#this took me 3 months to finish

[jokersfangirl84]

Words Get in the Way

A Frankie Morales x F! Reader Fic

Chapter Three

Pairing: Francisco "Catfish" Morales x F! Reader

Summary: Four weeks have passed since Frankie came back to your place and made love to you for the first time after you both confessed your true love for one another, becoming more than friends. Afterwards he was called out for a mission to Colombia which was supposed to have only lasted a few days. You haven't heard from him in hours on the day he's scheduled to come home and you begin to think he's not returning. He introduces you to some interesting bedroom escapades you have never before experienced, and unveils some of his own personal kinks he'd been hiding for years. He has also brought you a rather unorthodox gift...with an unusual proposition...

Word Count: 5800+

Warnings/Ratings: M-Explicit! SMUT! SMUT! SMUT! DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18! Nothing But smut!! Hooooooooo boy. I went out of control on this one. There are full descriptions of PIV Sex, unprotected sex (although I do strongly suggest wrapping it up), multiple orgasms, vaginal/anal fingering, oral sex (f! receiving), shower sex, sex against the wall, doggy style sex, hair pulling, spanking, rough sex (nothing too intense), kissing, touching, masturbation, dom/sub dynamic, dirty talk, vulgarity, profanity, TONS of F-bombs with which I may have gone overboard, several mentions of cock, pussy, ass. Mentions of possible past trauma. There are sprinkles of sweetness, worry, love, doing anything for the person with whom you're in love. Characters call each other "Baby" and "My Love" many times throughout.

Author's Notes: OH MY GOD. YALL. I have done a VERY bad thing. I should be ashamed. This is the dirtiest, sleaziest, horniest, smuttiest, filthiest thing I have ever written in my entire life. This makes Chapter 2 look very tame. Frankie is a very naughty, filthy boy in this. He hasn't seen his girl in weeks so he is feeling rather.....*ahem*....anxious. I can't believe I wrote this. I basically didn't hold back & let it all out & poured my heart and soul into it. This took me three months to finish because I kept doubting it would be any good. I kept getting in my feels; not only from the content itself but from being unable to convince myself I was any good at writing. I didn't think I ever would get it completed & almost gave up but I knew that wasn't an option. I really enjoyed writing this once I got in the groove & stopped overthinking everything. I want to thank all my wonderful friends for their encouragement & to all the incredibly talented writers out there whose material I turned to for inspiration and motivation. Y'all are amazing! I hope you enjoy this and hope it makes you feel the things you want to feel. Happy reading! Thank you for all your support!

Side Note: there's an unexpected twist! Not gonna say where but it's in there!

Below are the links for Chapters 1 & 2! Enjoy!

Stay tuned for Chapter 4!

Thank you for taking the time out of your day to read this! I appreciate you so much!

Feedback is welcome!

Reblogs & likes are loved and appreciated!

Thank you to my besties @popcornforone @salgal78 @princessjenn420 and @fatimaisabelpascal for all your love, advice and encouragement to keep me writing and going forward with my ideas! I wouldn't have finished this chapter without you guys' precious support! I love you so much! @harriedandharassed @sherala007 you asked to be tagged in chapter 3 so here you go! Please enjoy!

(Reader's POV)

You stood in the shower letting the steaming water flow carelessly over you, resisting the impulse to have an emotional breakdown. There'd been no contact from Frankie since he last texted you saying his plane landed, his luggage was located, and he was on his way. That was four hours ago. You called him repeatedly; straight to voicemail each time. No replies to your frequent "where are you?" "are you okay?" texts to him. You even contacted Pope, Redfly, Ironhead, and Benny asking about his whereabouts. No one had heard from him since deboarding the plane and going their separate ways. Panic began settling in. Sinister thoughts crowded your mind:

He isn't returning to you. He has changed his mind. He has taken Erica back or found someone else. He made love to you, gave you what you wanted, and now he has nothing to do with you. 

You shook your head, silently telling yourself not to think that way. Frankie would never treat you in such a manner. He is not that person. He has always been there for you. He meant every word he said when he told you he loves you. 

You still wondered where the hell he was, and why he wasn't replying to you. Maybe he stopped to get a bite to eat and left his phone in the car. Maybe he decided to go to his place first for a nap and forgot to set an alarm. Convincing yourself these were plausible reasons for his absence helped you push the negative thoughts aside. You continued scrubbing the sweat and grime off your body accumulated from cooking dinner and cleaning your apartment all day, preparing for Frankie's arrival. You haven't seen him in four weeks and you needed to get a shower in before he showed up. 

(Frankie's POV)

Frankie arrived at your apartment fifteen minutes after your shower started. He let himself in, setting his black duffel bag on the sofa. Your apartment smelled like fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies, his favorite. A full two dozen waited for him on the stove. Sitting on the counter was a crockpot full of boiling homemade stew. The rumbling hunger in his stomach intensified. He hadn't eaten much all day, only the unsatisfactory meals on the plane. He couldn't wait to get to your place knowing you'd have something fantastic prepared for him. 

"I'm here, Baby. Where's my girl?"  You were nowhere to be found. Not in the living room, not in the kitchen. He could hear music coming from the bathroom down the hall, hear the faint roar of the shower running, see steam clouds seeping through the barely cracked-open door, smell your floral body wash. He pushed it open wider, peeking inside.

"Baby, it's me."  No reply. You were too busy singing along to your favorite tune to hear him. He stiffened against his jeans when he heard your angelic voice; saw your nude silhouette behind the glass door. The idea of surprising you and making you scream the way he did on the sofa a few weeks ago popped into his mind. His brain constantly replayed the events of that night. He loved the sounds he was able to coax out of you as he fucked you for the first time after years of longing. Loved how his name rolled off your tongue, how your nails felt digging into his skin, how your worlds collided when you confessed your true feelings for each other. He could still feel you clenching around him as he made you cum. God, he wanted-no, needed more of this. He needed you.

Knowing how much you disliked having your personal space invaded made him change his mind about joining you. He closed the door and made his way back to the living room, making a pit stop in the kitchen to grab a few cookies, consuming them in seconds. He made himself comfortable in the recliner, closed his eyes, pulled his cap down, hands resting on his belly, fingers interlocked. His body felt limp with exhaustion, in great need of rest. He was beyond relieved to be back in the States. This extra-long trip to Colombia had  been a nightmare. The mission was only scheduled to have lasted three days. Plans went astray in every possible way: flights were delayed, vehicles broke down, the group received inadequate pay (even after being promised a much larger sum; the main reason the job was taken), desperate measures were executed by the guys during an ambush.

Your soothing singing, the only noise filling the entire dwelling, urged him to fall asleep. Images of what you looked like in the shower appeared behind his eyelids; the soapy water trailing down your body, over your breasts and erect nipples, down your stomach, between your thighs as you glided your favorite loofah over your skin. Your soft, delicate hands massaging their way through your hair. You pleasuring yourself with the hand-held shower nozzle while thinking of him....his name on your lips...begging to be fucked....

He began sleepily palming himself through his pants. He wondered how much time you had left in the shower. You were notorious for making them last longer than necessary. He opened his belt and zipper and wrapped a hand around his already-hard cock, flicking his index finger over his leaking tip, giving himself a couple of languid strokes, almost in a deep sleep. The more he pictured you being wet, naked, and vulnerable, the faster his strokes became. He was on the verge of climaxing when his eyes shot open, coming to a realization. 

Wait a minute. Why the fuck am I doing this? There is someone who can take care of your needs...and she's only a few feet away…

He climbed out of the recliner and made his way to the bathroom. Fuck it. He was going to join you whether you liked it or not.

(Reader's POV)

You were rinsing the shampoo out of your hair when you thought you felt an unusual cool breeze behind you. You shrugged it off, knowing the shower door had a tendency to slide open a little on its own. The feel of large, familiar masculine hands on your shoulders startled you; soft fingertips pushing your hair aside allowing luscious lips to kiss the back of your neck. You turned around and saw Frankie standing in the shower with you, his lips slightly parted, a few water droplets mapping his bare chest. His cock big and swollen, in need of attention. 

"Hi, Baby." He grinned. "Stop ogling me. I need to kiss you now."

You didn't realize your head was cocked to one side, and you were smiling. "I'm not ogling you, My Love. I'd call it...admiring the craftsmanship."  

He snorted, running both hands through his misty hair. "Craftsmanship, huh? Since you put it that way, I'll let you look a little longer."

You took a moment to admire him, your eyes slowly following his physique from head to toe. Damn, what a sight he is. His lean, virile 5'11" frame was held up by strong legs, long torso, wide shoulders, and most glorious neck. His hair is just past regulation length, unruly strands tickling his eyes. The subtle thickness of his waistline and uneven beard - perfect imperfections - making your heart swell with even more love for him. He's the most beautiful man  you've ever seen. The kind of man you want to touch constantly but are afraid to do so; he's such an immaculate, delicate work of art. 

You noticed he had a fresh, deep six-inch long scar on his left pectoral near his collarbone.  You stepped closer to him, placing your fingertips next to the scar.

 "Frankie!  What is this?!" You tried to conceal the worry in your voice. "Did this happen on the mission? What happened?" 

A plethora of scars decorated his chest, abdomen, arms, even on his hands. Cuts, scratches, and bruises of various shapes and sizes. This particular wound, however, looked recently inflicted, like it came from a blade.

"Don't worry about it" was his sharp response. He put his hands up in front of him. "Trust me, it's nothing major. A little mishap is all it is."

"Is every scar you have a mishap? Are they from.....her? What are you not telling me?"

You knew mentioning Erica would strike a nerve in him. You weren't intending to be crude; only genuinely concerned about what he'd been through, who or what had hurt him. He had mentioned nothing to you about being injured. There was evident pain behind his eyes.

He tensed up. Jaw clenched. Hands on hips. He licked his lips and swallowed hard. 

"Baby, please. Don't. Now is not the time."

You put your hands on his face pushing his long bangs away from his eyes. His cheeks were red hot; it wasn't from the water temperature. "It's not my objective to trigger you, My Love. I'm just cur-"

"-I said drop it." His voice had become low and minatory. "I never discuss my scars with anyone, including you."

His words stung a little. You hung your head, your eyes now giving the floor attention. This is the man you love, your best friend. You want to know everything about him. Want him to feel comfortable pouring his heart out to you and tell you all his deepest, darkest secrets without judgment. As long as you've known him you knew he was never one to discuss feelings. You hoped being in an actual relationship with him would make him feel like an open book. 

Frankie put a finger under your chin, lifting your gaze back to him. "I'm sorry, Baby. I didn't mean to snap at you."  His voice returned its softness. "Believe me, I want to tell you about my scars as much as you want to know about them. I will. I promise. The time will come." 

You nodded and smiled. "Yes, My Love. Understood."

"Please can I kiss you now?" His eyes bolted from your eyes to your lips. "Those lips are looking awfully lonely."

You laughed. "You don't have to ask." 

Frankie gently pushed you up against the shower wall, enveloping your mouth in a passionate, desirous kiss. His hands were on your breasts, thumbs flicking across your nipples, fingers massaging the soft flesh. You both were now directly under the shower head, the warm water cascading down your faces, mixing with your lips and tongues. Ripples flooded your body when you felt his hard tip pressed against you, making you yearn for him even more.

"I missed you", he said between kisses. "I know I should've been here earlier. Fuckin' truck wouldn't start after I finally located it in the parking lot. Took me an hour to find someone to give me a boost." 

You ran your hands through his hair.  "I missed you too, My Love. I tried calling you several times. Every time you didn't answer I kept thinking something terrible happened to you."

His face was now in your neck. "I'm sorry, Baby. Besides my truck issues, I lost my damn charger at the airport. Couldn't find a replacement. Then the fuckin' phone died as soon as I hit the interstate." The irritation in his voice was apparent. 

