venmondiese - Tumblr blog

venmondiese · 12 hours ago

Text

a man who yearns is a man who earns

letters

Aemond Targaryen x Wife!Reader

Summary: you are leaving for a month to visit your family. During your time away, you write letters to your husband, and he can't control his longing for you... or his need

Warnings: sappy Aemond, a bit of dirty talk I guess, nothing too bad

Note: short and filled with yearning again bevause tjat's who i am as a person ok

----------

You had been excited to see your family again. You hadn't seen them since your wedding to the prince, which had been a mere five moons ago. In that time, you had truly gotten to know Aemond, and had fallen in love with him.

But being parted from him… it would be difficult. From your part, at least. You had admitted the morning of your departure that you would miss him. He had just kissed your forehead, urging you to go.

“You’ll see me in a moon’s time,” he’d said softly, “I’ll be thinking of you.”

“Write to me,” you begged him so sweetly, “as often as you can. Please.”

He had nodded, pressing a final kiss to your hand before he urged you into the carriage. “I’l see you soon.”

But a moon was a long time, Aemond now realised. Only a week in and he was already missing your warmth beside him. He’d wake up, feeling the cold spot beside him in his bed. It was then and there he decided to write his first letter to you.

He got up from the far too large bed, putting on a robe and sitting down at the small writing desk tucked into the corner of the chamber. He grabbed a quill and some parchment, thinking for a moment about exactly what he would write to you.

‘I miss you’, perhaps?

He cleared his throat. Did he miss you? Truly? Perhaps he did, but what kind of dragon prince would he be if he admitted to that?

He started writing, choosing his words carefully.

‘My dear wife,

I apologise for not writing to you sooner. I have been quite busy, but I am sure you understand.’

He paused for a moment, imagining your face. You would forgive him, he realised. You were far too sweet for him. He imagined you using that kindness to the servants at the Keep that was your own home, and felt a flicker of jealousy.

‘I have been keeping busy with the duties of the realm, but the hours are long and the work feels less fulfilling without you here to share a cup of wine and discuss the day's events with. I find myself wishing to hear your thoughts, your insights, your perspective on things.’

That much was true. He missed the way you would come visit him in his study at the end of the day, before dinner was served. You would offer him that sweet smile, walk closer to him and stand beside him, close enough so that he could smell your perfume.

‘It has been but a week since your departure, and already your absence feels never-ending. I find myself missing your laughter, your smile, the way your eyes light up when you speak of things you love. I am not a man accustomed to longing, but here I am, longing for you.’

He paused for a moment, wondering if he was taking it too far, being too eager. But he was not lying. He missed you.

'In hopefully three more weeks, I get to gaze upon your smiling face again. I will be counting down the days. I hope you are enjoying your time at home, with your family. Please remember the home you have here with me, as well.

‘Your devoted husband,’

Aemond paused, looking at the word ‘devoted’. He could start over, he supposed, just write down ‘your husband’.

He looked at the letter you had sent him, reading the loving words over and over again.

No. He wouldn't rewrite the letter. He was devoted to you, and you were allowed to know. He cleared his throat again, writing the final words.

‘Aemond Targaryen. Son of the King of the Realm, Dragonprince of the Seven Kingdoms’

There. A little bragging wouldn't hurt.

He sealed the letter, barking an order at a servant boy to send it to you.

And then he waited.

-----

When you got the letter from your husband, you had snatched it from your maid and ran upstairs into your bedchamber. You carefully removed the seal, opened the parchment and started reading.

The biggest smile formed on your face when you read his words. Sure, his letter was a lot shorter than yours, but his words meant the world.

He was longing for you, actually longing. He had written it down himself, and you had read the letter six times already.

He missed you, missed your thoughts and presence and very essence.

You laughed softly when you read the way he signed the letter, clearly a way of his to save face. But you knew the truth. Your husband missed you.

You quickly grabbed parchment and a quill yourself. Breakfast could wait for now.

-----

It was a few days later when Aemond got your longing reply by raven. He hated to admit it, but his heart was pounding when he got word a letter had arrived for him. He opened the seal far too eager, reading the words like a man starved.

You wrote of how you missed him too. You had used beautiful words to say how badly you missed him by your side, how you wished to sleep beside him and feel him closer.

Aemond licked his lips unconsciously, remembering the way you always looked so effortlessly gorgeous when you woke up next to him, the early morning light always making you squint your eyes as you tried to wake up.

You were bolder in this letter, stating how you couldn’t wait to return to continue on with your lives together. And you wrote of your dreams. Dreams of the family you wanted with him, of the life you would both build together.

He finished the letter, your fervent love declaration at the bottom. He took a deep breath, and he could swear he could faintly smell your perfume.

Had you sprayed some on the parchment? Minx.

You had been bolder in this letter, but Aemond could do better than that.

You had always been so shy in voicing your wants. In voicing what you desired. He wasn’t shy.

‘My dearest wife,

You paint a lovely picture of our future, sweet lady, yet a bold one all the same.

I dream of you, too.

I dream of you beneath me, your hair splayed across the pillow, your eyes closed in bliss. I imagine you arching into my touch, your body trembling with need as my hands explore every curve and contour. I will worship every inch of you, sweet wife, my tongue tracing your skin until you are dripping and begging for me.’

Aemond paused for a moment. He needed you, Gods, he needed you. But he also knew he had to reel himself in. He couldn't be too eager, too direct. He still respected you, needed you to know his needs were not just lust, but love as well.

