.

“What is all of this?” he asks, his tone light and curious.

“It’s for you.” you purr, moving up to rest on your knees.

Oberyn’s fingers slide along your jaw, his palm eventually resting against your cheek. He strokes you gently, his heart pounding with love. But then, he notices, sees the small flash of jewelry on your body. His smile fades, his eyes trailing lower to follow the trail of small, silver loops. The prince’s hand drops from your face, landing on your shoulder and sliding the black fabric off your body.

Your smile doesn’t fade, not in the slightest as he begins to undress you. His lower lip drops when your robe falls from your skin. You’re completely exposed now, your naked form sitting innocently before him. The jewelry dances beautifully across the walls, each jewel reflecting off of the small sets of fire flickering around the room. A small gasp slips past Oberyn’s lips. His tongue pokes out to wet his bottom lip, the pads of his fingers tracing the silver paths along your shoulders, chest, stomach, and legs. He then lands on the snake laying along the curve of your thigh, his smile returning and shining bright.

“My Vipress…” he hums lowly, his eyes flickering up to meet your own.

“My Viper…” You return, moaning slightly as you rise to meet his lips.

He welcomes you, quick to move his mouth passionately against your own. One hand returns to your cheek, the other wrapping around your waist and pulling you forward against him. Both of your hands cup his face, your moans echoing into his throat. But just as he leans forward, intent on taking you to bed, you place a hand on his chest to stop him.

“Oberyn,” you say, your chest rising and falling with excitement. “Let me do this for you.”

He looks at you questioningly, tilting his head a bit and silently prompting you to continue.

“You spoil me,” you begin, still trying to steady your breath. “I want to spoil you. Let me, my love. Let me make you feel good.”

“Hm…” he purrs, nodding slightly.

Once he complies, he lays back in the bed, watching you hop off and pull the cart to his side. You then crawl over his lap, sitting on him with a bowl of blackberries in hand.

“Are you hungry, my prince?”

“For you…” he mumbles, his attractive accent lacing his tone.

His eyes scan your frame, your unclothed core as it rests above his robe, your pert nipples sitting beneath the coolness of your chains. Oberyn grabs your hips, squeezing your roughly in his hands.

“Always.”

“Hm,” you smirk, giggling at his overt lust. “Open for me.” You coo, leaning down to slip a berry past his lips.

His eyes meet your own, his curling lips parting just enough for you to place to fruit atop his tongue. The prince’s lips wrap around your finger, slightly sucking on the tip while tasting the juices on his tongue. You lick your lower lip, staring down at him before removing your finger and replacing it with your lips. You continue to rest above his lap, feeding him berries and fruit, some dipped in chocolate, too.

Feeling a bit playful, you dip your hand in the melted treat, bringing it to Oberyn’s magnificent mouth. His hungry eyes light up like stars, eagerly lifting his head and welcoming your finger inside. Oberyn sucks fervently on the digit, closing his eyes while you massage the tip against his tongue. You watch him with hungry eyes, your core tingling with every soft tug his eager mouth gives. He’s already grown quick impressively beneath you, more than excited to part take in any activity by your side.

“Are you satisfied, my love? Do you wish to see more?”

“More?” he asks, his eyes widening a bit.

“Mhm,” you nod, slightly biting your lip.

He smiles, eager to see what you have planned. His warm hands stroke your bare thighs, digging his short nails into your skin ever so slightly.

“Go on, then.” He says, nodding his head once at you. “Entertain me, little one.”

You hum with excitement, sliding off his lap and stepping tenderly to the center of the room. On the side of the wall is a small rope, which once tugged, releases two long strands of silk fabric from the ceiling. His eyes widen further, his brows rising over his forehead as he watches the fabric fall.

With one strand in each hand, you begin to move, wrapping the strands around your arms and legs. He watches you move, palming at the erection now throbbing in his pants. Oberyn’s eyes continue to observe you, a certain proudness to their shine. He loves when you do this, when you display your flexible form to him, shamelessly spreading yourself before the prince of Dorne. You twist between the silk sheets, bending your body into a multitude of elegant, pliant positions.

“My love…” he groans, watching you spread your legs for him.

“Yes, my prince?” you coo, your voice sweet as you speak.

“You look ravishing.” He expresses, pulling himself out from beneath his robes. “Little temptress…”

“Hm…” you hum happily, sliding down the strands before stepping onto the stone floor below.

You saunter toward him, sighing out when you look up. Oberyn’s hand is wrapped firmly around his cock, tugging softly at its length. You move towards the dresser off to the bed’s side, picking up a bottle and tipping it over your chest. A rose-infused oil runs down your skin, the pink liquid washing the skin of your breasts and stomach. Oberyn moans out, watching you set the bottle down to rub the oil over yourself.

Suddenly, Oberyn chokes out a grunt, his eyes glued to your body. “Come here.”

“Ah-ah.” You tut, smirking over at him.

You lift a hand at him, stopping his motions as he attempts to move towards you over the bed.

“Stay. Let me bring you bliss.”

He groans, closing his eyes and huffing out in frustration, but complying, nonetheless. You grin at this, only climbing up when he lays entirely back down. The prince quickly rids himself of his clothes, tossing them to the floor as his breathing begins to increase. He disrobes just as you reach him, your body dazzles with the jewelry adorning your curves and the oil now coating your skin.

You bring the bottle with you, dripping the warm liquid onto your palm as you settle between Oberyn’s slightly spread legs. He spreads them wider for you, his cock twitching in anticipation and feeling entirely starved of your touch. Leaning forward and now resting on your knees, you grip him in hand, allowing the oil to rub against his beautiful skin. His head lays back once you do so, settling into the plush pillows behind him and moaning slightly when you squeeze.

“Fuck,” he groans, swallowing thickly and glancing down to watch how your hand works his cock.

Your hand twists and turns, running up along his shaft only to slide right back down. His sighs sound so pretty, so soft and almost whiny as you fist him in your hand. 

Then, you bite your lip, a playful idea popping into your head. You switch hands, your bare one now coating itself in the oil along his shaft while your other trails lower. Softly, slowly, your forefinger slips below his scrotum, poking tenderly at the hole nestled between his cheeks. He groans obscenely when you slide your finger inside, your other hand still pumping away. 