"My goodness, Love. Sounds like you've had a hell of a day. Let me give you what you need." You lifted one of your legs, wrapping it around his waist, moving your body closer to his trying to maneuver him inside of you.  He pushed your leg down, laughing. "Needy little thing aren't you! But not yet, Baby. There's something else I'd like to do to you first." 

You looked up at him, pouting and whimpering. He smirked, waving his index finger in front of your face and shaking his head. "No, none of that. We need to establish some rules. You must be a good girl, or you'll get nothing."

You raised an eyebrow. A faint, imperceptible smile overtook your lips. "Ooooh, rules, Frankie? To make sure I'm a good girl for you? I thought you liked my neediness."

His smirk grew wider. "Of course I do, Baby. But patience is a must. Good, obedient girls get rewarded. Bad girls get punished."

You shot him a deer-in-the-headlights look. "Punished? How? Frankie, what the hell are you talking about?"

He winked at you. "No time for explanations now. You'll find out later."

Before you could ask any more questions he dropped to his knees, pressing his hands on the inside of your thighs, pushing them further apart. His face was now inches from your pussy. You gasped when you realized what he had in mind. 

"No! Not that!"  You tried to push his head away. He looked up at you, brow furrowed. "No? Why not? If memory serves me correctly, didn't  you say last time I was here you wanted us to do everything?"  His expression relaxed, eyes full of concern. "Or...wait- is this not something you like?"

You  turned away from his gaze, blushing. "I...actually- no one has ever performed it on me."  

You felt ashamed for admitting to someone who sets your soul alight as much as Frankie does that you'd never had a man taste you.

He grinned, the darkness of his eyes deepening. "Is that so?  Hmmm...." He rubbed his chin, one hand still on the inside of your thigh.  "You know what I think?  I think that's because you've never had a real man, Baby. All the guys you've dated are pussies. Pussies who don't eat pussy." 

You giggled. He's such a smartass. But he wasn't wrong. None of your past relationships ever cared about pleasing you. It was always about what they wanted: pounding into you uncomfortably, flopping on top of you like a fish, climaxing within minutes and leaving you unsatisfied, unfulfilled. Frankie Morales was the complete opposite. He made you feel like your needs, your satisfaction, was more important than his own; as if his main goal was to take care of you. He was patient. He made you feel wanted.

"I've been thinkin' about this sweet pussy all day. Gotta taste it. Please, Baby, can I?" Rivers of shower water snaked their way down his face flattening his thick locks. His eyes still connected with yours. 

Those damn puppy dog eyes.

He was quite aware of your inability to resist them; they made you absolutely weak. You nodded anxiously, realizing how foolish it was to deny him anything. Especially anything sexual. "Yes", you breathed. "Yes, My Love, please!"

Frankie spread your  folds with two fingers, licking his lips. God, you were glistening. "Fuckin' look at that, would you. So prompt and prepared. So wet for me. Exactly how I like my girl to be."  He circled his tongue around your clit -just once- before licking the inside of your folds, furiously lapping up your trickling arousal. Two fingers from his other hand pushed inside of you, curling, bending. You threw your hands into his hair letting out a long, plaintive whine.

"Fuckin' delicious," he breathed, not looking up. He took his fingers out, put them in his mouth, and inserted them back inside you. He moved them in and out while endlessly flicking his tongue across your clit, making you whine louder.  He took his fingers out once more, but instead of putting them in his mouth, he put them in yours. 

"Taste it," he demanded, moving them around the circumference of your mouth, now looking up at you. "Taste how sweet you are."

You followed orders, both hands gripping his forearm and wrist, wrapping your lips around his fingers. You swirled your tongue around the digits, bobbing your head up and down as if you were fellating him, all the while the two of you keeping eye contact. 

"Fuck that's sexy." He took his fingers out of your mouth, put them in his own, savoring the taste briefly, and put them back in yours, instructing you to keep sucking. He turned his attention back to your pussy. You moaned and closed your eyes, feeling his tongue inside you moving up and down quickly. You sucked on his fingers harder; your hands gripping his wrist and forearm so tightly your knuckles were turning white. The feel of his tongue deep inside your hole, while he rubbed your clit with his other hand, made you nearly lose consciousness from the pleasure. So many things were happening to you at once; all your senses and emotions at play. You couldn't tell if the sounds you were hearing were yours or his. No coherent thought could be produced.

"Come on, Baby, show me," he said, swiping his tongue through your folds. "Show me - swipe - what - swipe - this pussy - swipe -  can do."

The movements of his fingers against your clit quickened; his glorious tongue exploring every nook and cranny, no inch left untasted. The fingers previously your mouth now driving into your pussy at such speed your legs shook. He took his index finger and thumb and pinched your overstimulated clit, wrapping and sucking his lips around the sensitive bud.

"Frankie! What are you doing to me! Oh my God!"  

Your body jolted as you felt a massive outpouring of your juices, reaching the pinnacle of desire. A loud wail trailed out of your throat; the pleasure hitting you like a freight train. You held your hands up near your face, shaking, trembling, looking down at the frenzy between your legs.

"Good girl! Best pussy I've ever tasted."  He stood up, wiping your mess off his face - it was everywhere - with the back of his hand and licking it off. "That was fuckin' incredible. Gonna fuck you now. You earned it. Ready?" 

You nodded, breathless, fighting for air after what you'd just experienced. "Pl-please. I'm always ready for you, My Love."

Your scenery changed in a flash. Frankie flipped you around to where you were now facing the shower wall; your stomach and chest pressed against the cold, wet tile. He stood behind you, his hands on your hips, his cock nudging your entrance.  

"Put your palms against the wall, Baby. Stick your ass out. Spread those legs for me."

You followed instructions. He kept one hand on your hip, the other gripping your shoulder as he thrust into your drenched pussy with a low, rough grunt. He began pounding into you without giving you a chance to adjust to his length, knocking even more air out of your lungs. 

"Fuck  yes, Baby. This is how I always wanted to fuck you. All those nights I stayed over and fucked my fist to the thought of you. This is what I imagined us doing."  

All you could do was close your eyes and moan at what you were hearing. You knew he jerked off many times when he spent the night at your apartment. He is a man, after all. But never in a million years did you think it was you getting him off.

"Frankie...oh fuck..." His thrusts were endless. You reached behind you to touch him, eager to feel hot, wet skin and muscle beneath your fingers. He grabbed your hand and pressed it back in its place against the wall.

"No, no, Baby. Keep your hands where I can see them."

Your eyes shot open as one of his great hands came in contact with your ass with a loud, wet slap, causing your body to lurch forward.

That's gonna leave a mark. 

"Oh, shit!" You glanced back at him over your shoulder, keeping your hands in place.  

"Umm....Frankie? What...was...that?"

"You know what it was." He slapped your ass again, this time on the other cheek. You squeezed your eyes shut and bit your lip as the pain bloomed across your body. You didn't want to admit it but the stinging sensation felt spectacular; so much better than the playful slaps he gave you when you were just friends.

"Fuck yes! More, Frankie, more! Please!" 

"Ah, so you do like having your beautiful ass spanked. Filthy girl." He obliged, slapping your ass harder than before; his thrusts never ceasing. He still gripped your shoulder, fingers digging into your flesh. "Come on. Move, Baby, move," he demanded. "Don't make me do all the work." 

You weren't exactly clear on what he meant at first, or what was bringing on this behavior. But you'd be damned if you denied you liked it. Your countless fantasies about him almost always involved him dominating you, spanking you, tying you up, making you beg for him, calling you dirty names, doing nasty, obscene, disgusting things to you, putting you in positions that would make even a contortionist shudder. In reality, your sweet Frankie would never be into such things. He would be downright embarrassed at what you wanted him to do to you. 

Apparently, you were wrong. 

You looked back at him, confused.

"I...I...don't...uh...what?" 

Both hands moved to your sides and pulled you closer to him, making back and forth motions. 

"Like this, Baby. Come on, don't be shy."  His saccharine voice set your mind at ease. "Let me and help me take good care of you."  

Realizing what he was asking you to do you rocked your body back into him, taking him fully all the way to the base; coarse, wet hairs tickling your ass.  Frankie trailed his fingers up and down your spine; those large hands so soft it felt like he wasn't even touching you at all. 

"Yeah, Baby. Just like that. Show me how I'm making you feel."

Your impassioned mewls and sighs increased as you moved back and forth faster, your ass crashing into his hips making him groan and pant. Even through the bellow of the falling water you could hear the inappropriate sounds of your wet bodies smacking against one another. You threw your head back, not caring that the tepid stream was hitting you directly in the face. 

"Frankie...I've never done it this way...you feel...so...fucking...good."

His cock gliding against your walls, along with the fact he was doing things to you that you'd only dreamed about, had you gasping for the breath he had taken away from you.

 "So do you, Baby. So goddamn tight. Jesus fuckin' Christ." 

He coiled his hands through your hair giving it a gentle tug, looking down at the junction of your bodies. "God I missed this pussy. I never want to go this long without it again." 

"Me too, My Love."  You uttered a pleased hum. "God I love the way your cock feels inside of me. My pussy felt so empty without it."

He chuckled. "Tell me something, Baby. Do you always want to be fucked like this?"

Nodding was the only response you could give; words stolen by sobs and wails as he moved his hips against your ass faster. 

"Did you mean it when you said you'd do anything for me?"

Nod. 

"Were you being truthful in saying you'd always dreamed of belonging to me?"

Nod.

He slapped your ass once more, a hand still in your hair, making you shriek as he tugged harder.

"Words, Baby!" Slap. "Vocalize!" Slap. "I need to hear you say it!" Slap.

You were definitely going to have handprints on your ass later.

"Yes!"  You wheezed. "My Love, Yes! I want to belong to you! Fucking own me!" 

The way you moaned those last two words made him laugh. "You want me to own you, you say?"

"Yes!" you answered without hesitation. "In every sense of the word!"

His lips curled into a pleased smile. "Good girl. That's the answer I was expecting."  He let go of your hair and spun you around to where you were now facing him.

"Hold on to me, Baby. It's okay, I got you." He placed his hands under your thighs and picked you up effortlessly, pinning you against the shower wall with his body. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your ankles crossed, one arm flung around his neck, the other clutching his shoulder. Within seconds he was back inside you fucking you like his life depended on it, his vigorous thrusting forcing your body up and down, lifting, falling. His face deposited in your neck, licking, kissing, sucking every inch of skin between your neck and shoulder. You tilted your head back, eyes closed, mouth open, desperate cries filling your tiny bathroom. You're so full of him, his cock so deep inside you touching every nerve, every tendril, every fiber, every corner. The head of him pressing the switch within you that made you lose all modesty, all control. 

"Oh, God, yes! Harder, My Love! Harder!"  You were basically shouting the words. "Fuck me like you own me!"

He growled and hissed in your ear as the brutality of his thrusts intensified. His fingers and hands squeezing your skin so tightly you were certain you'd be left with marks, bruises, fingerprints. The pain, the pleasure; it was all equally too much and not enough. It was fucking magnificent; leaving your mind in shambles. 

"Yes, Baby, yes!" he panted. I fuckin' love hearing you talk this way. So fuckin' dirty."

He was now looking at you, eyes hazy with pleasure, mouth open. "Gonna cum soon, Baby. Where do you want it? Inside?" 

"Yes!"  You cried, locking your eyes with his. "You don't need permission! Just fuckin' do it!  Cum inside me, please!"

A smile spread across his lips, a satisfied twinkle gleaming in his eye. "You are so fuckin' perfect, Baby, I swear. Fuckin' made for me."  He put an index finger in his mouth and, without warning, pushed it repeatedly inside your asshole -while still fucking you into oblivion.