‘Forgive me, my lady, but my want for you never seems to end. You have bewitched me, it seems, thoughts of you always haunting me. Memories of you beneath me, moaning my name so sweetly.

Know that my desire for you is rooted in the love I have for you, sweet wife. I crave not just your body, but your soul, your mind, your spirit. I am consumed by the need to be one with you in every way imaginable. When I make love to you, it is an act of worship, a testament to the way you have captured my heart so completely.’

It was incredible, the way he missed you so badly. Almost two weeks had passed now, and he had two more weeks to go. If he was lucky, that is. The journey in your carriage could take longer if you were unlucky with the weather, or a broken wheel.

He groaned annoyed. Impatient.

‘Please know that every word I write, every thought I have, is colored by the depth of my love for you. I am yours, forever.

Your husband,

Aemond Targaryen

Dragonrider’

He couldn't help himself at the end. He was simply proud of the fact. How many people could call themselves a dragonrider? Not a lot.

He sealed the letter, ordering another servant around to send it with the quickest raven they possessed. And then he waited. Again.

----

You had never felt your face feel as warm as it did when you read your husband’s letter. How…how…shocking! Scandalous! Arousing!

You thought about teasing him in return, writing a letter filled with depraved words. A letter in which you would admit that you had touched yourself while thinking of him. How your fingers could never compare to his.

But that wouldn’t be enough.

In the end, you wrote a short, straight to the point letter.

‘Come visit me.

Yours,

Your aching wife’

----

Aemond had barely finished reading your letter before he was bolting out of the grand doors of the Red Keep, pretty much shoving a knight off of their horse. He rode towards where Vhagar was resting, his heart pounding and his cock hard.

“Just you wait,” he panted out to himself, “I am coming, my love.”

#aemond fic rec #fic rec

157 notes · View notes

venmondiese · 4 days ago

Text

WE ARE SO BACK I LOVED THIS

1.26 AM AND READ IT ALL IN ONE GO !!!

but i was actually sad how she had to leave her flowershop😢 rip

──𝑎.𝑡. ┆ 𝑝𝑒𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑠 &. 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑒𝑠. ♡ 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒. hi .. ♡ ik i promised my baby daddy fic this week, buttt it's nowhere near finished so i'm giving y'all this lil gift instead ⸝⸝ pls enjoy some steamy sexist!aemond 𝑥 florist!reader ໒꒱ིྀ༝ .. tbh, they're sm fun to write about .. ૮ . . ྀིა⁩ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ MDNI, 18+ wc: 7.5k.

⟢ ─ 𝑖.

you first notice him on a rainy thursday afternoon. he steps into the flower shop like he owns it, the heavy door creaking open against the wind, dark coat dripping with raindrops, and sharp eyes scanning the colorful floral arrangements like they've personally offended him. he's tall—too tall—and his presence is like the sound of a thunderclap.

you nearly drop the rose stem in your hands when your gaze meets his. that eye of his, sharp as glass, pale and piercing. the other... a silvery-blue sapphire piece. cold. unblinking. focused entirely on you. you can't help but feel like you're being hunted.

but then he clears his throat. "i need flowers," he says flatly. you blink, stunned for a quiet moment. "o-oh, um... what kind?" his gaze lingers on you too long before he answers. "something respectable. not gaudy. for my mother."

you fumble with the white ribbon in your hands, feeling your cheeks heat up. "roses? white lilies? um, carnations maybe—those mean admiration." his mouth twitches like he's holding back a smile. slowly, he nods in agreement. "fine."

as you begin to prepare the bouquet, you can feel his eyes on you. it's not leering, not exactly—but it's intense. assessing. like he's studying you. you keep your head down and wrap the stems tightly, your fingers shaking a little.

you don't get men like this in the shop. you get cheerful grandpas and boyfriends begging forgiveness. not... men in bespoke suits with slicked-back silver hair and war in their eyes.

when you hand him the finished bouquet, your fingers brush his. you gasp softly. he doesn't flinch. "what's your name?" he asks, low and serious.

shyly, you stammer out your name in a small, meek voice.

"aemond," he says, like a promise. he comes back the next day. and the next. and the next.

at first you think he's just buying flowers for someone—maybe he's seeing someone. maybe he's married. but every time, he just asks you to pick something. you choose, sweetling. his voice is velvet-wrapped steel, and when he says your name, it makes your knees feel like jelly.

you start to notice things, little particular things. he doesn't like when you talk to the delivery guys. he doesn't like when you wear anything even slightly revealing—even the floral sundress you wore last friday made him frown like you'd disappointed him.

and when you mentioned that you live alone above the shop, his whole demeanor changed. "that's not safe," he said, jaw clenched. "you shouldn't live alone. it's dangerous."

you'd laughed nervously. "i-i have pepper spray?" he didn't laugh, only hummed quietly as though he was contemplating something.

you start to feel him everywhere. whenever you're out with your friends, he'll always insist that he walks you back home. you never asked him to, but you've learned early on that he can be fiercely stubborn.

"women shouldn't walk alone at night," he says, like it's the law. "you're too soft for this world." you want to protest—you're not helpless—but when he says it, it doesn't feel cruel. it feels... possessive. protective. like he's already claimed you in his mind as his own.

you've never met anyone quite like him. he talks like he was born in another century. he frowns when you say you don't want children yet. he hates that you work, especially around other men. he gets this dark look when you mention dating apps, as if you've committed a mortal sin.