The prince’s mouth drops open, pinching his eyes shut and furrowing his brows together. Pleasure swims through his throbbing veins as you play with him in exact way that he likes. 

“Move over, baby.” You coo, tilting your head and gesturing for him to move closer to the center of the bed.

When he does, you lay beside him, holding yourself up on your forearm while your hand continues to pleasure the prince. With your repositioning, you remove your finger from the prince’s now abandoned hole, causing him to whine out in response. You kiss his temple, his cheek, your lips tracing the facial hair long his jaw. Your fingers tangle into his hair, running your nails along his scalp as you press a kiss to his hairline. Almost as if he can’t take it anymore, he grunts, turning his head to capture your lips with his.

“Mm…” you moan, leaning deeply into the kiss.

It’s sloppy and eager, his tongue immediately sliding into your mouth. He licks at you, at your lips and your teeth and your tongue and anywhere he can reach. Desperately, his hips move with your pace, fucking up into your hand and silently begging for more. One of Oberyn’s large hands finds your breasts, laying over the silver chains and massing his fingers into the plumpness of your chest. His breathless little moans and sighs breathe against your face, his hot breath wafting against your skin and into your mouth. You groan at his eagerness, at his desperate little pants as he works himself to his limit.

“Please,” he chokes out. “Let me fuck you.”

“You wanna fuck me, baby? Huh?” you coo, kissing his cheek softly.

Oberyn closes his eyes, his chest huffing out in frustration.

“I’ll ride you, baby.” You promise, smirking against his skin. “I’ll let you inside, warm you with my walls and milk you for all you’re worth. Would you like that? Hm?”

“Yes,” he grits out. “Fuck yes.”

Immediately, you remove your hand, hopping over his lap and situating yourself above his cock. You reach down, lining him up before sinking all the way down. He grabs onto you, throwing his head back in the pillows and dropping his jaw in awe. The groan that punches through his chest vibrates through your hands, both of them now resting on his pectorals. His face goes slack, his body sighing out in satisfaction as you finally give Oberyn what he wants.

“Move,” he suddenly demands, his fingertips digging into your hips. “Move.”

You lean forward, rising your hips and sliding yourself off his cock. You intend to do so until you reach his tip, but halfway up, Oberyn slams you back down.

“Fuck!” you cry out, gasping at the strength of the prince’s hold.

“Yes,” he hisses, shoving his hips up against your core.

He’s ruthless, merciless, pounding himself up inside you at an incredibly powerful pace. Your fingers curl against his skin, dragging along the taut muscles of the prince’s chest. You glance down at him, a half-smirk forming on your face at the beautiful man below. Oberyn’s face remains focused, staring at your colliding cores as he fucks you senseless. His muscles tense and strain with every harsh shove, the euphoria flowing through him only gaining in strength with every shrill cry and whine that spills from your lips.

“Oberyn, fuck… yes!” you gasp, crying out in bliss.

He twitches inside you, your walls grasping him tightly as he slides in and out, his veins rubbing perfectly along your delicate walls.

“Touch yourself, sweet thing.” He tells you, his demand breathless as he continues to move.

You do as you’re told, your dominant hand instantly moving down to your core. It’s messy and incredibly uncoordinated, the rapid motions your fingers give. Regardless, it works, the sweet pleasure rising quickly in your veins.

“I want you to cum.” He says it as his momentum gains, bucking himself up into you. “Soak me,” he demands. “Show me how aroused you truly are.”

“I want you to cum,” you return, “This is for you, my prince.”

One of his hands leaves your hip, grabbing the back of your neck and pulling you down. Your forehead rests against his, your chests pressed against the other’s.

“You’ll cum for me.” Oberyn says, sighing deeply as he does. “And then I’ll flood you with my cum.”

“Oh, fuck!” you gasp, your orgasm finally shoved over the edge through the help of his words.

“Yes, yes… always so good. So good for me.” He gasps out, feeling you clench around his cock.

He tries to last, tries to hold out until you’ve wet his cock thoroughly with your arousal, but he can’t. Oberyn releases into you once he feels you cum, the sloppy sound of your meeting sexes echoing loudly throughout the room. Your inner channel pulses continuously around him, coaxing every single drop from his throbbing, red tip. You shiver with arousal, with euphoria, with something entirely new. but at this point, nothing was ever new with Oberyn. There were few things the two of you hadn’t tried, exploring each other’s body and mind thoroughly nearly each and every night. But even if things weren’t new, each time outdid the last. And this… this was no exception.

“Gods,” he groans, still holding your forehead to his.

You duck down, nuzzling your face into his neck. The prince’s hands then move, wrapping around your back and holding you against him. They stroke you, lovingly, tenderly, smoothing themselves over your skin as you steady your breathing above him.

“I want to see that again,” he says, his lungs still attempting to catch his breath.

“See what?” you ask, still nestling against his neck.

“That little performance.” He explains, turning his head and pressing his nose into your cheek. “I want to see you up there again, have my way with you while your legs are spread wide, controlling your every moment while hovering in the air.”  

“Hm… that sounds exciting.” You giggle, pressing an eager kiss to his skin. “So, you liked that?” you ask, lifting yourself from the curve of his neck and placing a hand on his cheek. “How did I look up there?”

“Inamorata,” he groans, smirking devilishly at you. “You looked ethereal up there.”

Thank you for reading <3

If you liked this fic, check out my Insatiable Series (;

General Taglist: @anaaaispunk @dihra-vesa @sweetangel0069 @coaaster @pepascalhoe @evyiione @bport76​ @tanzthompson @littlemisspascal @mswarriorbabe80

[kingsmakers]

The Dornish Diamonds (insp)

Forever tag: @juliaswickcrs @thatmagickjuju @starcrossedjedis @darkwolf76 @akabluekat

@drbobbimorse @mystic-scripture @iron-parkr @asirensrage @rhaenyraslaena

@arrthurpendragon @hiddenqveendom @emilykaldwen @themaradwrites

[bookhousestark]

JON SNOW APPRECIATION MONTH 2022 ↳ Day 3: Personality traits and skills (Overlooked qualities)

TENDER WITH HORSES

The mare whickered softly as Jon Snow tightened the cinch. "Easy, sweet lady," he said in a soft voice, quieting her with a touch.