"Frankie!" You practically screamed his name.  "That's...oh fuck...what the fuck! That's too much! I can't-"

 "-You can take it, Baby. I know you can. Show me. Don't hold back."

No way was he going to make you cum twice. That was impossible; only something you'd seen in movies and TV. Something that always suspends your disbelief, making you scoff and roll your eyes. But this?  Imminent. You were going to have multiple orgasms in one night for the first time ever in your life. Then he stuck another finger inside your ass. And that was it; the shot of adrenaline straight to the heart, the needle bursting the tiny pleasure-filled bubble in your stomach, the surge of electricity pulsing through your veins. You wrapped your arms tighter around his neck , fingertips kneading, clawing into the flesh of his back holding on for dear life. 

Frankie gave one last forceful buck of his hips as he spilled into you, an orchestra of explicit noises and words coming from the both of you. You could feel the concoction of warm liquids between your thighs shooting up into you like fireworks. Your vision was now a swirling sea of unrecognizable colors. Your head collapsed on his shoulder, his chin on yours, chests heaving against each other's, breaths coming and going in quick intervals. 

"I love you so much, Frankie" you finally managed to say after what seemed like an eternity of silence. "You make me feel things I had no idea I could feel."

You felt him smile against your neck. "I love you too, Baby. I always knew I'd be the one to broaden your horizons."

You embraced him tighter running your hands up and down his back. "I never wanted anyone like this. It's all brand new to me."

"Likewise, Baby." Frankie removed his hands from the back of your thighs and set you on your feet. You felt like a newborn fawn, legs wobbly, unable to keep your balance. You both laughed as you held on to his forearms for support until you could stand on your own.  He shut the water off and opened the sliding glass door, stepping out onto the white feathery bath mat.

"Meet me in the living room after you're dressed," he said as he grabbed a towel off the bathroom door hook and gathered his clothes off the floor. "I have a surprise for you."

**************************

After changing into leggings and a spaghetti-strap shirt, you found Frankie sitting on the sofa, his phone in one hand, thumb swiping up and down in quick strokes, dark bottle of beer in the other taking long swigs, eyes never leaving the device screen. His jeans were zipped but unbuttoned, unfastened belt hanging loosely between his legs. His red T-shirt clung to his still-damp skin, portraying each sculpted muscular detail, his moist capless hair an unkempt mess, strands pointing in every direction. You stood at the end of the hallway watching him, leaning your shoulder against the wall, staring, struggling to process what had just taken place in your shower. You had difficulty wrapping your head around the fact that it actually happened; not in one of your fantasy scenarios. Frankie Morales, who you've wanted since the first day you laid eyes on him, was now your lover, your partner; your companion. The one who showed you pleasures you didn't know you wanted or needed. The one who unlocked your passion and freed your mind to explore the depths of your darkest sexual desires.

Your lover.  That sounded so forbidden, so taboo.

Frankie looked up from his phone and gave you a smile, his eyes lighting up when he saw you. "There's my girl. You disappeared from me. I didn't think you'd come back."  He took another sip of beer and set the bottle on the coffee table. "Come on over here so I can give you your surprise." 

You took the empty seat next to him. He reached into his duffel bag and pulled out a small, flat purple gift box wrapped in pink ribbon and placed it in your hands. 

"This is for you, Baby. Open it."

"You bought me a gift?" 

He nodded, his eyes wide and full of anticipation, an anxious smile across his lips. "Of course. You're my girl. I need to spoil you."

Inside was a thin, black leather choker necklace adorned with numerous diamond-shaped crystals. A sterling silver heart pendant hung from a small chain on the facade, and it fastened like a belt in the back. You didn't wear much jewelry, earrings occasionally. He knew this, which made it a little unclear as to why this would be a gift choice. But you found it to be beautiful. Elegant. Racy.

After a few moments it hit you; the purpose of the gift. You were his. He owns you. You belong to him. He wants it to be shown. 

"Frankie, it's lovely. But...I don't wear neck-."

"-You do now," he interrupted. "I want you to wear it as a symbol of my ownership of you. You want to be mine in every possible way? Wearing this necklace will seal that deal."

You stared at the piece of jewelry in your hands, trying to believe what you had just heard; your mind devoid of words.

He scooted closer to you, putting a hand under your chin, forcing your eyes to meet his. "If you think it's excessive, Baby, you don't-"

"-Yes", you answered. "I'll wear it and I'll never take it off. Whatever it takes to make you happy, My Love, I'll do it." You took the accessory out of its box, ready to put it on. Frankie eagerly took it from your hands, his eyes lighting up. "Please, let me do it."

He leaned forward reaching across you to fasten the choker, his cheek brushing against yours, lips next to your ear. "You know what this means, don't you?" He whispered once the necklace was fully around your neck.  A hand trailed down your body, between your legs, inside your panties. "This pussy-this body-is mine now."  His fingers started rubbing at your clit, making you cry out. "I can do whatever I want with it. Clear?"

You nodded, eyes fluttering closed. "Fraaannnkkkiiiiieeee..."

"Remember those rules I mentioned earlier?"  His lips were still against your ear. "About being a good girl and getting punished for being bad?  You must follow them now that you're wearing this necklace. You must obey."

He slipped a finger inside you, moving the digit so rapidly you could hear the vulgar squelching noises, making you squirm. You grabbed his arm. "Frankie!"  you moaned. "Yes! I'll do whatever you say, My Love! I'm all yours!"

He grinned, his eyes rich with contentment. His lips crashed into yours, tongue delving into your mouth. Your arms found their way around his neck, your legs moving onto the sofa so you could lie on your back outstretched.  Frankie lowered himself onto you, positioning himself between your legs, still dressed, lips never leaving yours, still fingering you like it would be a crime if he stopped, making you hum and whimper. The other hand caressed your still-clothed thigh and leg.

"Gonna cum for me again, are you, Baby?"  he asked against your lips. "Are you gonna squirt all over my-"  

There was a knock at the door, making Frankie stop the delicious makeout session and look up in confusion.  He looked down at you, also perplexed.

"Expecting company?"

You shook your head.

Another knock, this time much louder. 

"Want me to see who it is?" 

"No, I'll get it." You stood up and made your way to the door located right next to the sofa.  You opened it, and the color drained out of your face. Your heart sank. 

There she was. Fucking. Erica. Hands pressed on her hips, looking as perfectly put together as always. Black hair,  flawless makeup, tight dress, menacing green eyes. The only difference from when you last saw her was now she looked like there had been way too much time spent in a tanning bed and too many collagen injections in her lips. She impatiently tapped her high-heeled foot on the outside concrete floor, her mouth sewn into an angry frown. 

"Where is he?" Her voice was eerily stern, lacking emotion. "I know Francisco is here somewhere. Where the fuck is he?!"

You put your finger up. "First of all, Erica, hello to you too. Second, don't come at me with that attitude. Third, what makes you think he would be here?"

Erica rolled her eyes, huffing out an annoyed sigh. "Because his fucking truck is parked out front, dumbass." 

"Don't you fuckin' dare speak to her like that." Frankie growled as he walked up next to you, casually throwing his arm around your shoulder pulling you closer to him. "You lookin' for me, Erica? Well, here I am. The hell do you want?"

Erica's eyes switched between you and Frankie, looking you both up and down, noticing your still wet locks, flushed cheeks, his shirt worn inside out and unbuttoned jeans. She shook her head, her eyes on the ground, sarcastic laughter seeping through her lips. 

"Unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable. You two fucked, didn't you?"

Frankie cleared his throat. "You shouldn't ask questions to which you  know the answers."

She cut her eyes to you. "I suppose you think he's your boyfriend now? That he loves you?"

"Erica, I'm not gonna ask you again." Frankie piped in before you could give her an answer. "Why. The. Fuck. Are. You. Here?" 

His acerbic tone made you take a step an inch away but he still kept his arm on your shoulder. You looked at him while he kept his eyes on Erica. His brow furrowed, lips pursed, jaw tightened, veins in his neck made their appearance, heavy breathing commenced through his nose. His other hand formed into a fist.

Erica pointed a manicured accusatory finger at him. "You. You son-of-a-bitch. You and I need to talk."

(To Be Continued....)

[lemonteeths]

huh? the bell, used to keep track of livestock and preventing them from going astray, symbolizes The Lamb's position as a permanent servant, bred for slaughter? WRONG ‼ ‼ jester lamp :3

[poreyneel]

The only thing we've learned - Life isn't fair

[daeyumi]

au Ganondorf 🪷

ngl i am Very proud of his design

[lauraneedstochill]

Cry me a river

summary: Aemond finds her wounded and left to die in the middle of nowhere. her desire for vengeance helps her survive — and her unbreakable spirit inevitably draws the prince to her. author’s note: her betrothed does what Daemon did to Rhea... this time, the woman survives 🔪 also, couples who kill together, stay together, I don’t make the rules warnings: archery (described in unprofessional language), slow burn (... and then not so slow), mentions of blood and murder (duh), it gets a bit heated words: ~ 11K song inspo: Tommee Profitt ft. Nicole Serrano — Cry me a river (cinematic cover) 🔥

>>> Aemond is caught in heavy rain midair, in the depths of a starless night. The storm rips through the clouds, and the lightning flickers across the sky that’s bowed over the Vale. He tries to resist the voice of reason that urges him to land, he’s no little boy to be afraid of the whims of nature. But the downpour only grows more ferocious, and the rattling of thunder soon drowns out Vhagar’s displeased roars.

Begrudgingly, Aemond sets his pride aside and peers into the darkness that stretches as far as the eye can see. He can barely make out a vague outline of the mountains but the rocky terrain is a poor resting place, that much he knows. Exasperation slowly claws at him as the wind howls, his clothes drenched and heavy, and the ribbon of moonlight slips away into the gloom.

When his gaze suddenly catches a flicker of light, a faintly lit cave in the distance — Aemond thinks it’s the Gods' mercy as it is. He is yet to find out that the Gods are leading him that way for a reason.

>>> The landing is rough but Aemond holds back complains and runs for cover, breathing a sigh of relief once he gets to the cave. Vhagar curls up in a heap, and her enormous silhouette can easily pass for just another mountain in the valley.

The prince tiredly wipes the raindrops off his face — and only then notices a spot of crimson right under his feet. He recognizes the color of blood in an instant, and the realization fills him with dread. Slowly, he turns around, his eye following the gory trail, his hand reaching for the dagger. But the sight he’s met with leaves him frozen in place.

Aemond is sure he’s never been so stunned and horrified all at once.

At the far end of the cave, a woman is lying next to a waning fire, with her eyes closed and face drained of color. She is dressed in bright red, and the blood on her hands blends into the laced fabric of her long sleeves, and Aemond is struggling to locate the injury that left her unconscious. She looks so helpless, a breath away from irrecoverable, he throws caution to the wind and rushes to her side without much thought.

Aemond kneels, examining her bare and bloodied feet, the torn hem of her dress, the smudges of dirt on it. With timidly blossoming fascination, he takes in the softness of her features stained with tears, green leaves tangled in her hair. Aemond reaches his hand to smooth a strand of it when he sees a splash of red framing the side of her face. His fingers barely graze her temple — and once he sees them stained with red too, his breathing hitches.

He’s no stranger to cuts and bruises but he doesn’t know how to treat a head wound. And his fighting skills won’t be of use against the Stranger.

A feeble voice brings him back to reality:

“I am not dying.”

Startled, Aemond lets his gaze fall on her lips, parted and faintly tinted with pink. Her eyelids flutter before she opens her eyes — they meet his in an instant. The feeling he gets bears no explanation: it’s sudden and overwhelming, raging like a hurricane that hits right at his chest. She doesn’t look away while her hand finds his — his fingers are still in her hair, and he shudders at the touch; her skin is cold but the grip is surprisingly firm.