"you shouldn't be selling your innocence to strangers online," he says one night, voice low as he stands beside you in the flower shop, long after closing. "it's beneath you."

you look away, embarrassed. "i… i-i wasn't. i was just looking..." he tilts your chin up with two long fingers, and your breath catches. "you deserve better, sweet girl."

you think he might kiss you. but he doesn't.

the truth is… you like the way he looks at you. you like feeling small next to him, protected. safe. you like how he opens doors and glares at men who look too long. you like that he always smells like smoke and cedar, like something expensive and ancient. you like how he calls you sweet girl in that gruff voice, like he's barely restraining himself.

you shouldn't. he's older. he's controlling. he's so—but he makes you feel wanted. not in the gross, catcall-on-the-street way. no. it's deeper than that. it's hungry. and when you're with him, when it's just you and him in the little flower shop you work at, you don't feel shy. you feel cherished.

one rainy evening, he corners you in the shop again. everyone's gone. the flowers are sleeping, petals drooping in the dim light. you're closing up, fingers dusted in pollen and soft soil. and suddenly he's there, like always, looming behind you.

"you shouldn't be here alone," he says. "i-i'm fine..." you protested, your voice small and weak. "no. you're not. you're not safe here, sweetheart."

you swallow, feeling your heart flutter. "you keep saying that..." he steps closer. "because it's true. you're too good for this place. for this world." his hand reaches out, brushes a loose curl behind your ear, making your skin erupt with goosebumps. "you need someone to look after you."

you blink up at him, pouting. "and you think that someone's you?" he leans in, his nose brushing yours. "i know it's me, baby." his kiss is slow, like a claiming. not soft, but careful. deliberate. like he's waited weeks for this. maybe his whole life.

your hands tremble as you clutch his coat, letting him press you back against the counter. you've never been kissed like this—like someone's devouring you, but also revering you. like you're precious. breakable. his.

when he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours. "i don't care if this is too fast," he murmurs. "i want you." you're panting softly. "i-i don't know what i'm doing, aemond…" he chuckles, a soft smirk curling at the corner of his lips. "good. let me teach you, baby."

you know he's not ever going to let you go. and suddenly, you're starting to think that you don't want him to.

days blur. he starts picking you up from the shop in his sleek black car. you stop going out with friends. you delete the dating apps. you quit the little flower shop two weeks later, after he insists that "his woman shouldn't be on her feet all day catering to other men's whims."

you cry a little when you leave. but he kisses your tears away, strokes your cheek, and murmurs, "you don't need to work, sweet girl. let me take care of you."

you don't know where this ends. but when aemond wraps his arm around your waist like you're his prized possession... when he kisses the top of your head and calls you his little flower...

you think you'll let yourself bloom under him. even if it means forgetting the sun.

⟢ ─ 𝑖𝑖.

you don't remember packing. you don't remember when the decision was made—only that one morning you woke up in aemond's bed, sunlight warming your skin through silk curtains, and your little apartment above the flower shop felt like a dream. a tiny, dusty dream you'd outgrown.

everything smells like him now. dark wood and smoke. leather and cloves. his sheets are the softest thing you've ever touched, but you can't bring yourself to sleep without one of his shirts balled up under your cheek.

you don't recognize this version of yourself—lounging around in pink and pearly white satin, hair pinned back with expensive combs, fresh fruit brought to your bedside each morning—but you don't feel lost. you feel... kept.

it starts simply. he brings you home, tells you to rest, to breathe, to let him provide. you're hesitant at first, shy about the marble kitchen countertops, the velvet armchairs, the antique books stacked beside crystal vases. but he presses a kiss to your temple and murmurs, "this is where you belong. my house. my girl."

you don't argue. not when he holds you like that. not when he carries you upstairs like something fragile and holy.

you learn quickly that aemond targaryen does not believe in compromise. "this isn't a shared space," he tells you over breakfast one morning, reading the morning paper while you nibble on toast. "it's mine. you live here now. but this home... it's a man's responsibility. and i take that seriously."

you peek at him over your pink princess mug. "so i'm just... staying?" "no," he says firmly, eyes flicking up to meet yours. "you're mine. that's different." your cheeks heat. you try to look away, but he closes the paper and sets it aside. "do you want to leave, sweetheart?"

"no!" you're too quick, too loud. you bite your lip, suddenly sheepish. "i-i just don't want to be a burden to you..."

his expression darkens. "you could never be a burden, baby." he rises from the table, crosses the room in long, silent strides, and cups your jaw in his hand. "i want to care for you. i don't want you working. i don't want you lifting a finger for anyone else. you're here to be soft. safe. loved."

you whisper, "that sounds like a fairytale." "it is," he says, smirking softly. "mine."

you're not allowed to leave the house without him. at first, you think it's just his protective side—his usual overbearing, old-fashioned instincts. you remind yourself that this is how he shows love. he's not cruel. he never raises his voice. but when you try to go to the corner bakery alone, just to stretch your legs, he calls your phone six times before you even get a block away.

"come home," he growls. "now." he's waiting at the door when you return, arms crossed, jaw clenched. "i told you not to go out alone."