A Game of Thrones, Jon IX

When he crested a rise and saw the brown rutted kingsroad before him wending its way north through hill and plain, he patted the mare's neck and said, "Now all we need do is follow the road, girl. Soon the Wall."

A Storm of Swords, Jon VI

A GOOD TEACHER

Tyrion grinned. "And has Ghost learned to juggle yet?"

"No," said Jon, smiling, "but Grenn held his own against Halder this morning, and Pyp is no longer dropping his sword quite so often as he did."

"Pypar is his real name. The small boy with the large ears. He saw me working with Grenn and asked for help. Thorne had never even shown him the proper way to grip a sword."

A Game of Thrones, Tyrion III

"I'm frightened." Satin's face was a ghastly white.

 "So are they." Jon leaned his crutch up against a merlon and took up his longbow, bending the smooth thick Dornish yew to slip a bowstring through the notches. "Don't waste a quarrel unless you know you have a good clean shot," he said when Satin returned from waking Dick. "We have an ample supply up here, but ample doesn't mean inexhaustible. And step behind a merlon to reload, don't try and hide in back of a scarecrow. They're made of straw, an arrow will punch through them." He did not bother telling Dick Follard anything. Dick could read your lips if there was enough light and he gave a damn what you were saying, but he knew it all already.    

A Storm of Swords, Jon VII   

WITTY

"M'lord," Janos Slynt reminded him. "You'll address me—"

"I'll go, my lord. But you are making a mistake, my lord. You are sending the wrong man, my lord. Just the sight of me is going to anger Mance. My lord would have a better chance of reaching terms if he sent—"    

A Storm of Swords, Jon X

A GOOD OBSERVER

"The queen is angry too," Jon told his uncle in a low, quiet voice. "Father took the king down to the crypts this afternoon. The queen didn't want him to go."

Benjen gave Jon a careful, measuring look. "You don't miss much, do you, Jon? We could use a man like you on the Wall."

A Game of Thrones, Jon I

APPRECIATES NATURE

The pale pink light of dawn sparkled on branch and leaf and stone. Every blade of grass was carved from emerald, every drip of water turned to diamond. Flowers and mushrooms alike wore coats of glass. Even the mud puddles had a bright brown sheen. Through the shimmering greenery, the black tents of his brothers were encased in a fine glaze of ice. So there is magic beyond the Wall after all.

A Clash of Kings, Jon III

AND FLOWERS

Yet even so, Jon Snow was not sorry he had come. There were wonders here as well. He had seen sunlight flashing on icy thin waterfalls as they plunged over the lips of sheer stone cliffs, and a mountain meadow full of autumn wildflowers, blue coldsnaps and bright scarlet frostfires and stands of piper's grass in russet and gold. He had peered down ravines so deep and black they seemed certain to end in some hell, and he had ridden his garron over a wind-eaten bridge of natural stone with nothing but sky to either side. Eagles nested in the heights and came down to hunt the valleys, circling effortlessly on great blue-grey wings that seemed almost part of the sky. Once he had watched a shadowcat stalk a ram, flowing down the mountainside like liquid smoke until it was ready to pounce.

A Clash of Kings, Jon VI

A GENEROUS LOVER

Afterward, she was almost shy, or as shy as Ygritte ever got. "That thing you did," she said, when they lay together on their piled clothes. "With your . . . mouth." She hesitated. "Is that . . . is it what lords do to their ladies, down in the south?"

 "I don't think so." No one had ever told Jon just what lords did with their ladies. "I only . . . wanted to kiss you there, that's all. You seemed to like it."

Aye. I . . . I liked it some. No one taught you such?"

"There's been no one," he confessed. "Only you."

A Storm of Swords, Jon III

ASTRONOMY KNOWLEDGE

So many stars, he thought as he trudged up the slope through pines and firs and ash. Maester Luwin had taught him his stars as a boy in Winterfell; he had learned the names of the twelve houses of heaven and the rulers of each; he could find the seven wanderers sacred to the Faith; he was old friends with the Ice Dragon, the Shadowcat, the Moonmaid, and the Sword of the Morning. All those he shared with Ygritte, but not some of the others. We look up at the same stars, and see such different things. The King's Crown was the Cradle, to hear her tell it; the Stallion was the Horned Lord; the red wanderer that septons preached was sacred to their Smith up here was called the Thief. And when the Thief was in the Moonmaid, that was a propitious time for a man to steal a woman, Ygritte insisted. "Like the night you stole me. The Thief was bright that night."

A Storm of Swords, Jon III

[docpiplup]

ARIANNE MARTELL APPRECIATION WEEK 202

Day 2- Strengths and Flaws/ Feminist themes

Political skills, historical knowledge, cunning and ambitions involving Arianne's plot to crown Myrcella as Queen of Westeros.

"Aye, but Tommen is a good-hearted boy. He will be a better king than Joffrey."

"But not better than Myrcella. She loves the boy as well. I know she will not let him come to any harm. Storm's End is his by rights, since Lord Renly left no heir and Lord Stannis is attainted. In time, Casterly Rock will pass to the boy as well, through his lady mother. He will be as great a lord as any in the realm . . . but Myrcella by rights should sit the Iron Throne."

"The law . . . I do not know . . ."

"I do." When she stood, the long black tangle of her hair fell down to the small of her back. "Aegon the Dragon made the Kingsguard and its vows, but what one king does another can undo, or change. Formerly the Kingsguard served for life, yet Joffrey dismissed Ser Barristan so his dog could have a cloak. Myrcella would want you to be happy, and she is fond of me as well. She will give us leave to marry if we ask." Arianne put her arms around him and laid her face against his chest. The top of her head came to just beneath his chin. "You can have me and your white cloak both, if that is what you want."

"If they should come down on us."

(....)

"Oh, but they must, or see the realm riven once more, as it was before we wed the dragons. Father told me so. He said we had the Imp to thank, for sending us Princess Myrcella. She is so pretty, don't you think? I wish that I had curls like hers. She was made to be a queen, just like her mother." Dimples bloomed in Tyene's cheeks. "I would be honored to arrange the wedding, and to see to the making of the crowns as well. Trystane and Myrcella are so innocent, I thought perhaps white gold . . . with emeralds, to match Myrcella's eyes. Oh, diamonds and pearls would serve as well, so long as the children are wed and crowned. Then we need only hail Myrcella as the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and lawful heir to the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, and wait for the lions to come."