“I’m not dying tonight,” she repeats, her tone a bit steadier. “I will not give him the satisfaction.”

His brows furrow from the lack of understanding. His body tenses at the very clear hint that he gets.

“Who did this to you?” Aemond asks with concern.

But she already drifts out of consciousness, back to where she can’t hear him. The thunder rolls and the lightning tears the cover of darkness, illuminating uninhabited mountains and valleys. The terrible weather seems like the least of Aemond’s problems.

>>> It rains all night, and the dawn comes shrouded in white mist. He cannot sleep a wink. The woman tosses and mumbles incoherently as her mind lapses back into the grasp of the unknown suffering. Aemond finds the sight so unnerving, it’s almost painful to watch, but he doesn’t take his eye off her.

He keeps the fire burning to help warm her up, ignoring his own discomfort. Not his shivering but hers eventually compels him to peel off his wet outer garment to dry it off faster. He hastens to put the clothes back on but leaves out his coat to cover her with it, black material over red, a night draping over sunset. Hesitantly, he rubs her arms and back, his usually deft fingers now tentative, until he sees the life returning to her cheeks. It puts Aemond’s nerves at ease, and he belatedly realizes how stiff his body has become from hours of sitting in agonizing suspense. And yet, he never leaves her side.

The mountain tops stay hidden by the clouds, the sky coated in gloom the sun can’t peek through, but around midday, she wakes up again. Her eyes dart to Aemond who moved to feed the fire with branches. He doesn’t rush into conversation, giving her a chance to come to her senses. She is looking at him with distrust but without a hint of fear.

“You stayed,” she concludes in a hoarse voice, slightly shifting in place.

“Leaving you all alone didn’t seem fair,” Aemond responds, which only earns a huff from her.

“I am perfectly capable of managing on my own,” she rebuts, trying to prop herself up on elbows — and instantly groans at the ache in her temple.

Aemond comes closer in a blink of an eye, and it’s hard to miss the empathetic look he gives her. He politely stays at arm’s length which she is thankful for.

“Your bleeding stopped but such a serious wound must be examined by a maester,” Aemond tells her peacefully. “How far away is your home? I shall accompany you there once the weather calms down.”

He sees emotion flashing through her face, and for a moment it gets so quiet, he can only hear the rain still drizzling outside the cave.

“I do not have a home,” she forces out, and Aemond is surprised to notice that she doesn’t sound sad. If anything, there is ire in her words. “You shouldn’t bother.”

“I am sure your family is worried by your absence and —”

“My family valued me so little, they got rid of me at the very first chance,” she cuts him off, her voice stern. “So I am not going back to them, I’d rather you leave me here.”

He looks her over — her ruined dress and anguished face, dried-up blood in her disheveled hair. No doubt, she is hurting, and it would be unbecoming of a prince to leave a lady in such dire straits.

“I can do no such thing,” Aemond insists. “You survived a severe injury but whatever discomfort you are now feeling can be eased.”

“Complaining would only make me look pitiful. I need none of that,” she is sitting with her fingers pressed to the aching part of her skull, her brows knitted.

“Only seems reasonable to pity anyone with a ble—”

“Did anyone pity you?” she interjects, looking straight at his eyepatch.

The question is meant to cut him yet it doesn’t — too much time has passed, and his once painful memories are now dust-covered images at the back of his mind. But he finds her intent amusing. Wounded and weak, she is supposed to be at his mercy, but her spirit stays unbendable, and her gaze is so blazing, it’s nothing less of a fire. She keeps her eyes on him, waiting for his reply, confident that she will get it.

“Hardly anyone,” Aemond admits. “But I wasn’t left in a cave to die, so the comparison doesn’t work in your favor.”

He expects her to snap again, he almost wants to have another taste of her insolence — a trait so uncommon among any women he’s met, Aemond deems it not offensive but thrilling. She only hums in response, throwing him a glance, and he sees curiosity shining through her cold stare, like a ray of sun in the storm clouds. Their exchange of pleasantries is cut short by another one of her groans. He is usually patient but the sound of her suffering is a test that he fails.

“You will not get better on your own and you know it,” Aemond tries to reason. “I can take you to the greatest maester there is,” — and his persistence is akin to a plea. He anticipates her fears and allays them before she can utter a word: “You will be free to leave at any moment, you have my word.”

“What’s in it for you?” she narrows her eyes at him, her whole demeanor a clear evidence of her refusal to give in just yet.

Aemond thinks for a moment. The real answer to her question lies on the surface and is as vivid as her dress and as her blood: he knows nothing about her and he wants to know everything. He has trouble not only voicing but coming to terms with his desires.

“I am afraid that guilty conscience will disturb my sleep,” Aemond says, and it’s not entirely untrue. He can already tell he’ll think of her many nights to come.

She looks at him appreciatively, slowly, as if her gaze can cut through the cotton of his shirt, flesh, and bones his body is made of. Whatever is her verdict, he can’t tell because in the next moment, she is stricken with pain again, and talking isn’t of much help.

“We shall leave at dawn,” Aemond recapitulates, helping her lay down to have some rest while he can’t find any.

“Do you happen to have any water?” she mumbles more humbly. He senses that showing weakness doesn’t come easy for her; he’s not the one to gloat at something he can perfectly understand.

“I will fetch you some,” he reassures and pulls his coat over her again — and hurries outside.

The mountain valleys welcome him with stillness, and Vhagar’s eyes are two beacons in the mist. The dragon seems comforted by the rain and pays Aemond no mind as he climbs up to get a flask with water he luckily brought, and some lemon cakes Helaena insisted that he take (“should something happen on the road”, she said; he makes a mental note to thank her later).

They eat in silence — she has no appetite, and Aemond feels food stuck in his throat. She tells him nothing but her name; he savors the sound of it, a weave of letters he can now put to her face. Aemond studies her discreetly and although he can’t read her yet, he puts everything in memory, down to the smallest detail. The slight tilt of her head, the pensiveness of her gaze, a blizzard of feelings trapped in her irises, the stubbornness in her lineaments paired with beauty. The curve of her neck and a thin golden chain around it, her collarbones flowing down in that hollow spot his thumb would fit in... He stops himself from looking further down; his face flushes nonetheless, and something sparks inside him, dangerously unnamed.

The evening approaches stealthily but comes chilly and dank. They go to sleep early, both laid next to the fire, and Aemond courteously keeps his distance. She notices the goosebumps that snake under his shirt; her suspicions are soon confirmed when she catches the sound — and can’t tell if it’s the hammering of rain or his chattering teeth.

She considers him: his sharp profile, tense angles of his jaw, lines of his cheekbones seemingly chiseled by the Gods themselves. With his silver hair and eye the color of wisteria, she expected a different attitude; everyone knows the Targaryens to be self-righteous at best and prideful as a given. But the man next to her is instead stoically enduring the hardship he can easily avoid — if he only rolls closer and allows their bodies to trap the elusive heat; he doesn’t dare to. She realizes he could’ve taken advantage of her if he wanted, but it seems like the thought hasn’t even crossed his mind. She finds it way more endearing than her vigilance would usually let her — the pain must’ve dulled her sanity, she thinks, reminding herself that it’s the sole intent of surviving that should motivate her.

No words will work against his wit so she wastes no time snuggling up to him, with her forehead against his shoulder, her hand resting on his chest as she shares his own coat with him. A quiet gasp escapes Aemond’s mouth, but he stays still.

“I can hear you shivering,” she can feel it now too — his skin trembling under her fingers. “You are risking to catch a cold.”

Aemond is frozen for a minute, his heart thrumming at that unexpected boldness, at the feeling of her — malleable curves and no rigid edges, their ribcages in contact, their thighs brushing. Calming his breathing is an arduous task; he’s used to fighting off opponents but now he’s battling with himself, with the need that’s treacherously strong, almost primal. He barely quells it, and only by some miracle his inhales are soon steady again.

He moves his arm — the one she’s lying on — a little to the side, giving her more space to settle into, tips of his fingers stopping at her lower back. He does feel undoubtedly warmer. Aemond glances down at her, his voice a whisper tinted with mirth:

“Isn’t this called pity?”

He hears a faint cackle. “Call it rationality,” she refutes. “Since we are to leave soon, and only one of us can fly a dragon.”

The words roll off her tongue like it is the most mundane thing, not a century’s worth of power encased under the thick-scaled skin of a creature the size of a castle.

“You do not find the beast scary?” Aemond can’t stop himself from asking.

“Why would I? It is only a dragon,” her voice grows smaller, eyelids become heavier. “Unlike some men, the dragons are at least not known for their ill intentions.”

At that moment, a wish is abruptly made — to find out who harmed her, make sure it happens no more. The fury in Aemond is a mounting force meant to cause destruction, tamed yet never really dormant. But he listens to her breaths and pushes his anger aside, and the full moon is the only witness of his surrender. As he falls asleep, he tries not to think how nice it is to have her body pressed to his.

>>> What he should be thinking of is how to explain all this — him, unwed, bringing a woman to the castle; a scandal, no less. And yet, it is the last thing on his mind. It’s only occupied with this moment he wishes would never end — with gusts of wind tucked under the dragon’s belly, clouds spread out around; and, most importantly, his arms snaked around her waist, her back touching his chest.

It is bittersweet, truth be told because her pain isn’t gone overnight, and he can’t heal her with just his hands and his words. The splotches of dark maroon are even more visible in her hair in daylight, and she winces at loud sounds, at the harsh flow of air that bites her skin while Vhagar soars up, and she has to grab onto Aemond a little tighter.

But soon they reach the clear canvas of the sky, the serene emptiness, and she looks around, taking it all in — and then the corners of her mouth curl up. There are sparkles of delight in her eyes, and still no sign of fear. And he thinks that her smile is the closest thing to the sun.

They cover many miles, crossing the lands as Vhagar bursts through the clouds, and the time allotted to their inadvertent closeness runs out, mercilessly as ever. Once they land and he helps her climb down, his anxiety comes back, like a wave approaching shore. But then a sound of her whimper reaches him, almost inaudible; he only has time to turn around, to see her pained expression. She passes out — he catches her; it’s his heart that falls, and no other thoughts and explanations matter.

When Aemond is seen at the castle, he’s carrying her in his arms, his lips pressed into a thin line, and not a word slips out after he calls for the maester. The prince pays no attention to the guards and the maids exchanging glances, to his mother stopping dead in her tracks upon seeing him, her hand over her heart. There is a question hanging in the air, parting Alicent’s lips, but she doesn’t voice it and only watches her son walk away, hurried and fearful in a way she forgot he was capable of. She struggles to remember when was the last time she saw Aemond in the company of a lady. And if he ever looked at a woman the way he looks at this one.

>>> Aemond is pacing the corridor, his eye on the floor, on the pattern of the stone surface. His mind is treading at the doors that were closed in his face after she was carried into the room. She was breathing still, and that’s what helps him keep it together, his hands clasped so tightly his fingers go numb.

He wonders if maester Mellos has always been so annoyingly slow. That’s the only wondering he can allow — otherwise the noxious thoughts will flood his head: how much blood did she lose before he found her? What if he was the one being too slow? What if —

“Her life is not in danger as she regained her senses” the maester moves with the pace of a cat, his face wearing the same unbothered expression. “The long flight might’ve been tiring for her impressionable female nature.”

That assumption is disregardful and uncalled for — Aemond hates it; still, he’s glad to hear the rest. He lets out a breath that frees his chest from the chains of agitation.

“I will fetch her some herbal ointment to help the cuts and bruises heal faster,” the old man then adds.