"i was just−" sharply, he says your name, cutting you off and making you feel like a little girl who upset her father by disobeying him. you flinch. he steps forward instantly, hands smoothing down your arms. "sweet girl. i'm not angry with you, i'm worried. the world isn't kind to sweet women like you. you're too... fragile."

you swallow, feeling small. "next time," he murmurs, kissing your forehead, "you wait for me. understand?"

you nod, too shy to argue. you can't stand the thought of disappointing him. and, truthfully... you like when he's possessive. it makes your belly flutter. makes you feel wanted.

he starts dressing you. it begins with a silk dress he leaves draped across the bed, pale pink with a lace collar and tiny pearls down the front. "you'll wear this when my mother visits," he says simply. "you'll look like a proper lady."

nervously, you begin to fidget. "i-i don't know how to wear something like that..."

"don't worry, baby. i'll help you." and he does. he buttons every pearl with careful fingers, smooths the fabric down your sides, brushes your hair back like you're his very own porcelain doll.

you melt under his touch. you don't even realize how tightly the dress fits until you're seated beside him on the velvet couch, ankles crossed like he showed you, hands folded politely in your lap.

his mother approves of you, but barely. "she's very quiet," alicent says over tea. "you like them docile, don't you, aemond?"

"she's sweet," he replies. "and mine." he squeezes your hand under the table, and you try to smile. you don't speak again the rest of the evening.

nights are slow. tender. reverent. he takes his time with you. always asking permission, always murmuring soft things as he undresses you like he's unwrapping a gift. my good girl. so innocent, so pure. mine to teach, mine to love.

you never knew your body could feel like this—like it was built for one person only. like your breath, your softness, your trembling thighs... all belonged to him. you sleep in his arms every night, his hand curled around your hip like a lock.

eventually, he starts talking about marriage. "you're already mine," he says one morning, tracing circles on your bare back. "but i want the world to see it. i want them to know you belong to me."

your breath catches. "you... really mean that?" his eye is heavy with emotion when he looks at you. "of course i mean it. you're not meant to be someone's girlfriend, sweetheart. you were born to be a wife."

you whisper, "yours?" "only mine," he purrs.

you nod, and that's all he needs. he doesn't ask. there's no engagement ring, not yet. just a promise wrapped around your ribs like a ribbon, tightening every time he looks at you like you hung the moon.

he starts planning everything. you don't have a say in the venue. or the dress. or the guest list. but you don't want to. not really. it's too overwhelming. and aemond—well, he was born for control. he doesn't raise his voice, but he makes it clear: this wedding will reflect his taste, his name, his legacy.

and you? you're just the precious little bride.

"don't worry that pretty little head, sweet girl," he murmurs, kissing your neck as you curl up beside him on the couch. "i'll handle it all. you just show up and look beautiful for me."

you nod into his chest. you always nod.

one day, you wander into his study. you don't mean to. you're not allowed in there. but the door is ajar, and he's not home, and you're feeling brave.

it smells like him—cologne and wood polish. heavy tomes line the shelves, and a decanter of brandy gleams in the dim light. you run your fingers across the desk, half-expecting it to bite. everything in here is dark and sharp and expensive. masculine. dangerous.

a photo frame catches your eye. it's you. sleeping. your breath catches. there are more—tucked into a small drawer. you, bent over flower buckets. you, sipping tea in the shop. you, walking home with your keys clutched tight in your fist. you, asleep again.

you back away from the desk, heart pounding. you never knew he was watching you before you met. you never knew how long he's wanted you.

the front door opens. heavy steps. "sweetheart?" you shut the study door and run.

that night, you can't sleep. you lay curled in his arms, his breath warm against your neck, and you want to ask: why were you watching me before we met? why did you take those photos?

but you already know the answer. he chose you before you ever knew he existed. and maybe... maybe that's what love is to a man like aemond targaryen. not affection, not courtship. ownership.

the next morning, you find a velvet box on your pillow. inside is a ring—silver and sapphire, sharp and gleaming, impossibly heavy. no note, just a single rose. you understand. this is it. there's no more pretending this is something you can walk away from.

you're his. entirely. and the terrifying part? you want to be.

⟢ ─ 𝑖𝑖𝑖.

you wake up before the sun. not because of nerves—though your stomach is fluttering like a jar full of swarming butterflies—but because aemond's side of the bed is empty. still warm. you sit up slowly, pulling the silk sheets to your chest, and glance toward the balcony.

the door is open. he's standing there in the pale blue dawn, shirtless, cigarette in hand, his long silver hair brushing the middle of his back in soft waves. he looks like a statue. or a fallen angel. or both.

he doesn't turn around, but you feel him when he senses you. "go back to sleep, baby," he says quietly. "you need rest."

"it's our wedding day," you whisper, voice shy and airy. at that, he finally looks at you. the corner of his mouth lifts. he stubs out the cigarette and returns to the bedroom in a few long strides, kneeling beside the bed and cupping your cheek like you're made of glass.

"my wife," he murmurs, thumb brushing your lower lip. "you don't know how long i've waited to call you that." you feel the tears prick before you can stop them. happy ones. he kisses them away.

by the time the personal stylists arrive, you're already tucked into the dressing suite, wrapped in a robe the color of fluffy white clouds. everything smells like roses and warm linen, making you feel dizzy.

you sit obediently while they curl your hair, pin baby's breath flowers behind your ear, dust your cheeks with a soft pink shimmer. helaena comes in halfway through—barefoot, giggling, twirling in a chiffon dress—and beams at you like she's keeping a secret.