"The lawful heir?" The prince snorted.

"By Dornish law."

"When good King Daeron wed Princess Myriah and brought us into his kingdom, it was agreed that Dornish law would always rule in Dorne. And Myrcella is in Dorne, as it happens."

"So she is." His tone was grudging. "Let me think on it."

“Myrcella is more fit for rule …”

“A son comes before a daughter.”

“Why? What god has made it so? I am my father’s heir. Should I give up my rights to my brothers?”

(....)

"Nor is he his sister."

It was true. Tommen was a good-hearted little man who always tried his best, but the last time Ser Arys saw him he had been weeping on the quay. Myrcella never shed a tear, though it was she who was leaving hearth and home to seal an alliance with her maidenhood. The truth was, the princess was braver than her brother, and brighter and more confident as well. Her wits were quicker, her courtesies more polished. Nothing ever daunted her, not even Joffrey. The women are the strong ones, truly. He was thinking not only of Myrcella, but of her mother and his own, of the Queen of Thorns, of the Red Viper's pretty, deadly Sand Snakes. And of Princess Arianne Martell, her most of all. "I will not say that you are wrong." His voice was hoarse.

"Will not? Cannot! Myrcella is more fit for rule . . ."

"A son comes before a daughter."

(...)

Ser Criston Cole. Criston the Kingmaker had set brother against sister and divided the Kingsguard against itself, bringing on the terrible war the singers named the Dance of the Dragons. Some claimed he acted from ambition, for Prince Aegon was more tractable than his willful older sister. Others allowed him nobler motives, and argued that he was defending ancient Andal custom. A few whispered that Ser Criston had been Princess Rhaenyra's lover before he took the white and wanted vengeance on the woman who had spurned him. "The Kingmaker wrought grave harm," Ser Arys said, "and gravely did he pay for it, but . . ."

(...)

". . . but perhaps the Seven sent you here so that one white knight might make right what another set awry. You do know that when my father returns to the Water Gardens he plans to take Myrcella with him?"

"To keep her safe from those who would do her harm."

Ser Arys frowned. The big Norvoshi captain with the scarred face had always made him feel profoundly uneasy. They say he sleeps with that great axe beside him. "What would you have me do?"

"No more than you have sworn. Protect Myrcella with your life. Defend her . . . and her rights. Set a crown upon her head."

"I swore an oath!"

(....)

"The dragon is time. It has no beginning and no ending, so all things come round again. Anders Yronwood is Criston Cole reborn. He whispers in my brother's ear that he should rule after my father, that it is not right for men to kneel to women . . . that Arianne especially is unfit to rule, being the willful wanton that she is." She tossed her hair defiantly. "So your two princesses share a common cause, ser . . . and they share as well a knight who claims to love them both, but will not fight for them."

(...)

"I will." Ser Arys sank to one knee. "Myrcella is the elder, and better suited to the crown. Who will defend her rights if not her Kingsguard? My sword, my life, my honor, all belong to her . . . and to you, my heart's delight. I swear, no man will steal your birthright whilst I still have the strength to lift a sword. I am yours. What would you have of me?"

"All." She knelt to kiss his lips. "All, my love, my true love, my sweet love, and forever. But first . . ."

(...)

We're almost there, Your Grace," Garin told Myrcella cheerfully when they spied more sandbeggars up ahead, a thicket of them growing all around the dry bed of a stream. The sun was beating down like a fiery hammer, but it did not matter with their journey at its end. They stopped to water the horses again, drank deep from their skins and wet their veils, then mounted for the last push. Within half a league they were riding over devilgrass and past olive groves. Beyond a line of stony hills the grass grew greener and more lush, and there were lemon orchards watered by a spider's web of old canals. Garin was the first to spy the river glimmering green. He gave a shout and raced ahead.

Arianne Martell had crossed the Mander once, when she had gone with three of the Sand Snakes to visit Tyene's mother. Compared to that mighty waterway, the Greenblood was scarce worthy of the name of river, yet it remained the life of Dorne. It took its name from the murky green of its sluggish waters; but as they approached, the sunlight seemed to turn those waters gold. She had seldom seen a sweeter sight. The next part should be slow and simple, she thought, up the Greenblood and onto the Vaith, as far as a poleboat can go. That would give her time enough to prepare Myrcella for all that was to come. Beyond Vaith the deep sands waited. They would need help from Sandstone and the Hellholt to make that crossing, but she did not doubt that it would be forthcoming. The Red Viper had been fostered at Sandstone, and Prince Oberyn's paramour Ellaria Sand was Lord Uller's natural daughter; four of the Sand Snakes were his granddaughters. I will crown Myrcella at the Hellholt and raise my banners there.

[bucknastysbabe]

Back to the Old House Ch:1

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Alcohol and drug abuse, bad parenting, Aegon has a drunk meltdown, the reader finds her fiery balls, coitus interruptus NOT, everyone is an asshole, Criston fighting for Dornish rights lowkey, pnv sex, showering together, why worship the seven when you got R’hllor, racism of the fantasy variety, who is the sandy cunt of the night?

Original post

Word count: 3,988

A/N: Hi this is probably the longest chapter I’ve written I’m very nervous and will probably shit my pants now. Hope you enjoy!

Chapter 1: You just haven’t earned it yet baby

You checked your watch. You had to get the sleeping prince up now. Which was a task in itself. Striding to his prone form you snatched the covers off, exposing his bare body. Aegon grumbled and tried to snatch the covers back.

Next came the eye mask, and Aegon’s angry face stared up at you. He yelled, “What the fuck?”

You replied evenly, “Time to get dressed.”

He whined and rolled onto his stomach. You swallowed watching his trim body stretch and flex. Instinctively you smacked his ass, the blonde shouting and glaring like a boy. Aegon finally sat upright and asked, “Can you get the clothes pleaseeee?”

Rolling your eyes you got the designer shirt and slacks. You bowed with a jab, “For you, your most man-childness.” Aegon cursed and put on the clothes while you paced around nervously. The overhead speakers spouted, “Landing in 20, be prepared to stay seated- there will be turbulence.”

You scrambled for the tray of liquor and poured two double shots. Aegon fussed with his hair and sprayed on cologne. You could almost smell the misery wafting off your friend under the spray. You handed him a shot and he thanked you breathlessly, knocking it back. You did the same and buckled up.