Aemond’s expression hardens; clearly, he knows the meaning behind the words but he cannot fathom them. Violet marks of violence blooming on her skin, how could he miss it? How did she get them? He accidentally thinks of it out loud.

“It is a rare luck to get only bruises after taking a fall from a horse,” the maester looks at him askance. He gives his final verdict before leaving, followed by a sigh: “The young lady surely must rest.”

The displeasure is a tiny tongue of flame at Aemond’s ribs. He is vexed by not knowing (nothing new in that, not with his eagerness to learn all and everything ever since he was a kid). Unexpectedly, he is equally vexed by not seeing her — so much so, that he almost reaches for the handle of the door that separates them.

Aemond stops himself, his reticence a fetter but also a necessity: she needs her rest, and he shall leave her be. He will not go beyond the bounds of decency.

She can’t be niched into any bounds, he soon will learn.

>>> Aemond is good at many things but not at waiting, as it turns out. In the morning, after he wakes up, anticipation already laps up in him, his day a blur — breakfast, sword practice, the lines in a book he picks at the library all merge and bore him. He only glimpsed the maids leaving her chambers once; it took all of his willpower to go the other way.

In just three days, his impatience smolders — then flares up, then erupts into a wildfire, his head in a haze that makes him lose focus. The more Aemond tries not to think of her, the harder it gets.

He pushes yet another thought aside as he sees Ser Criston approaching, armed with a longsword and perseverance. Aemond’s training is never a dull routine — the knight makes sure of that and doesn’t make concessions. Their swords lock and clank, and time is a whirl; in the midst of it, Aemond finds himself reminiscing about her shining gaze. He almost misses the hit aimed at him and ducks at the very last second — spins, glares, strikes, his blade stopping an inch away from Criston’s face. 

The knight chuckles in good spirits, and the pride he feels is almost paternal. “Such a shame you aren’t the one for tourneys,” he pants, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Aemond rolls his eye, a brief respite not helping with his frustration. The subtleties of his emotions are unknown, unreadable like an ancient language: he’s daydreaming of her hands, her face, her —

“What a shame, indeed.”

Aemond turns to the sound of her voice. The whirl is silenced in an instant.

It’s different from his memories and his dreams — better than both: she is alive and well, she’s right next to him. She isn’t wearing a dress but a tunic and a pair of breeches, cool-toned material against her sun-kissed skin. Her wound is cleaned and healing, the mark left is a lightning peeking from her hair, the waves of it loosely braided. The simple attire doesn’t take away from her beauty (nothing can, he thinks), and it takes him a second to blink the enchantment away.

Aemond’s voice comes back, a tad low. “Aren’t you supposed to be resting?” He’s looking too joyful for it to sound like reproach.

There’s laughter in her eyes. “No one forbade me from stretching my legs. Am I interrupting?”

“Not at all,” Ser Criston chimes in, cautiously curious. “If only you don’t find the sight too unsettling,” he twirls his sword, the steel soundless in his hands.

“On the contrary, I find it entertaining. Although that wouldn’t be my weapon of choice,” her gaze follows the blade up.

Aemond throws her a surprised look but Ser Criston is the one to raise the question. “You have your preferences? Do tell,” he turns his head to the weaponry on a nearby table. “We’ve got shortswords, flails, axes...”

“All of which lack speed,” she remarks pertly, leaving the knight mystified.

Aemond sees no mystery; he knows that in the highlands catching prey is way trickier than killing. Knives, swords, blades of any kind won’t cover a long distance. Something else will.

“Archery, then?” the prince guesses.

“Doesn’t seem like the type of weapon you Targaryens prefer,” she shrugs but her disinterest is feigned.

Ser Criston catches onto that. “Can’t have preferences if there is nothing to choose from,” he grins, then calls for one of the guards, giving short instructions.

The man runs back in a minute, with a bow and arrows, and her eyes light up. They glide over the tight string, the polished wooden bend, concave at each end; it’s crafted beautifully.

“I must ask you to spare the guards,” Ser Criston jests while she takes the weapon, laying hold on its grip. “But do not be shy about taking your pick,” he points randomly at a stack of barrels, about thirty yards away. “These might be nice for a start.”

“That is too easy of a target,” she barely glances that way, then takes a good look around. “Do you truly think so little of me?”

The knight’s cheeks heat up. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to —”

“Oh, I do not find it offensive,” she grants him a meek smile without looking, already eyeing something much further away. “To tell you bluntly, it only spurs me on,” she mounts the feathered end of the arrow against the bowstring — and then pulls it.

Both men follow the direction the arrow is pointed at. Right outside the castle gates, there’s an apple tree, tall and branched, bent slightly over the stone wall. The fruits are bulked and ruddy, mouth-watering; but from where they are standing, the apples can barely be seen, obscured by foliage the wind breezes through.

Ser Criston raises an eyebrow, not incredulous but intrigued; Aemond only gets time to take a half-breath. The first arrow is fired with no warning — it cuts through the air, a flash of color above everyone’s heads, — and pierces an apple, pinning it to the trunk. A moment later she takes another shot; after the second one, Aemond isn’t looking at the apples, his eye instead drawn to her.

He suddenly can see nobody else.

Her every move is concise and simple, but her gaze is dead-set on the tree. She repeats each shot with a honed precision, controlled yet gracious; one of her arms set in a straight line, the other one follows a well-learned pattern — an arrow out, an apple down. That’s where, he thinks, her intrepidity comes from: the deadly weapon in her hands sings like a musical tool. The chance to watch her is bliss, and she’s a vision.

Only when she’s down to the last arrow, her hand unexpectedly flinches. She doesn’t miss, still, but the iron tip veers off and knocks the apple to the ground; a shadow of discontent glides across her face. Ser Criston is too impressed to notice yet Aemond knows that feeling all too well. He’s always strived to be the best too, and he knows how poisonous the pursuit of excellence can be.

“With that level of skill you might be unrivaled,” the knight praises, his words backed up by some of the guards and passersby clapping.

She seeks no praise, her quest is more troublesome. “I can do better,” she says, with her disappointment forced down. Her voice wanes a little when she adds: “I will do better by the next full moon,” and that hidden meaning holds unfathomable weight.

Aemond is too eager to bring her comfort to read between the lines. “The bow and arrows will be waiting for you, shall you decide to train more. But do have mercy on the tree,” a smile ripples her lips, a warmth ripples his heart. “I will ask for some target rings to be made.”

That gives her a dollop of contentment, and their fingers brush when he takes the weapon back. As Aemond gazes after her, he wonders if she feels it too — blood stirring, sweet dizziness, limbs lightweight.

Ser Criston watches the prince with a knowing look, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “It is so rare to find a lady with such a competitive spirit and a talent to match,” the knight muses. “Her husband must be a lucky man.”

Aemond’s joy shrinks, that mere word disturbing. “She doesn’t have one,” he responds. The uncertainty of his answer leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Doesn’t she really?

“That might not be for long,” Ser Criston carelessly comments. The prince’s cold stare makes no impression on him. “Shall we resume our training?”

Aemond goes to pick a shorter sword, his blood now boiling for another reason. There’s a gaze that’s akin to a caress, to a gentle tap on Criston’s shoulder — he turns readily to meet it, dark brown eyes that are a mirror of his own. Alicent casts a glance at her son, questioning and worrying, then holds the knight’s gaze once more. The looks they share are hand-written letters — both of them write the same thing.

>>> Alicent goes looking for answers first — she walks into the woman’s chambers the very same day, with the elegance of a Queen, with the benevolence of a mother. She doesn’t push but guides the conversation; she faces no resistance from the woman she’s facing.

When they are both seated, she tells her a story as old as time, a tragedy lived out by many. Her mother died when the girl was ten years of age, too weak to carry on her blank existence, and her father couldn’t even bear to look at her, no matter how much she tried to please him. Growing up in the Vale felt freeing but lonely, so she preferred archery over embroidery to leap at every chance to get away from home, into the beauty of the wilderness she had no one to share with. But she held out to hope that her life would change. She couldn’t predict that said change would start as an accident — her horse slipping on wet grass.

Alicent can’t help but bring her into a compassionate embrace at the mention of it. Her embrace turns into an offer — of a place to stay, of a shelter, and a friendly ear (maybe those were all the things her younger version wished for but was robbed of). The lie Alicent heard was so skillfully woven into the truth, she didn’t get suspicious. 

Once Aemond learns the story from his mother, he discerns the misleading part in a second. All the other pieces fit together like a puzzle — her being self-reliant and guarded, her brazenness a shield, just like the one he’s grown accustomed to. But that last bit was made up, he can tell. And yet, he just doesn’t know how to approach the subject and not scare her off.

Aemond takes a task on earnestly.

>>> He looks for an opportunity to talk — he ends up tirelessly watching her, and he can’t say that there is no pleasure in it. She does resume her training, and every morning she’s the first one at the training yard when the sun is barely up, and no prying eyes can witness her dedication. Him having an eye on her doesn’t seem to be a problem.

His relentlessness has always been something Aemond prided himself on but it’s hers that he grows to enjoy. He carefully notes her refined movements, her sharp focus, her gaze cutting through any target before an arrow does. It’s easy to be fascinated by her; it takes him a couple of days to look past her outward calmness to catch a flicker of a feeling he can effortlessly recognize — an undercurrent of fury. And then he grasps that each time she aims at the wooden boards, she means to hurt someone. And maybe that is the exact reason she struggles with her every last shot, and her hand keeps flinching, unsure, or maybe too overwhelmed with certitude instead.

On one of those mornings, Aemond gets an idea, an outburst of bravery (or madness, but he’s too excited to care). She’s grimly collecting the arrows, inspecting them for damage when she sees him out of the corner of her eye.

“I couldn’t help but notice that something’s been troubling you,” Aemond comes closer, hands behind his back. She gives him a look that holds no denial but no explanations, either.

Aemond goes to the wooden boards, round and lined up on a hastily built frame, — and stands in the middle, right in front of them. He then puts out a hand with an apple in it, ripe and deliciously red. “Maybe I can help.”

Nothing short of shock flashes through her face, her eyes darting from him to the fruit and back. “What— ” her jaw drops as the words escape her; she strings them into a sentence. “What are you doing?”

“Helping you focus better,” Aemond offers in the calmest tone he can master.

It’s not uncertainty that leaves her speechless, her proficiency hard to deny. It’s the genuine, borderline naive trust that he shows her — with his open gaze on her, his body not moving from the spot, his faith in her as unwavering as his posture.

The moment is fleeting, soft like a morsel of a gossamer cloud, with so many words not shared; in another blink of his eye, it ends. The change in her isn’t drastic but chilling, like a touch of steel blade to the skin — her hand doesn’t waver when she reaches for the arrow, her gaze firmly locking on him.

As her last attempt at leniency, she notes: “There is no stopping an arrow once it’s shot.”

Aemond doesn’t think twice before replying: “You trusted me with your life once. I trust you not to kill me.”

She lifts the bow without hesitation, and he keeps eye contact with bated breath. The never-ending movement of life abates and the pale sunlight fades, and Aemond is deaf to everything but his booming heart. She drops the bow out of the way just a little and pulls the string up to the tip of her nose. She waits at full draw, the passing seconds endless and fulminant at once, before her hand flows back, her fingers relaxing — and the arrow slices through the air.

The first one hits somewhere above the apple; Aemond doesn’t dare to even take a glance, standing motionless, rooted to the ground. The second one follows soon. It’s a blood-curling contrast — how quiet is each shot until it reaches the target, and then the arrow rips right through the board, a deafening crash, a waft of death he’s spared from. Until she draws the bowstring again.

Aemond hears the third and the fourth hit, his hand unmoving, every muscle in his body tense. He is rarely scared, and it’s easy to mistake the fluttering of his heart for fear. But with how his eye is riveted on her, his gaze rapt and throat soar, — he thinks, it might be some other feeling. He gets no time to guess as the fifth arrow — finally — plunges into the apple and pins it to the board.