"he's going to cry," she whispers, hugging you tight. "you should've seen his face when he got the suit back from the tailor. like he was going to war. or heaven."

you giggle nervously. "he hasn't seen me yet." helaena grins. "he won't survive it."

the dress is ivory with vanilla undertones. not white—aemond had insisted. "you're not just a girl anymore," he'd said, touching your waist meaningfully. "you're mine. a woman now. you wear ivory. it's softer."

it fits like a dream. high neckline, long sleeves, lace over satin, pearls stitched into the bodice like stars. you twirl once in the mirror and feel like you've stepped into a fairytale, and you're the main character, the princess.

you hear the guests arrive from the upstairs suite. classical music swells. you smell roses, gardenias, eucalyptus. your flowers. he insisted they use the flower shop you used to work at—your hands, even if they were no longer working hands.

"this is the last time, sweetheart," he'd said, watching you arrange the bridal bouquet weeks ago. "after this, you never lift another finger. you retire."

you'd just smiled. "you're bossy." he'd pulled you into his lap, nuzzling your neck as he presses soft kisses against your skin. "no, sweet girl. i'm your husband."

the chapel is candlelit. not a cathedral, not a courthouse—just the private one on the targaryen estate. old stone, high arches, velvet seats and gold fixtures. traditional, like everything else he touches. every guest wears black. aemond said it was to contrast your softness. so he'd be the storm, and you'd be the light.

you can feel his presence before you see him. you step onto the aisle—your bouquet trembling in your hands—and there he is at the altar, tall and severe in a black three-piece suit, silver hair tied neatly at the nape of his neck. that pale eye locked on you like a hunter spotting a doe in the forest. he doesn't blink, he doesn't breathe.

he looks like something ancient and fierce, undone by one girl in ivory lace.

you walk to him like you're dreaming. slow. timid. floating. he takes your hands. he doesn't speak. but his fingers tighten just a little too hard around yours. and you know—he's in agony over how much he loves you.

the vows are old-fashioned. because of course they are. his were written weeks ago. yours were... helped. helaena giggled when she saw them, mumbling something about "ownership kinks," but you don't mind. you like the weight of his rules. the structure of his world.

you promise to obey. to trust. to serve him as a good wife should. he promises to protect. to provide. to love and adore you above all things.

you've never heard him say i love you until this moment. but when he says it, voice trembling, ring sliding onto your dainty little finger like a brand—"i love you, sweetheart. mine, now and always."—you nearly collapse with the sheer force of it.

the kiss is long. too long. you hear a cough from the priest.

aemond ignores it completely, cradling your jaw with both hands and kissing you like he's stamping his name onto your soul. his lips move over yours slowly, thoroughly, reverently. the world fades out. you taste mint and smoke and something possessive.

when he finally pulls away, he doesn't smile. he just stares at you. like you're his crown. his kingdom. his favorite sin.

the reception is a blur. there are candles everywhere. gold-dipped cutlery. a soft string quartet playing vivaldi while people toast and clink champagne glasses and whisper about how stunning you look, how aemond's never smiled like this, how the targaryen heir has finally been tamed.

but no one says it to your face. because aemond never lets go of your waist. not once.

he keeps his hand on you the whole night—through speeches, cake, dancing. even when you sneak away to the restroom, he's outside the door when you return. "too many people looking at you," he mutters, brushing a kiss along your temple. you whisper, "i'm yours." and his whole body relaxes.

you don't remember the drive back to his own personal estate. only his hand between your thighs the whole way home. not doing anything—just resting there. heavy. claiming. every bump in the road sends tingles through your core. he doesn't speak. he just watches you squirm.

once you arrive, he carries you up into the bedroom. not because it's tradition. because he needs to.

you're still in your wedding dress, breath shaky, when he gently sets you down at the foot of the bed. his hands slide into your hair, his mouth finds your throat. "i've waited all day for this," he whispers. "now i take what's mine."

you don't have to say a word. you just let him undress you. slowly. carefully. like he's unwrapping a sacred gift. your dress pools around your feet. he steps back, eye raking over you like he's memorizing you as his wife. you try to cover yourself, shy and bare.

"don't hide from me, baby," he murmurs. obediently, you lower your hands.

his suit jacket hits the floor. then his shirt. his slacks. he undresses like a man unraveling in devotion, not lust. you tremble when he kneels between your legs, pressing kisses up your thighs, whispering your name against your skin like a prayer.

when he enters you, it's slow. it's not your first time with him, but it feels like it is. because nothing's ever felt like this. you cling to him, breathless, broken, whole.

he holds you the entire time. kisses your tears. tells you you're perfect. tells you you're his. tells you he's going to spend the rest of his life making sure you never feel alone again.

he doesn't stop until you're shaking. until you're crying into his shoulder. until you whimper, "i love you, husband." and he replies, "my sweet wife—mine."

you fall asleep in his arms. and for the first time in your life, you don't dream. because this is it. this is the dream. and you are never waking up.

⟢ ─ 𝑖𝑣.

the private jet is silent except for the sound of tiny cubed ice clinking against crystal.

you sit beside aemond in a plush leather seat, legs tucked beneath you, a silk wrap dress tied loosely around your waist. the windows are tinted. the cabin smells like vanilla and expensive bourbon. his fingers trace idle circles on the bare skin of your thigh.