The landing was bumpy and horrid. Aegon’s hand reached across the aisle to grab your hand. You turned to look at him, a question on your face. His eyes flickered down and he mumbled, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you answered anyways.

On the runway your eyes bugged at the massive castle across the water. The Targaryens had built a small private airport decades ago. A boat waited at the end. Aegon grumbled, “I always hated this place. The Red Keep is better.” His trembling hand was still tightly wrapped around yours. You offered, “It’s gonna be okay…right?”

Aegon’s lips pursed and he blew out a breath. Silence fell over you two. He finally spoke, “I hope so. You look beautiful by the way.” Your heart clenched as you gave your prince a tight smile.

Aegon started a brisk pace to the ferry, you stumbling along connected by his vice grip. A man in a black suit stood by the small boat. You recognized him as you got closer. A fellow Dornish, but of the Marches and not the sands. Ser Criston Cole, the head of security for the Targaryens. Aegon had told you once, “He’s so uptight you could stick coal up his ass and get diamonds. But he was good to me.”

The handsome man nodded briskly and said, “Welcome Prince Aegon and,” he stared at you. Aegon gave your name and Criston’s eyes flashed at the last name. He warily stated, “Welcome Miss Uller, your father is a very powerful man.” You bristled slightly and replied, “Thank you. He’s my inspiration.” Aegon’s hand squeezed and you shut up.

The boat ride was stunted. The waves were beginning to make you sick but there wasn’t a long way to go. Criston asked Aegon, “How are your studies?” The Prince rolled his eyes before another question from Cole was launched. Aegon whinged, “Cole…can we discuss this later? After the bullshit?” The intense brunette shrugged and questioned you, “What are you studying?”

“Political Science, I plan to follow in my families footsteps. I have an internship at Sunspear in the fall.”

He hummed, “Very nice. You found a good one Aegon.”

Your lips fell open and Aegon remained silent and crossed his arms. His quintessential pouty face was in excellent form. You joked, “I was the one who had to get his attention, I think I found him.” Criston smirked and texted something into his sleek phone. The boat was docking now and the negative energy seemed to swirl higher and higher.

Your trio walked along an extensive bridge, Cole offering some facts about the Castle. In days of old the crown prince held this keep while the king resided in King’s Landing. King Viserys had been sick and recently moved to Dragonstone. His eldest Rhaenyra took over as regent in the Red Keep. Aegon had commented that his mother and half-sister were about to tear each other’s throats out here.

Dragons and other twisted creatures loomed above you, leering into your soul. Two guards opened the doors, opening into a grand entrance. Aegon’s family minus his father stood eagerly. Alicent cooed, “Come here!” The prince murmured, “Mother.” They hugged, the Queen lovingly kissing his cheeks. Aegon remained stone faced.

One of his siblings, Helaena waved cheerily. You waved back and bowed to the royals. Two other blonde haired men gazed at you, Aemond nodding minutely. You had met him before— a pompous ass. Daeron smiled and said, “So glad to finally meet you!” Alicent’s wide brown eyes turned to you. Her mouth set before a smile changed her features.

She primly stated, “Ah, the Uller girl. You are breathtaking,” she pulled you into a hug, “I didn’t expect Aegon to bring home much less date someone so exotic.” You blinked at the thinly veiled insult, thanking her anyway and accepting her graciousness. Aegon looked away pointedly. Your blood was boiling. Another tight squeeze and you were let go.

Helaena chirped, “I can take you two to your rooms! Maybe a tour later?” She clapped her hands excitedly. Aegon called her crazy and strange but you quite liked her sweet innocence. You embraced her, the princess squeaking in surprise. In a typical Dornish greeting you kissed each cheek. Helaena blushed and her skirt swished.

Aemond snipped, “Welcome. Brother, glad you’re looking hm, sober.”

You weren’t sure who wanted to peel their skin off more; you or Aegon. Helaena skipped down a dreary hallway, you and your ‘boyfriend’ in tow. Servants carried your belongings. At the door she gave a bow and said, “Well, I’ll leave you two alone, rest up!” Aegon snapped something and bolted inside.

You nervously smiled and followed in. The room was huge, but decorated like it was still medieval times. Aegon plopped on the bed, fishing some pills out of a bag. You flatly stated, “Your mother doesn’t like me.” He grumbled, “She’s just like that— ignore it.”

You continued, “She called me exotic, like I’m from eastern Essos! Like I’m some witch from As’shai!”

Aegon popped the pills and shrugged, “That’s just how they are around here. Want a xan?” You rolled your eyes and snatched one, sticking it under your tongue. You wanted him to stick up for you, profess his love, or even stand up for himself. But that just wasn’t happening. You laid on the bed next to him and stared at the stone ceiling. The prince murmured, “Daeron’s cool. He’s got good weed. The rest of them hate me.”

You laughed a little deliriously, “What about when Rhaenyra and her brood show up?”

Aegon’s expression quirked up a bit as he spoke, “Oh, that’s when I’m off the hook. Kinda. Aemond’s too busy trying to murder our cousin Luke.”

The sullen blonde pulled you into his stomach, spooning you. He nuzzled his face in your neck, inhaling the scent. One time Aegon drunkenly told you he liked how you always smelt of spice and citrus. You laughed and kissed him.

Aegon rambled sleepily into your ear about the family dynamics. Rhaenyra was married but the late Laenor was a closeted homosexual. Her kids were probably fathered by her deceased bodyguard and now she suspiciously has the infamous Daemon staying by her side. When Daemon came into the picture she popped out two boys, with the blonde hair the previous three should have had. Then he talked about the Princess’ eldest boys and how the whole eye incident came about. You lulled off into sleep at the sound of his soft voice, a warm hand rubbing your hip.

You groggily awoke to grunting and Aegon shamelessly trying to pull your pants off. You craned your head to glare at him. Aegon cheekily smiled and whined, “C’mon just a quickie? Benzos make me horny.”

“Everything makes you horny Aegon.”

You shucked down your pants and underwear as he laughed, “You make me horny, exotic creature.” His left hand slid up your blouse, the other diving to your clit. You gasped and kissed at whatever skin you could reach. Wetness slicked between your legs immediately— Aegon had that effect. He groaned, “Fuck you’re wet.”