It’s a momentary reprieve, a quivering wave going through his body; and yet, she doesn’t lower the bow, eyes still fixed on him. Aemond can see her inhaling, the metal tip of the arrow pointing in his direction — and then released smoothly. In a split second, it lodges into the gap between his ribs and his arm, the feathery end stopping right next to his heart. When Aemond looks at her, he catches fiery glints of mischief in her gaze — and then something else, bright but short-lived like a glare on the water.

She puts the bow down, and they both know — her hand didn’t flinch once.

Only when Aemond steps away, he sees that the six arrows form the letter “A”, with the red apple right in the middle.

>>> He’s afraid the change is transient but it lasts — she is now watching him, too. Aemond finds it befuddling at first, not considering himself worth the attention, not used to being seen as something other than a wreckage of man, intimidating, and lonely, and harsh. She doesn’t look daunted. On the contrary, every time she sees him, the ice of her concentration thaws, and her gaze softens and lingers on him, mending every part of him that’s been broken by his insecurities.

She doesn’t recoil from the parts that are irreparable, either. She shows the same understanding when he can’t find the right words and shrinks into his shell — in the middle of conversations, in between rows of bookshelves, at bustling dinners; her company is a haven he can retreat to without a word. She welcomes his every impulse to talk and to share — thoughts, meals, books he thinks she will like (she bites down a smile thinking how much time he spent looking for any mention of archery).

She stays by his side when he doesn’t want to talk and when he overshares, when he’s bleakly taciturn, and when his temper gets as rigid as his sword; she’s enthralled by his anger, never burnt by it. One week turns into two, then into three. Day by day, Aemond wakes up earlier to watch her hit every target without fail, and she then watches him win one bout after another with evident amusement. They explore the castle, get lost in the library, take rides to the woods — she laughs as her horse breaks into a gallop, she basks in the sun, wind ruffling her hair, and his heartbeat raises to a clamor upon seeing her like that.

Her seat is next to his at the dining table, their chambers not too far away, and he persistently walks her to her doors, and every evening he dithers before saying goodnight and parting ways. Her presence soon becomes a warming light nurturing his days — and simultaneously the reason for him losing sleep. But as he lays at night, watching the moon wax, he thinks of another constant, bothering him like a page missing from a book, a closed door he’s got no key for — it’s her secret that he is yet to uncover.

He gets his chance when he least expects it.

>>> The month is nearing its end when Aemond is nearing the dining hall, brimming with emotion he cannot capture — excitement, unrest, sprinkling of anguish. He last saw her hours ago, when his mother came to her in the training yard, and the two of them hastened to leave, seemingly in some agreement he knew nothing about. He caught bits and pieces of words — mentions of fabrics and seamstresses, but it didn’t help with his confusion which soon turned into worry he had trouble coping with. And it wasn’t the worst part.

What’s worse is the comprehension, icy and unforeseeable like a blast of northern wind: it’s only been a few hours, and he’s already missing her. He looks back at the days she wasn’t with him, but they all seem too far away and forgotten, his life before her a blank canvas that she’s now painting with colors. He keeps thinking of her, getting more pensive with each step, until he reaches the doors, and walks in, and — 

the ground is cut from under his feet.

All is the same in the hall: long table in a cloud of mindless chatter, silverware clanking, a rich palette of scents. What stands out is the color, bright like rubies formed within the earth’s crust. It’s the red of her dress — the same old and brand new — and he can only catch a glimpse but it’s enough to leave him dazed. It lasts a second before she senses him, her conversation with Helaena interrupted; she springs to her feet, the dazzling hue stirs up his ardor — he’s almost blinded when he gets an eyeful.

He is staring at her, everyone’s staring at him.

Helaena stands up with a laugh in her attempt to smooth things over: “It isn’t very nice of you to keep a friend waiting,” they both sit down then.

Aemond goes to join them with cotton feet.

He must’ve been too busy last time, her injury too big of a disturbance, so he paid the dress no mind. But once he’s seated, he can’t help but notice: the layers of fabric, flowing lines of her body, the cut in the front, the golden chain now ten times brighter. She casts him a wondering glance, he drinks half the cup in one swallow. The minutes that follow are like a fog, and although the conversations carry on, Aemond can’t bring himself to take part in any.

That is until he hears vaguely his sister’s delighted voice. “The stitching is barely noticeable! What an excellent work,” she marvels at the red dress, then looks at him with the spontaneity of a child. “Wouldn’t you agree, dear brother?”

He’s certainly grateful he’s not drinking otherwise he’d choke. Aemond manages to cast one furtive glance. “A fine work indeed.”

His mother gently picks up the discussion. “It was only fair to help repair the thing your friend holds so dear,” Alicent’s gaze is directed at her. “You can now wear it on more than just one occasion.”

Why would she hold so dear the dress that only carries the memories of her pain, he wonders. The dress that was covered with blood, with fingerprints of someone who wanted her dead. He takes a peek at her, and her face expression gives away no answers but for a second too short to comprehend he sees the undercurrent again; only it never takes shape. She puts on a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, and he’s the only one to notice.

“I greatly appreciate you taking your time to help me,” she says, and Alicent’s smile — a genuine one — only grows wider. Maybe even a bit too wide for it only to be about some stitching.

“I suspect we tired you out with all the measuring and dressing up,” his mother points at her plate. “You hardly ate, my dear.”

“It’s been a long day,” her fingers close around a cup but she doesn’t drink from it, “And the dress brought back some memories,” her grab tightens, the only sign of everything she’s keeping covered. “But I am glad to get a chance to wear it one more time.”

“And I am happy to help,” Alicent assures, “But please, go have some rest, you have seen enough of our boring dinners.”

“I was never bored,” there’s a glimmer of gratitude, a tone of sincerity as she gets up from the table and looks at the faces sitting at it. For a moment, it seems that she wants to say more — grand, meaningful, closer to the truth. And yet, she just opts for a short, “Thank you for having me.”

She barely has time to take a step before Aemond all but jumps to his feet. “I will walk with you,” the words leave his mouth as he stands up with unflinching determination. And it’s not that he wants to leave as much as he wants to follow her.

His eagerness doesn’t come off as a surprise. No one says it but it seems that everyone knows — Alicent and Criston sharing the same looks, Helaena beaming, Aegon smirking into his cup. Aemond only waits for her reaction, his eye focused on her face. She isn’t against it — just like she’s never been before, every time he found a reason to come to her and be with her, and even when there was no reason to do so. She gives him a nod, a tad guiltily but more so accepting (and maybe just as eager as he is).

While they are on their way out, Aegon turns on his chair to say something but Helaena covers his mouth with her hand.

>>> Aemond breathes a little deeper and walks a little slower, gathering his words, — and before he knows it, they are talking again, his infatuation receded, although never truly gone. He asks about her day, and in the corridors and hallways curtained with silence, her voice flows lightly. He can tell that she’s abashed by all the fussing over her.

“Our seamstresses are quite fierce,” he chuckles. “I fear no sword of mine will stand a chance against their needles.”

“They said this dress was made for feasts,” she quotes, fiddling with the material as if she can’t see what’s there to admire.

“Well, Aegon’s name day is approaching. That will surely be a feast we are all invited to endure,” Aemond jests.

“I don’t think that I will —” she doesn’t finish the sentence, biting down her lip. He’s too distracted by that movement to pay attention to what’s left unvoiced. “You do not find those celebrations to your liking?” she changes the topic swiftly.

“I find them boring,” Aemond huffs. “The same old lords boasting about their wealth, making up achievements that are each so hollow.”

“Sounds like ladies aren’t a part of those conversations?”

“Theirs are hardly better so you should keep your expectations low,” he ruefully remarks. “Сourt gossip is one thing you can’t avoid. And then they’ll either lament about their husbands or try to find one for you,” he doesn’t think much over his words until he sees her smile dropping. And then, before he can find a reason not to, he adds: “...Assuming you are not already married.”

As soon as she hears it, she stops — Aemond does too, and he can tell that she isn’t looking for lies and excuses. She only timidly looks around, as if she’s afraid the walls have ears, and the truth she’s about to tell him is only meant for his. They managed to reach his chambers first, so without a single word Aemond goes to open the doors, and she accepts the nonvocal invitation.

They walk in — both are hasty and agitated, but he gives her space and scarcely hides the trembling of his hands. She finds it hard to utter a particular word. “I was... betrothed but not anymore. The man in question now believes I am dead.”

Her face is turned away from him, her gaze gliding over every object in his room, searching for something to fall on. She hesitantly walks to his table, glancing over a stack of books on it.

Aemond gives her a minute, then inquires: “Was he the one to hurt you?”

Her pain is still fresh, her face briefly splashed with it but she pushes through. Her response is not affirmative and yet, it’s enough of a confirmation. “I should’ve known better than to trust him.”

His anger rears up its head, a beast on a chain readying to get loose. “There is no excuse for what he did,” Aemond punctuates. “There cannot be —”

“There isn’t,” she cuts him off, not harshly but with a weary acceptance, her finger grazing thick book covers. “And I’m the last person to ever make excuses for him. But I should’ve known.”

Aemond is hurt by the thought he gets, but her torment is even more hurtful so he says the words, each letter scorching his heart. “You can’t take the blame for having feelings. Love often makes people let their guard down.” (And for years, he never did. Not until her).

With how fast she retorts, his ache is cured: “It wasn’t love.” Whatever it was, she regrets it so deeply, it’s written all over her face. “Now that I think about it, it never was.”

Her fingers travel down to the table surface, her thoughts straying back to the time that’s too distant but too haunting to forget.

“Lord Dykk Hersy is a son of my father’s friend, we’ve known each other ever since we were kids. He was always too noisy, then turned too self-centered, not much to like about that. And I never thought he fancied me, either. But my father made a decision about us some years back, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. So Dykk started coming more often, following me around, being very nice. And I wasn’t...,” she stops fumbling with strewn parchments and lets out a sigh. “Not a lot of people were nice to me back then. I was naive to mistake his kindness for something else, and he was smart enough to say all the right words to make me believe him.”

Her fingertips reach his dagger, unscabbarded and left in plain sight. His eye is drawn to her every movement.

“We were betrothed when I was ten-and-six. I grew to like his company, and I think he did try his best, at first. For a couple of years, he was courteous, generous enough to give in to my every whim. Not that I had too many,” she’s glassy-eyed, and Aemond’s glare would be enough to kill. “But the illusion didn’t last for long. I soon began to notice pitiful stares, taunting whispers behind my back, maids dropping their gazes in shame. Three years in, I found out one of them was carrying his child.”

“Am I right to assume he denied it?”

“He did,” she chuckles bitterly. “He seemed taken aback by my anger, tried to persuade me he was falsely accused. But I could never blame the girl, it’s not her fault he was so good with words... I fell for them too,” her sadness is washed off with virulence; her fury awakened again, flames of it rising from the bowels of her restraint.

Aemond finds himself only a few feet away from her, pulled in by empathy at first, enamored somewhere in between the first and second steps.

“From that day, the complaints began, the excuses — he was too busy to stay for long, then got too busy to visit.”

“Was it so hard to saddle a horse?” Aemond bristles.

She casts him a glance followed by a half smile. “He lives in The Reach.”

“So chivalry is dead,” he snorts, and her laughter gives him a spark of joy. “It isn’t far away from here,” Aemond notes.

“Takes way longer to reach the Vale,” she explains, then pauses. Her memories eat up the merest hint of cheer. “Only he wasn’t road weary. He was burdened by me.”

Aemond almost reaches out for her, but clasps his hands together, his knuckles whitening. Her finger traces the very edge of the blade.