"do you know where we're going?" he asks, voice low. you shake your head. he smirks. "good."

you pout. "can't i have a hint?" "you'll see when we land, sweet girl." he leans in, brushing your earlobe with his lips. "but i'll tell you this much... you won't be wearing anything but sunburns and my hands for the next week."

your breath catches. he doesn't pull back. "you remember what i said, don't you? this week, i'm going to ruin you."

you nod. slowly. sweetly. doe yes wide and already dazed with lust. smirking softly, he presses a sweet kiss to your temple and pours you another glass of your favorite white wine.

the villa is hidden in the cliffs, perched above a sea so blue it looks unreal. floor-to-ceiling windows. white sand beach. a private infinity pool that reflects the moonlight like spilled diamonds. everything smells like salt and citrus and the sharp spice of aemond's expensive cologne.

he carries you over the threshold like you're his bride from a century ago. you squeal and giggle into his shoulder. "this is too much."

he growls, "you're mine. you get everything." you don't get a tour. he doesn't give you time to unpack. he just lays you on the cool white bedspread, slips off your sandals, and kisses your ankles like they're sacred.

"you've been so patient," he murmurs, dragging his hands up your legs. "soft. obedient. you let me court you the way i wanted. you let me wife you."

you whimper, hips squirming beneath him. "now..." his mouth finds your inner thigh. "you're going to let me claim you." he takes his time. the sun sets. the ocean roars beyond the open balcony.

and aemond targaryen strips you bare like he's been fantasizing about this every day since the moment he laid eyes on you in that little flower shop.

he kisses every inch of you—your shoulders, your belly, the crease where your thigh meets your hip. he holds your wrists down, makes you look at him while he tastes you, while he whispers filth against your flushed skin.

"such a good little wife... letting me see every part of you." "you're so wet, baby. just for me. always for me." "you were made for this. you were made for me."

he doesn't let you come until you're sobbing his name. doesn't take you until you're begging. and when he finally does—his body pressed to yours, his voice ragged in your ear, his cock dragging deep and slow and possessive inside your drooling cunt—he keeps one hand wrapped around your throat and the other gripping your hip like he's branding you.

"you'll leave here so full of me," he groans, fucking into your cunt deeper with every stroke. "every day. every night. my seed dripping down your thighs. my name in your mouth. my ring on your finger." you come so hard you cry.

the days blur together. mornings are slow, lazy, sun-drenched things. you wake up in tangled sheets with aemond's hand between your legs and his lips on your neck, murmuring sleepy praise into your skin. he fucks you before breakfast. sometimes twice. sometimes more.

"you don't eat until i've had my fill of you," he growls against your thigh before diving in and pressing his face against your cunt, eating you out with overwhelming enthusiasm.

you obey. always.

afternoons are heat and sweat and sun. he ties your bikini so tight it's practically useless—just tiny thin strings and teasing little triangles—and makes you sit in his lap while he reads in the shade. one hand always on your ass. always touching. always reminding you who you belong to.

sometimes he fucks you in the pool. sometimes on the white sandy beach. once, right there on the balcony in full view of the ocean. "nobody gets to see this body but me," he snarls. "but i want the world to hear you scream my name." and they do.

nights are candlelit and sinful. he feeds you bites of fruit and chocolate with his fingers. he makes you sit on the floor between his legs with his cock down your throat while he talks business on the phone, fingers lazily curling in your hair, tugging when you get too fidgety and start whining from the ache in your empty cunt.

you've never felt more owned. more worshipped. more ruined.

but he's soft sometimes too. after. when you're shaking and boneless and curled up in his chest. he kisses your forehead and whispers, "my wife. my perfect little wife."

you whisper back, "your good girl." and he holds you like he'll never let you go.

it's late one night when he ties your wrists with silk. not rough. not cold. just... controlled.

you're already wet from the way he looks at you—hair loose, pants slung low on his hips, jaw sharp and twitching as he drinks you in. you're sprawled out on the edge of the bed, wearing nothing but a thin gold anklet he bought you in town.

"you trust me?" he asks, voice like smoke. you nod immediately. "y-yes, daddy."

that always makes something dark flare in his good eye. "then you'll take everything i give you. you'll lie here like a good little wife and let me own you."

you whimper when he pushes your legs open and kneels between them. and then his mouth is on you. again. but this time, it's not slow.

it's filthy. messy. loud. he licks like he's starving, fingers digging into your thighs, pulling you apart, eating you like a man lost in devotion. you arch, you whine, you beg—but your wrists stay tied and your body stays open.

he groans against your heat. "such a sweet little thing. married and already this greedy for your husband's mouth." you can't even speak. you're crying when he finally slips two fingers inside you, crooking just right, tongue never stopping, lips slick with you.

"come for me, pretty girl." and you do. hard. your whole body jerks with it. eyes rolling. back lifting. babbling nonsense into the humid air. hands straining against the silk.

he doesn't stop until you scream. later, he unties you gently. kisses your wrists. lays you on his chest while your heart calms down. his fingertips trace lazy shapes into your back.

"was that okay, sweetheart?" he asks softly. you nod against him.

"you make me feel safe." his throat tightens at your words. you feel it beneath your cheek.

"i love you," you whisper. he swallows hard. "you're mine, baby. my wife. my whole damn world."

on the fourth day, he gets even filthier. he makes you ride him in the mirror. you'd been shy about it—whining, stammering, hands covering your face—but aemond only laughed, deep and low and full of amusement, pulling you into his lap. "no hiding, sweet girl. you're my wife now. i want you to see what you do to me."

so you sit, bare thighs spread, his cock buried deep inside you, your bodies tangled together as he tilts your chin up and forces you to watch your reflection.