Aegon slid in with a pained moan, his palm squeezing your tit roughly, a thumb still circling your button. You whined, “Feels good- love this angle.” The blonde had an easy rhythm going, gasping and whimpering at the pull of your pussy. You were just as keyed up, squeezing his cock.

Aegon moaned, “So fucking perfect- I- fuck!” His hips stuttered and he shoved deeper. You demanded, “C’mon I’m so close, fill me up Aegon. Wan’ you leaking out of me later.”

“Oh g-gods I will, fuck, I will ba-,” he bit his lip to stop his words.

The pair of you got louder and sloppily shared kisses, frantically coupling with smacks of skin. You cried, “Right there! Yes!” Aegon’s teeth dug into your nape, sobbing out his release. You pulsed around his dick as your insides were painted. He whimpered through the aftershocks while you trembled in ecstasy.

BAM BAM BAM

The pair of you stopped. Quiet as mice.

“If you’re done fucking get cleaned up. Father wants to meet her,” came Aemond’s clipped voice through the heavy door.

Aegon’s softening cock wilted immediately. He cursed under his breath and slid out of you. You watched at he got up and paced around, somehow finding a cigarette to light in the process. You kept quiet— Aegon and his father did not have a good relationship. Speaking up would get your head snapped off.

Aegon yanked open a window, the loud noise making you jump. He blew out a cloud of smoke and perched on a chair. You sat up and offered, “I’m going to take a shower. Feel free to join.” You felt his brooding eyes burn a hole into your back, sending a slight shiver down your spine.

As you waited for the water to heat up— thank R’hllor the bathroom was furnished modernly— Aegon shuffled in. He toed past you and stepped into the cold water with a curse. After a moments silence he murmured, “Water’s fine now. Can you grab a brush?” Grabbing the brush you entered the huge shower.

Aegon stood under the spray, eyes closed. You came behind armed with some shampoo. He sighed as you massaged it into his hair. The blonde’s jaw ticked before he spat, “Fucking great. Old cunt’s going to ream me before dinner.” You turned him around to face you, washing the suds away.

“Just say whatever you think will satisfy him.”

Aegon snapped, “Anything that comes out of my mouth is shite for Viserys!” You winced at the sudden change of tone and spun him around for conditioner avoiding Aegon’s intense eyes. Aegon scrubbed his skin raw while you brushed the conditioner through his hair. Once rinsed he batted off your embrace and stomped back into the bedroom. You frowned but went ahead to take care of yourself now.

Later Ser Criston escorted you two across the keep to Visery’s suite. Aegon had been icy in the time between, but held your hand bruisingly down the hall. Criston grabbed Aegon’s silk covered shoulder and murmured, “He’s gotten a bit nicer in his sickbed, just try to be cordial.” Aegon sniffed, “Cordial. Pfft.”

The Dornishman knocked lightly and announced your presence. He opened the door and you winced from Aegon’s grip and pulled away. Aegon gaped at you like you’d struck him. You whispered, “That hurt!” The king’s rasping voice interrupted the tiff. You smiled warmly at the man in the wheel chair.

You were not prepared for how awful the King looked. He had been out of public eye for a couple of years and now you knew why. Unable to walk, missing an arm, balding, and reconstruction on half of his face. Still the man grinned a denture-laden grin and said, “My son, and the beautiful Uller. You are a sight for sore eyes unlike your father!”

You laughed at the joke, that was witty all things considered. Viserys beckoned you over with a rasp, “Come sit, I can’t see like I used to.” Criston lingered by the door, dark eyes surveying the scene. Aegon robotically eased into the chair farthest from his father. So that left you to sit near him. You subtly wrinkled your nose at the smell of death wafting off of the man.

The king asked, “What made you interested in this wretch?”

Aegon rolled his eyes. You amended, “Ah! We met at a fraternity and sorority Andal event. I like a challenge. Eventually we struck it up and the rest is history. He’s a good boy, I swear!” Viserys laughed heartily and jabbed, “A rebel Dornish dating the Dragon, the irony. I hope he is treating you well.” You nodded along with a big smile. Viserys’ pointed look toward Aegon didn’t go unnoticed by you.

Conversation went smoothly, you explaining your studies and career plans. How your dad was and if the new gym donated at KLU was okay. Viserys smiled wistfully and said, “You’re something else Miss Uller. I hope to see you often. If you do not mind, I’d like a personal word with Aegon.”

Aegon blinked and straightened up, having zoned off at some point. You shook the old King’s gnarled hand and chirped, “Yes your highness, it was an honor, no worries Ser Criston will see me out.” Aegon curtly interrupted, “Sweetheart, will you just wait on me outside?” Your insides swam at the pet name whether acting or not. You replied, “Sure, take your time with the old man.”

You felt the air turn stiff and cold behind you as Criston held the door open. The pair of you stood in the dank hallway and waited against the wall. You looked up at the brunette and asked, “This is a really fucked up family isn’t it?” Cole sharply exhaled on a laugh, the corners of his mouth quirking up. He replied, “I pray to the gods he sticks with you.” Muffled yelling from inside the room broke the peace. Your eyes widened at hearing Aegon’s voice crack.

The doors busted open, you jumping and Criston was brushed off by the fuming prince. Viserys shouted, “Get back here Aegon!” Ser Cole closed the doors behind him as Aegon’s voice echoed, “Never fucking good enough!” Now you stood alone in the hallway.

Taking a deep breath in, you stilled your roiling emotions. Yes Aegon was mad, he runs when he’s mad, but it’s not like you’ve never had an issue to see him emotional. Your heels clacked against the stone as you walked back the way you’d been led. Head down and in your thoughts you ran into a body with a shrill curse.

Your eyes flicked up to Prince Daemon himself. You bowed and spluttered, “I am so sorry! I literally have no clue where I am going in this damn place and Aegon!” You stopped your rant abruptly. Daemon raised a brow and guffawed. He laughed, “Ah, the princess get in a fight with daddy again? Here’s a lesson of advice girl,” he placed a big hand on your shoulder, “Run while you can.”

You blanked, eyes owlishly staring. Daemon laughed again before adding, “But you’re on an island, Uller. I’ll show you to your rooms. This place is a maze.”