“And then, on his latest name day, my father made a poor joke,” her smile is crooked, hating. “He said me and Dykk were meant to stay together unless death do us part. That’s when, I think, he got the idea.”

“It is unworthy of a man to ever nurture such a thought,” his voice is embittered, his chest ablaze with wrath.

“I should’ve known,” she sounds dull like an echo. “He’s always called himself a man of traditions — the start of the month was meant for hunting, and he preferred the grounds of Grassy Vale, the shore of the Blueburn river. But then, all of a sudden, he wanted to explore the mountains of the Vale,” she wraps her hand around the hilt. “Said he wished to reconcile, that the trip would bring us closer, made me wear a dress,” she stumbles over the words, “And I didn’t even want to come or to see him, and all the signs were there, but I put on the stupid dress, and I was the one being so unbelievably stupid and —”

His palm covers hers in a rush of tenderness, his gaze more telling than a poem, confessions embedded in it — so many of them, it would take all night to unravel. They stand still, their eyes locked, his affection sweeping in between his fingers and her skin.

“None of that was your fault,” Aemond asserts. “And no one is to blame but him. Your fortitude is only worthy of admiration.”

It’s alluring how unrelenting he is in his desire to please her; the shift of her body toward his is barely noticeable, and she looks a second away from giving in. Something stops her, a sign of regret on her face, her gaze averted.

“And yet, he continues with his life thinking he got the last laugh,” she bemoans. “And I fear I... will never forget the feeling of his stranglehold as long as we are both alive.”

“You survived the unthinkable,” he tugs at her hand, caring in a way no other man ever was with her. “Why can’t it be enough?”

She ponders, hesitates, her outrage tempered by his solicitude. “I guess some lessons can only be learned the hard way,” she draws conclusion.

There it is again — the puzzling implication, a mystery wrapped in an enigma; it leaves Aemond with a sense of unease. “You deem that lesson to be worth it?” he questions.

The truth slips away from his grasp, but her hand stays, and it is too disarming of a sensation for him to think clearly. “I am afraid it’s too soon to tell,” she deflects, her thumb pressed against the flat of the blade. She can’t resist glancing briefly at it.

“You seem to like this little thing,” Aemond observes. “If so, you can have it.”

Her face is so bright with glee again, all the light in his room grows dim in comparison. “I’ve never seen such an intricate pattern,” she clarifies shyly, then adds with appreciation: “It’s truly beautiful.”

“It is,” he’s only looking at her.

“Teach me how to use it,” she unexpectedly asks. She looks at him again, her gaze exulting, and his heart skips a bit. “Properly.”

“And why would I do that?” he asks, undeniably willing.

“Why wouldn’t you?” she teases, her hand moving from his, clamping the dagger tightly.

Aemond misses the feeling — her skin against his, tighling with warmth, — and he catches her fingers in the same second. The distance between them is shortened down to a few inches; they don’t seem to care.

His touches are light and feathery. “You need to make sure your grip is strong,” he gently presses his forearm to hers, her hand positioned in his palm. “Not too tight so there’s some room for maneuvering. But with all your fingers in place,” he gives instructions, and she eagerly follows.

The red of her dress is a striking distraction; as is the softness of its lace, of her touch, of her lips parted in wonder, her diligence bewitching. She waits, his blood rushes; Aemond gulps.

He continues. “It is a common mistake to take a swing with a pommel up,” two of his roughened fingers latch onto her palm. “But the backhand grip works better,” Aemond rotates her hand in the right position, a steady motion with unsteady breath; her shoulder comes in contact with his chest.

He halts all movement, she makes no attempt to step away. He wonders if she can feel... He lacks the words to describe it. But he can discern her bosom heaving with every breath, and his heartbeat is caught in his throat.

He keeps the dagger pointed down, then calmly guides it up and away, their fingers intertwined. “This way, the point of the blade always comes first,” her eyes are on the steel, on the veins scattered on the inside of his wrist. “Which means that the threat also comes faster,” his eye is on the curve of her neck, on the necklace gleaming, beckoning him to glance lower.

Both of them feel the pull, too spellbound to resist — she takes a half step back, he meets her halfway. Her back is now fully propped against him, every bit of his body overflushed with yearning. Their hands stay adjoined as his words vine through her hair: “You try it.”

And so she does. The first time she repeats the movement, it’s almost reluctant, and his long tenacious fingers lead the way. He inadvertently leans in, his forearm molding into hers, a touch that edges towards embrace; her bashfulness then disappears without a trace. The metal shines coolly as she dexterously twists the blade, and Aemond should be concerned with how easy it comes to her; he is instead utterly transfixed.

She looks at him over her shoulder, his breath fanning out over her cheek, the space between them almost nonexistent. She makes a turn, torturously slow, their hands an inseparable duet, bodies longing to share heat.

“Seems like you did have some practice beforehand,” Aemond notes, voice barely above a whisper.

“Or you are a good teacher,” her eyes slip over his lips.

“And you are a fast learner,” he says under his breath.

This once, his gaze wanders, like a wayward traveler in search of means to satisfy his hunger; she is the one he craves. His fingers are itching for every curve of her body — she’s burning in all the places she wishes he could touch her. The tension rises, floods their bloodstream like fever, and —

“Hardly fair to leave me deal with our grandsire on my own!” Aegon bursts through the doors without knocking, a cup in his hand. “Did I ask for a lecture on table manners? I did not!”

He then sees them, already a step away from each other, and there’s a hint of surprise in his eyes which quickly turns into suspicion. He’s about to voice it when she blurts out: “Aegon would make for a good target.”

The cup he’s holding doesn’t reach his mouth. “...I beg your pardon?”

“I talked your brother into teaching me how to throw a dagger,” she lies slyly. “Would you mind stepping back to the door?”

Aegon blinks, incomprehension evident on his face for a moment, until he frowns and does move back to the door — only to open it and rush out, grumbling: “Both of you are utterly insane.”

The second he leaves, she bursts into laughter, and the same sound, low and hearty, spills from Aemond’s lips. She glances at him — his face relaxed, cheeks adorned with dimples, and he catches her gaze. The moment is lost but their desire isn’t, still swelling in both, unabated fire under the navel.

But now she tarries, her delight eclipsed by a grim understanding she chooses not to put into words. She tries giving him the dagger but Aemond gently pushes it back: “I meant it, it’s yours.”

“Thank you,” she puts it into a scabbard he hands her, then murmurs, sincerely grateful: “For listening, too.”

“I am glad to be worthy of your trust,” he replies warmly.

There’s a ringing urge in the back of his head to come closer to her again. But she is unanticipatedly avoidant of any intimacy, mumbling something about the late hour, moving out of his reach — and then the urge turns into a need so desperate, he can’t keep it bottled up.

“I think he is the biggest fool in the Seven Kingdoms,” Aemond lets slip.

She turns to him when her hand is already on the door handle. “Because he couldn’t manage to kill a woman?” the smile she gives him is acerbic, but her gaze is sad.

“Because he didn’t love you the way you deserve,” he breathes out.

She looks astonished, her mouth falling open, and he wants nothing more than for her to say another word, just to give him a reason to spill his every feeling out. But she slumps her shoulders and purses her lips, and then pulls the handle and gets out so quickly, the door slams behind her, and the sound makes him wince.

He is left all alone, with an unsaid revelation at the base of his throat — the way I would’ve loved you, he wanted to say. And with another heartbeat, Aemond realizes: he already does. He is already hopelessly in love with her.

>>> That realization is a ball lightning that swirls in his chest, and he cannot close the eye all night. It’s liberating to say it to himself — love, the word that sounds and tastes so sweet; it’s also absolutely terrifying. Chaotic thoughts run through his mind, and he is racked with indecision that’s paved with his self-doubts and fears. Amidst the chaos, Aemond finds himself reminiscing of her shining gaze — and then of a touch of her hand, of her eyes on him, of her body leaning toward and her lips not shying away from his. He couldn’t have made all that up, he thinks. He also can’t let fear dictate his future.

Aemond leaves the room with the first rays of the sun, while its light only shyly skims the ground, but the prince’s never been more awake. His intent is a vital force, a fuel that makes him quicken his pace. He all but runs — down the stairs, through the doors, through the castle, and out of it; her name and his proclamation on the tip of his tongue 

— only she isn’t in the training yard.

And neither are her bow and arrows.

Anxiety scrapes his ribcage and spreads like ice, then creeps, sluggish and squeaking, into his subconscious. His gaze roves over every corner of the yard, but he can’t catch the slightest hint of where to look for her.

He does break into running on his way back; the corridors and walls all flash before his eye. Her chambers greet him with her absence, the maids all share his concern. Aemond tries to look for clues — a letter, a piece of anything that once belonged to her — but she had no belongings, he remembers then.

Despair crawls out, like a predator sensing blood; Aemond isn’t about to give up without a fight. He goes to question the guards — surely, she couldn’t just disappear into thin air, no matter what her talents are. The men in silver-plated armor are doubtless striving to help, but only one of them recalls her visiting the yard not long before the sun emerged. That knowledge is rather scant and hardly helpful, and Aemond’s determination traitorously falters.

Help comes in the form of a stable boy passing by who gleefully chirps:

“The lady must be a skilled hunter,” he says to no one in particular, dreamingly impressed. “Not many people stick to traditions these days.”

“...Come again?” Aemond throws him a glance so piercing, the boy stammers.

“I only m-meant that it’s a full moon,” he hurriedly explains. “They say, on that day deer move more at night hence why the hunters favor it so much.”

That’s when her words resurface in his mind —

“I will do better by the next full moon.”

“Lord Dykk Hersy always called himself a man of traditions.”

He thinks that for a man who’s only lost one eye, he surely couldn’t have been more blind. Because the clues he’s been so desperate to find were all before his eyes this entire time. He promptly knits together all the fragments — her tireless training, haunting memories, her asking to repair the dress. Only, the one occasion she wanted it for was not some silly dinner.

Disappointment clashes with worry in his chest as Aemond leaves the castle once more, this time with a destination in mind. He blames himself for not guessing sooner; he hopes and prays that it’s not too late.

>>> The grounds of Grassy Vale are robed in green, a canvas of valleys and flats with lone wooden shacks interspersing; Aemond reminds himself he didn’t come for sightseeing. He gazes into fields sprawled underneath, and Vhagar’s body casts a shadow that sweeps along the earth like a water stream. With how low they are flying, it won’t be hard for any of the smallfolk to spot the dragon but Aemond can’t find it in himself to care.

His gaze is searching for one person only, his longing for her immense against everything in his life that’s been measured. But soon he sees the river, and the valleys smoothly give way to forests; Aemond admits with increasing concern that he’ll have to continue on foot. Vhagar grudgingly plops into the high grass, burying her claws in the ground, the flap of her wings so strong, it brings down a couple of trees. Once their rustling is stilled, the sullen peace settles in the vale.

As if to add to his unrest, the sky gets blanketed with clouds, and he can hear the thunder humming in the distance, his heart already hammering in tact. The Gods, it seems, certainly have a penchant for drama.

The sound of the branches crackling is what catches his attention first, and he discerns heavy footsteps fast approaching. In just a second, Aemond sees a man running out of the forest, and there’s no need to take a guess — not only does the stranger look clearly aghast, he’s also got an arrow sticking out of his shoulder.

Aemond throws him a disdainful glance but Lord Hersy is too distraught to notice. “Please, help!” he begs and whines, “I am being chased by a mad woman!”

The prince holds back a snicker, trying not to wrinkle his nose at the sight. “Oh, how unfortunate,” he drawls, and every feature of the man looks hideous to him. “A woman instilling that big of a fear? It is the rarest of things.”