"you see that?" he growls, moving your hips for you. "that's what a good wife looks like." your eyes fill with tears again. but not from fear. not pain. just overwhelmed sweetness. need. you come four times before he lets himself finally finish inside you.

when he does, it's rough—arms locked tight around you, fucking up into you with a snarl as he floods you, as he fills you. you whimper, weak and ruined, and he bites down on your shoulder. "take all of it. let it stay. that's a good girl…"

you both watch as it drips down your thighs after. you can't stop trembling. he kisses your stomach and says, "someday soon, i'll fill you enough to keep you soft and round with my child."

that night, after a long bath and a long nap, he brings it up again. not while fucking you. just... while holding you. arms wrapped around your waist, the two of you swaying in the moonlight on the balcony of your private villa.

"you ever think about babies?" he murmurs. your breath hitches. "sometimes." he turns you in his arms, lifts you to sit on the marble railing, his body between your legs.

"i do," he says. "a girl, maybe. one who looks like you. or a boy, serious and cold like me, but sweet only for his mama."

your heart lurches. "you want a baby?" "i want you to have my baby," he says simply. "i want to come home and see you barefoot in our kitchen, round with my child. i want to know you're safe while i'm at work. i want people to see you and know i put you there."

your thighs press together, mewling. "a-aemond..." his hand slides up your belly, between your legs, fingertips teasing you through your thin nightgown. "you'd be so perfect," he breathes. "you already are."

the rest of the week, he fucks you like he's trying to make it happen. he doesn't pull out. not once.

sometimes it's slow. sometimes rough. sometimes on the beach, or in the pool, or on the kitchen counter after dinner. he praises you constantly—how soft you are, how tight, how sweet and obedient and perfect. and always, always, "my wife."

by the last night, you're sore in the best way. you're lying in bed, moonlight spilling over your skin, his seed warm between your thighs and your body limp with satisfaction.

he tucks you into his chest, wraps the soft cotton sheets around both of you, and kisses the top of your head. "i'll build you the world, baby," he whispers. "just stay soft for me. stay mine." you curl into him with a sleepy smile. "always, aemond." and you mean it.

⟢ ─ 𝑣.

it starts with nausea. sweet and simple. you think maybe it's the weather, or the new multivitamins, or the fact that aemond keeps feeding you rich breakfasts in bed and making you drink some french coffee you're not used to. you brush it off.

but when it happens again, and again, and you start waking up sweating and shaky at 5 a.m., something inside you shifts. a quiet whisper. a flutter of hope.

the same hope you remember from the villa—the way aemond pressed a kiss to your stomach every night before bed, the way he murmured grow something for me, sweet girl, like you were already blooming his child in your womb.

your hands tremble as you unwrap the test. the morning light streams through the lace curtains. your nightgown hangs loose around you, one of aemond's old shirts over it since you were always so cold in the mornings. the little stick blinks on the sink.

one line. then... two. your vision blurs. your mouth falls open, hand flying to your chest like maybe your heart's trying to leap out of it.

you're pregnant. gods, you're actually pregnant.

you wait for him in the living room. he's due home any minute, sharp and punctual like always. you sit on the velvet couch, barefoot, knees tucked to your chest, the positive test hidden in your hands. there's a single pink peony on the table—cut fresh from the flower shop this morning.

your cheeks burn. your pulse is wild. you hear the lock turn. you stand."aemond?" you call, voice soft, breathless. he steps in, sharp in a navy suit, his tie already loosened, silver hair pulled back, keys in one hand. his eye lands on you instantly.

"hey, baby." his whole body softens. "what is it? you look pale." you swallow. "i-i have something to tell you." his jaw tightens like he's bracing for impact. you move toward him slowly, silently, then press the test into his palm.

he stares at it. then stares at you. then back down. there's a beat of perfect, suspended silence. and then everything breaks.

his breath catches. his mouth parts. the test clatters to the floor as he grabs you, lifts you, spins you around like you weigh nothing.

"you're serious?" his voice is raw. "you're really−?" you nod, giggling deliriously and crying at the same time. "yes, i took three."

he buries his face in your neck. "you're having my baby." your fingers tangle in his hair. "i'm having your baby."

he doesn't let go of you for hours. you lie in bed wrapped in his arms, his hand splayed protectively over your belly like he can already feel it. "you're so small," he murmurs. "how is there already something inside you?"

you giggle. "it's still early. you just planted it." that makes his breath hitch. "my sweet flower girl," he whispers. "blooming for me."

you kiss him. "you said you'd fill me until something stayed." "i meant it." "i know."

he pulls you closer, so gently, like he's scared to press too hard. his hand strokes the soft cotton over your belly. his voice is reverent.

"i'll take care of you both." "you already do," you whisper. "no." he lifts your hand to his lips. "i mean it. from now on, you don't lift a single thing. you don't worry about anything. you don't even think about the flower shop unless it makes you happy. all you do is grow that baby and stay soft for me."

you melt. "i want to buy you a nursery set tomorrow. pink or blue?" "it's too early to tell!" "then both." you laugh, blinking back tears. "you're ridiculous." "i'm in love," he says simply. "and you're carrying my child."

the next few weeks are heaven. aemond spoils you more than ever.

he starts scheduling your doctor's appointments for you, has prenatal vitamins hand-delivered, installs soft carpet in every hallway, and buys a custom cradle hand-carved with dragon wings. he talks to your belly every morning and every night, even though you're not even showing yet.