While being terrifying, Daemon was gentlemanly and helpful. He bowed and swaggered away when you waved from the wooden doors. Which were locked. You banged on them and shouted, “Hey! Let me in! Dick!” After more cursing and kicking the wood slung open to a red eyed Aegon. He grumbled, “Chill the fuck out.”

You shoved a finger in his chest and hissed, “If you’re going to be a fake boyfriend at least act like it! Your fucking scary uncle had to escort me out because you ran off in a bitch fit!” Aegon rolled his eyes and turned into the room. You stalked after and continued, “One more incident and I’m flying the fuck back to Hellholt.”

Aegon threw his hands up and barked, “Fine! I’ll be nice! Damn!” For good measure you chucked a pillow at his back with a grunt. He unintelligibly cussed and carried on, throwing the pillow across the room. You plopped into a plush chair and ran fingers through your hair. Damn your stupid feelings. You should have never came along.

You sighed, “What happened in there?”

Aegon looked close to tears perching on a chest. He croaked, “Same shit. What do I plan on doing with my life, why can’t I represent the family name, how I ruin anything good that comes my way.” He looked down, his fists clenched so hard you could see veins popping from across the room. The prince bit out a laugh and sarcastically cheered, “Let’s go to dinner, my dear!”

As you stood up Aegon held out an airplane shooter of liquor. His violet eyes pierced yours, hand held out as a sign of peace. You spat, “Fuck you,” and downed the shot. He laughed and slung an arm around you, moseying down to the dinner hall. Aegon murmured, “Be prepared for a shit show. Maybe the biggest one of all day.”

You could cut the tension in the room with a knife. Viserys grinned when he saw you, toasting a cup, “Dear girl! Glad to see you again!” You nodded politely and thanked him. Princess Rhaenyra’s eyes roved your form then flicked over to Aegon. She turned and whispered to Daemon. Her children and Daemon’s sat to the left of the king.

You had the fortune of sitting at the very end of the table between Helaena and Aegon. Alicent was a safe distance away. Aemond’s grating presence was near. Your ‘boyfriend’ instantly poured himself a cup of wine. His arrogant brother laughed, “Ah, there’s our drunken dragon.”

Aegon hissed, “You don’t drink enough, might do you some good.”

“I’d much rather remember my night,” he turned to you, “How you bear it is beyond me.” Aegon began to stand and Daeron piped in, “Chill guys, let’s just eat and try not to blow the table up. Please?” The other half of the table stared on. You took a sip of your wine, shaking anxiously.

Things settled. Somewhat. Dinner was served while Aegon drank. Toasts were made and Aegon drank. Even you danced with Daeron and Aegon drank.

Out of the corner of your eye you saw your dear prince ‘whispering’ with Alicent. She yanked at his collar roughly. Aemond had Luke cornered up on another side. Daemon and Viserys argued about something, Otto joining in. Anxiety was beginning to take over, tunneling your vision. A lithe hand pulled you into an alcove away from people.

You fought to suck in breath, legs feeling numb and tingly. Helaena’s sweet face hovered in front of you. She urged, “Cough. Cough now it’ll even your breathing.” You coughed until a measly breath was sucked in. Commotion still echoed around the corner. You squeezed your eyes shut and apologized. Helaena softly replied, “No. They will do it to anyone. I wanted to talk to you alone anyways.”

She sat you on a stone bench with a good amount of space to let you breathe. Helaena was probably overwhelmed too. You mumbled, “I appreciate this, what did you want to speak about?” She sighed, “Aegon. He’s a fool but he loves you. I see it.”

Your head jerked with a bubbling laugh, “No he doesn’t?”

“He does— but don’t let him try to control your flames. It never worked for us Targaryens. Aegon is proud yet terrified of loss,” her lilac eyes searched deep into yours, “He has to hurt before he will learn. You have known loss. Aegon has not. He may know jealousy, disappointment, and apathy but not loss.”

You nodded at her words, thanking Helaena for the boost you needed. You breathed, “It’s like you know exactly what to say.” She smirked enigmatically, “I’ve been told that.”

“Oh fuck all of you! Bunch of bastards, assholes, and murderers,” Aegon shouted from down the hall.

Helaena sighed, “Oh dear. C’mon.”

The embarrassment could have made you shrivel up and die. Aegon leaned against the table sloshing a wine bottle around and shouting. Aemond and Alicent were behind him, trying to settle the man down. From the other side Jace quipped, “Rather be a bastard than a drunken manslut!” Aegon roared and cursed at his nephew.

In a fit of hot, hot anger you snapped, “Aegon! What in R’hllor’s blood red fires are you doing? C’mon it’s time for bed!”

Hazy eyes fell upon you and his full lips quirked up, “Fuck you too!,” he stumbled forward in a fit of laughter, “I see how you look at me! Oh that Aegon, my father would never act like this! Well baby, your daddy is a sandy fucking cunt and you’re the spitting image.”

Your mouth fell open in shock. Even the other’s arguments died down silencing the room. Remembering Helaena’s words you slammed your jaw shut. With a bow you stonily mentioned, “I apologize but I must take my leave. Thank you for the dinner and graciousness.” Aegon’s smug face fell when he realized he wasn’t getting a reaction. Alicent demanded, “Criston! Criston escort her please!”

Ever the servant he slid next to you. You held your head high, trying to fight back tears. A daughter of Dorne would not waste water on Dragonspawn. At least not in front of them. Criston sighed, “He’s rightly fucked it up this time hasn’t he?” You sniffled, “We’re not even together it doesn’t matter. I’m going to need to call my father the sandy cunt in the morning.”

His dark eyes turned to you, a frown on his sculpted lips. Criston shook his head with a sigh, “I would ask you to wait it out but I get it. You’re actually the first one he brought to Dragonstone. Lots have come by the Red Keep.” He held open the door for you and bid you goodnight. You tried to not dwell on his words.

You barred the door and kicked off your shoes. If a glass went flying that was Aegon’s problem. You lit the fireplace and kneeled in front of it. You prayed, “R’hllor show me the way.” You stared into the flickering flames for what felt like an eternity. Some peace enveloped your heart. Then the ass knocked.

“Hey- hey! Lemme’ in please?,” Aegon begged. He sounded like he had been crying.