Lord Hersy can’t seem to share his amusement. “She’s truly evil!” he assures with wide eyes, his legs unsteady, hand pressed to the wound, red seeping through his fingers. “She led me into an insidious trap, and I am left completely disarmed!”

“It sounds like it required quite a lot of planning,” Aemond notes. “Might it be that she has a reason to be cross with you?”

“I am a righteous lord, I wouldn’t hurt a fly,” the man lies profusely, and a dark look crosses Aemond’s face. “My only fault was trusting her, that scheming wen—”

With one hand movement, Aemond grabs him, his fingers holding the man’s collar so tightly, Lord Hersy has trouble breathing. “But you are surely cross with her, it seems,” the prince remarks in a dry tone, his gaze blistering cold. Underneath the ice, there’s a flare, a spark; he is actually enjoying this. “Would you mind, my lord, telling me more about her?”

Lord Hersy seems taken aback by the request but obeys implicitly. “She’s n-not lacking beauty, that I will admit,” he weakly tries to free himself yet to no avail. “But ignorant of manners and so terribly short-tempered!”

“Is it her temper you are so afraid of?” Aemond doesn’t hide his mocking.

“She’s got a dagger!” the man complains in distress. “An angry woman armed poses a horrid threat! Gods know, I’ve done nothing to merit that mistreatment!”

He opens his mouth to accuse her some more — but then finally takes note of the frighteningly stiff look on Aemond’s face. The prince’s lips curl up into a wrathful and malignant smile, and the air gets heavy with silence.

His anger is a beast that breaks the chains with its teeth.

“Hm,” Aemond shakes his head with derision. “Worry not, ser, you are in good hands,” the prince lowers his face to his, his voice spewing poison when he hisses, “I was the one to give her the dagger.”

Lord Hersy does attempt to escape Aemond’s grip, he’ll give him that. Pathetically and weakly he twitches and wails, tries scratching his face, then reaches for the eyepatch, wobbly fingers tugging at the stripe of leather, gasping and swearing and —

all of his efforts fall short, and Aemond’s iron grip doesn’t loosen one bit.

And then, out of nowhere, another hand grabs a fistful of the lord’s hair, yanking his head back so harshly, that he gasps. They both were too distracted by the scuffle to notice her draw near, but once she reaches them — engulfed in red, her gaze equally flaming — she truly is force to reckon with. The fury looks so good on her, it makes Aemond hold his breath.

“I see your luck did finally run out,” she says to the man, words filled with resentment.

Lord Hersy grows unsure about his every accusation. “I think there’s been a grave misunderstanding,” he protests in a whiny tone. “I deeply regret causing you any offe —”

“I don’t remember you regretting dragging me down from a horse to try and crash my skull with a rock,” her voice is low, biting. The grin that follows makes her face look sinister. “I knew you couldn’t finish.”

His frown betrays his irritation — he puts it out the second he pulls out the dagger. “There are still ways for me to make amends,” Lord Hersy pleads so sickly sweet, Aemond lets out a growl. “I made a terrible mistake, I shall admit, but I did search for you! Day and night, I prayed to the Gods to find you, I cried my eyes out!”

Her face seems empty while she listens, and Lord Hersy is enough of a fool to mistake it for reluctance. But Aemond thinks she’s never looked more sure, and there’s no mercy she can grant the man whose fate has long been sealed.

She tilts her head, the corners of her mouth twitch, and the prince reads this expression with ease — she’s finally facing her most wanted target. He loosens the grip, and Lord Hersy falls to his knees, gulping air, the breath of death no longer tickling his neck; but his relief is premature.

The blade in her hand pale-glimmers in the vanishing rays of the sun — the man only catches a dreadful glint before he feels the metal pressed against his throat. Her gaze is just as sharp. “Go on then, dear lord,” she sneers without a sign of mirth, each word hastening his end, “Cry me a river.”

He barely gets a breath in when she swings — unmerciful and with the backhand grip; the dagger draws a scarlet cut across his throat. The wound is deep and fatal, and the blood runs fast and thick, cascading down his chest, his body going limp and falling lifeless to the ground. The red seeps out into the grass, splashed beads of it shining dully against all the green, and it’s almost alluring to look at.

Unceasingly and invariably Aemond only looks at her.

The trees sway in the wind, and the clouds race, the sky now veiled with the darkness of the unfolding storm. He’s never been the one to value landscapes, but it makes him think: the same lush wilderness surrounded her while she was growing up, a rose among the weeds, her thorns repellent to most but no obstacle for him. With bloodied hands, disheveled hair, dirtied clothes — she’s still the only one he wants, irresistible as life.

She stands in reverie, her gaze boring into the huddled body of the lord: “I must admit, this is poor planning on my part.”

As if on cue, Vhagar’s roar echoes in the distance, and Aemond smirks: “I know of a way to get rid of a body.”

She hums and slightly leans over the dead man, wiping the dagger off on his coat, and Aemond sees that she ripped the dress again; he finds it funny.

“Not the best choice of clothing, I might say,” the prince notes.

She follows his gaze and doesn’t even bother to adjust the damaged hem. “He thought I came back from the dead to hunt him,” she lets out a dry laugh, “I counted on that.”

“Wish I could see it,” Aemond says, a gentle admiration in his tone.

Her mask of concentration crumbles, replaced by the expression he remembers from the day before. The same astonishment mixed with timorous indecision, with a tint of shyness, washes over her face as their eyes meet.

“You came for me,” the words fall from her mouth as if she only now becomes aware.

“Why do you find it so surprising?” he wonders because leaving her was never an option for him.

“Unreasonable, mostly,” she bashfully remarks. “You’ve been so kind to me, and yet I left without saying goodbye.”

“You did,” he agrees, thinking that shyness only adds to her charm.

“And I never told you of my plans,” she admits, even more coyly, and he just nods.

Her gaze falls, mouth unsurely half-open, as if she’s trying to pluck the right words from the grass. He watches her, and there’s that pull again, the flowering desire in his chest.

“I think it’s time for us to go our separate ways,” she musters out, and it knocks the air out of his lungs. She’s curbing her own pain, deeming it to be a relief for his. “You’ve done more than enough for me... I think your conscience should be clear.”

The wind picks up, and so does his pulse. “And where will you go?” Aemond asks, his voice faltering.

“I am my father’s only heir” she shrugs, mostly burdened than pleased. “He will take me back and,” she works up the courage to find his gaze again, “I won’t be a problem of yours any longer.”

The thunder is approaching, a rushing sound disrupting the peace of nature. Aemond knows he will never find peace if he lets her leave.

“So you can go,” she offers but they both don’t want it, and he instead allows himself a step to her. “If this is what you want,” she blurts out in a shaky voice that gives away her struggle no matter how much she tries to put up a face. “If this is what your heart desires,” she adds so quietly, she isn’t sure he will hear her. But Aemond does.

Something snaps in him, and his body is an arrow shot out — he closes the distance in a heartbeat, and his lips all but crush into hers. She kisses him back with the same fervor, without a moment’s hesitation, and neither of them is timid or holding back. His hands find her waist, follow the gentle bend of it as she presses herself to him, as her mouth opens more, and his craving turns into hunger, his desire not hidden any longer, erupting right through.

Aemond grabs onto her hips, desperate to feel more, ravenous in his need, and each of his kisses is a plea for her to heed to; she does. Her fingers frantically travel up, then tangle in his hair, untieing knots of his restraint, his quivering sighs all disappearing into her mouth. There are no other sounds but their shuddering breath, their lewd touches, moans — hers or his, he can’t tell.

The massive storm is brewing when they part, both breathless, their lips still brushing.

“It’s you,” his confession is hot against her mouth, “You are the only thing I desire,” the syllables flow, pouncing like a waterfall, “He was undeserving of you, foolish, pathetic excuse of a man, and if only I—”

His words die down at the feeling — her fingers dancing right above his cheek. The one that’s scarred, unloved, detested by him; the gruesome sight that was supposed to be covered by the eyepatch. He must’ve missed the moment when he lost it, too wrapped up in his anger to notice the despicable lord succeed in his attempts. Aemond can’t find it in himself to ask for confirmation, to even move his hand to cover half his face.

She never looks away. And then, in the gloomy evening, she smiles — the sun rises again, a crack of dawn formed by every feature of her face. Her fingertips tenderly graze his scar.

“You asked me once if I thought it was worth it,” she recalls, her gaze affectionate, without a shadow of a doubt. “It was. Because I would do it all again if I knew the fate was leading me to you.”

The warmth of her touch heats him up, then ignites every part of him. She’s still caressing the side of his face when he reaches for her — his kiss so searing, her hand trembles, while his confidently moves to the hollow of her throat; this time, the sound of pleasure is undoubtedly hers. With his eye closed, his mouth on hers, Aemond sees the vision, bright as day: him going through the layers, lace and red, until she is all bare in his sheets, and he can put his lips to every inch of her skin. And feel her, drink her, worship her, their limbs intertwined, him drawing moans from her until the night sky lets in the first streaks of light.

He has to take a labored breath to blink the dream away, to hold his ardor back for just a little longer. By the look on her face, she’ll welcome his every offering.

“It seems that all those years I’ve been searching in all the wrong places for you,” Aemond whispers, holding her tight in his embrace.

“But you found me,” she follows the contour of his jaw with her finger, her smile never fading. “And you can have me,” she makes a vow, and her lips trail for his to seal the promise.

And no storm can compare to the love for her that rages deep in his heart.

✧ if you are into stories about revenge (enemies to lovers, with angst, fighting, and quite a bit of fire involved), I have a multi-chapter fic for you ✧ two more stories inspired by songs (modern!au): with Aemond & with Aegon ✧ my masterlist tagging @amiraisgoingthruit who was kind enough to ask (girlie, I’m sorry this one is so enormous…) also big thank you to arcielee for approving the gif it was driving me insane 💙

English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes. reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!

[dumbbullet]

I am hunting something, and in return, that same thing is hunting me. The beholder, the void beyond, I am the Line Between I am the Teeth of God

[abandondedtrainz]

THEY ARE PARTY PEOPLE !!! i love my friends and i tf ocs hehehe

[ktsghost]

best superhero team!

[ar0rin]

Agent 8!!

[juxtp0se]

someone come get ur weird uncles

[targarrus]

chapter 8 - the belly of the beast

[spvce-oddity]

when it's missing your husband o'clock

[mercymaker]

Above the Vaulted Sky

pairing: astarion x tav summary: astarion and tav bite off more than they can chew, forcing them to flee from a fight. in the aftermath, astarion returns to save tav and bring her back home. preview:

“Thank you. For coming back.” Mal’s voice bore no signs of weakness that her entire body was saturated in.

Astarion smiled. Of course he came back, where else was he supposed to go? The spawn opened his mouth to reply, yet when he glanced down, her eyes were closed once again, her face — a mask of tranquility.  

The night was long, but it wasn’t endless, and the trek back into the forest was anything but brief. Maleane liked living far away from the prying eyes and accidental visitors, creating a home for herself in the deepest parts of the woods.

They reached the cabin right before dawn, with just enough time left to settle for the day and rest. The vampire spawn felt hunger scratching deep within his core, a great beast dragging its sharp claws against his insides, trying to pry its way out. It was followed by weakness, in his arms and shoulders, deep inside the bones of his legs. Carrying Mal was no easy task, not for so long, not when both of them were so battered, pieces of them fraying, threatening to crumble and collapse like sandy shores at a touch of a wave. He would hunt later, after the sunset, when he was sure they were safe.

Full version on AO3...

[plifpliff]

it's not great but I had to do it.

It was a primal need : call me the hunter/gatherer/shitty-stories-about-OCs-writer

[melatien]

My submission for @aimportantdragoncollector's trioholders event (bonus round)!!

they are at the beach

[vomerant]

mochi♡chu