You shouted, “I’m praying! Fuck off you drunk prick!” You forced yourself to focus harder into the flames, the heat pinking your cheeks. Aegon whined, “Baby! No I’m really sorry! Let me in please, I’ll make it up!” The flame seemed to say in a dull flick, “Stand up for yourself, child of fire and brimstone.”

With a resolute nod you steeled yourself and stood behind the wooden doors. You could hear him drunkenly clawing at the door. He moaned, “C’mon don’ leave me out here! I was an ass, I don’t know when to stop. My dad is the real sandy cunt!” You crossed your arms and spat, “This is a castle, go find a room and sleep it off Aegon. You’ve really been an ass.”

Aegon whimpered, usually the point when you would forgive his drunken antics. He pled, “Please just let me back in? I can’t sleep without you. We can talk about it all.” You slammed your hand on the wood and shouted, “No! You’ve hurt me and I want you to leave me alone! Fuck. Off. Aegon.” You popped in some headphones to block out his crying and apologizing.

You would deal with this in the morning.

Next Chapter

[ladylothlorien]

You, Not Appearing

Fandom/Topic: Unnamed Pedro Pascal characters that I have plucked from obscurity to do my bidding

Rating: Teen-ish? 

Word Count: 1,053

Warnings: angst, unhappy ending, a few spicy memories

A/N: This fic is labeled as “I don’t even know what this is” in my Google docs and I stand by that assessment. Something in my brain connected the Fire Meets Gasoline music video with the Hope video (both links courtesy of @dornish-queen​) and thought what if it was the same character in both videos. Un-beta’d but I agonized over it for a long time. Title is a play on You, Appearing by M83 that plays during the Hope video. Credit to gif owner. Happy Valentine’s Day?

It’s been seven days. He knows because he found a tube of her lipstick in his leather travel bag on the first day and he’s been using it to mark each day on the mirror in the tiny bathroom. If not for these Crimson Rose streaks, each day would be interchangeable. Wake up, pick up the phone, ring ring ring ring ring ring, put down the phone, look outside, open the door, (it’s housekeeping asking with increasing annoyance if they can please clean the room; it’s a family of five barreling down the corridor in a swirl of chaotic activity; it’s a bald man sweating through a cheap suit as he keeps his gaze firmly on the ground; it’s no one at all), close the door, repeat, repeat, repeat, make a mark on the mirror, drink until passing out. 

He tries to fill his time with getting dressed up to varying degrees of outrageousness. If someone asked, he’d shrug and say what’s the point of having such glamorous clothes if you never wear them? If she asked, he’d say he’s trying on different personas for the next con, even though he’s not sure what (or when) (or if) the next con will be. Part of him hopes that when he opens the door, she’ll be standing there and she’ll say something like “what on earth are you wearing?” with an affectionate laugh as she glides into the room, instantly filling it with her bright smile and banishing all of the lonely empty corners. Each time he opens the door, he’s disappointed. And no one asks.

He’s rechecked the phone number what feels like a million times (he hasn’t counted because he doesn’t really want to know), but it just rings and rings until he gives up. He counted the rings on the first day, feeling sure that something must end them other than his replacing the receiver. He stopped counting at fifty and hasn’t counted again. Still, his palms are sweaty each time he presses the buttons and sliding them down his thighs has become a part of the ritual to try to calm his nerves as he tries to hold out for as many rings as possible (it only sort of works). He idly wonders if the motel will bill him even if the calls are never picked up. What he wouldn’t give to go to voicemail.

He never really thinks about it, what he did. Sometimes the hot brick pavement outside the motel check-in brings to mind another brick stained red, but he pushes it away with a terse it was self-defense. He pays no mind to the thoughts creeping around this explanation, pricking through it with sharp thorns called unarmed, thief, and murder. Instead he tries to think about those golden days of chasing her around the farmhouse, her laughter turning to moans of pleasure as he dragged his lips across her skin. In these memories, he knows they whispered all sorts of promises and adorations, but he can’t remember the words so it’s like a film reel with indistinct audio. 

He doesn’t know how long to wait. After his confession and the fire, they peeled out of town as fast as they could, the cherry rose satchel safely tucked between them (he called it conspicuous but she said only if you don’t dress the part). She kissed his neck as they drove away: Clyde and his Bonnie, together until whatever end. Two days later, she raced back into the luxurious hotel room they had treated themselves to after going to get ice (oh the plans he had for those ice cubes against her hot skin), telling him in a panic that she thinks she was recognized. There was no calming her down; she started throwing things into her enormous silver weekender bag and he could only match her panicked energy and throw things into his brown leather travel bag too. 

“Maybe we should split up.” She said as they pass a mile marker. He wishes he remembered which one.

“What?!” His breathing was ragged, panic rising up in his throat.

She flinched with the unexpected vehemence of his reaction. “I mean, just for a while. They’ll be looking for us to be together, right? If we’re not together, it’ll make it harder for them to find us.”

What was there to say? It made a certain sense; isn’t that what they always did in those heist films he loved as a kid? Split up until the heat was off and the diamonds (it was always diamonds) could be safely sold. But… “You said we’d never split up.”

She rolled her eyes, but tried to hide it. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

He didn’t say anything. He wishes now he had said something. 

At the next suitably large town, she got on a bus after explaining the plan to him again. He watched her get on the bus (his wouldn’t leave for another 45 minutes) and thought it sounded like a math problem: if bus A is going to Dallas travelling at 60 mph and bus B is going to Indianapolis travelling at 65 mph, then when will they meet in Jacksonville? 

She said he would get to the motel first and to use the agreed upon pseudonym (not Clyde Barrow, for Christsake you can’t use that one it’s too obvious). He did everything she said. Still, sometimes he racks his brain to remember what she said in case he forgot something.

He sits by the pool in his most outrageous outfit yet: a cardinal red suit with a tiger print shirt, his hair slicked back and glistening. It’s an alarm bell of an outfit with no one to hear it, least of all the person it’s intended for (is it for her? still?). He wanders around the motel, unsure of what he’s really looking for. Someone to notice him and remind him he exists? To recognize him and call the police? No one does.

He gave up smoking because she didn’t like the taste on his lips. He wonders if taking it up again will conjure her. 

In the end, it is fourteen. As he is dragging the blood red lipstick across the mirrored surface, it snaps with the force of his realization. 

He doesn’t have the satchel.