"be good to her, little dragon," he tells the baby that's blossoming in your womb. "your mama's small and shy, but she's the best thing in the world." you cry constantly. so does he, though he'd never admit it.

he touches your belly like it's made of spun glass, kisses your temple every time you throw up, and starts sleeping with one hand spread protectively over your stomach, murmuring things you barely catch. my flower girl. my sweet wife. you're everything.

one evening, he comes home early. you're curled on the couch in a pale pink dress, a pregnancy book open in your lap, your legs tucked under you.

aemond stares, his eye wide and unblinking. "you're glowing." you giggle. "you say that every day." "because it's true."

he crosses the room in two long strides, kneels between your knees, and lifts your dress without asking. his mouth presses reverently to the barely-there curve of your stomach.

"do you feel anything yet?" he asks. "just butterflies." he smirks. "that's how you make me feel." you giggle softly, breathless and flushed from both your husband and baby hormones.

then his hands slide up your thighs. slow. possessive. warm.

"you still belong to me," he murmurs. "even with our baby inside you." "i always will." he lifts you into his lap and kisses you like it's your wedding night all over again.

the next morning, you go to the flower shop just to smell the gardenias. the girl at the counter blinks when she sees you.

"mrs. targaryen? is everything okay?" you beam, hand on your belly. "everything's perfect."

⟢ ─ 𝑣𝑖, epilogue.

over the next couple of weeks, you continue to go back to the flower shop to smell all the flowers that you miss. the girl at the counter blinks when she sees you. "mrs. targaryen!" she chirps, rushing over. "oh my gosh—your skin is glowing. you look like... like you've been kissed by a thousand angels!"

you feel your cheeks heating up furiously. "just one." she giggles and winks. "he must be doing something right."

you pick a single ivory rose and press it to your chest, breathing it in. you feel the faintest flutter inside your belly. nothing strong. just a whisper. like your little one is already waking up with you, like they're reaching toward the scent too.

you surprise aemond with the rose when he gets home. he walks through the door in his dark green suit, drops his briefcase, and goes utterly still when he sees you waiting barefoot in the kitchen, glowing and soft in a pale sundress with the rose tucked behind your ear.

he crosses to you in three strides and kisses you breathless against the counter. "i missed you, sweet girl," he growls into your mouth. "missed your smell. missed your taste."

you whimper when his hands slide down your hips. "i brought you something," you whisper. he lifts his head, breathing heavy. "oh? you did?" shyly, you nod and slip the rose from your hair, placing it gently into his palm. "i smelled it and thought of you."

he holds it like it's made of gold. then he lifts it to his nose, inhales slowly, and something shifts behind his eye. "this," he says, brushing it along your cheek, "is exactly how your skin smells when you're full of me."

you shiver. his hand moves down to your slowly swelling belly, cradling it like a sacred thing. "i want more of you like this," he murmurs. "more mornings where i wake up to find you glowing and needy. more nights with your thighs wrapped around me, your body already soft and warm and ready for me."

you gasp. "aemond−" "you'll give me more," he says softly, with certainty. "won't you?" you can barely nod. "yes, daddy"

you start showing by the second trimester. not much. just a tiny bump peeking through your little sundresses, just enough for aemond to obsess over. he touches it constantly, possessively.

in the car, at the dinner table, in bed with the covers kicked down and your belly bathed in lamplight. he buys you silk nightgowns and insists you wear nothing else. he whispers to the baby like they can already hear him.

you walk through the garden in the evenings, barefoot and glowing, your ankles a little swollen, your heart fuller than it's ever been. aemond picks flowers for your hair and rubs your back with lavender oil when you get tired and looks at you like you're made of holy things.

one night, you cry because the baby kicks for the first time—and aemond falls to his knees to kiss the spot. "atta girl," he tells your belly, cooing. "you let your mama know you're in there, my brilliant girl."

he looks up at you, fierce and soft. "you're doing so good, baby." you whimper. "i love you." "i love both of you," he breathes.

the nursery is ready before you even ask. painted in warm creams and golds, with soft star lights and dragons carved into the crib.

aemond reads to your belly every night—classic literature, bedtime stories, even poetry when you fall asleep against his chest. he starts getting overprotective.

anyone who talks too loud around you? he glares. anyone who stares at your belly too long in the grocery store? he wraps a possessive arm around your waist and glares even harder. you giggle. "you're scaring people, my love." "i should be," he says calmly. "you're mine. both of you are mine."

one evening, he takes you out to dinner. you wear a pale pink maternity dress, soft curls in your hair, your belly round and full beneath the satin. aemond doesn't take his eye off you once.

after dessert, he tucks you into the backseat of the car, leans over you, and cups your belly with both hands. "you are everything, my sweet wife," he says, voice low, reverent. you kiss his jaw. "we're just getting started."

and then he does something he's never done before. he cries. softly. silently. just one tear trailing down his cheek as he presses his forehead to your bump.

"i never thought i could have this," he whispers. "a wife. a child. a life like this." gently, you stroke his hair, cooing. "you deserve it, aemond." he kisses the baby goodnight. then he kisses you.

you go into labor in the early hours of a quiet spring morning. aemond's calm—commanding but gentle, never leaves your side, holds your hand through every excruciating contraction. "you're so strong, sweetheart… the strongest woman i've ever known," he says into your hair. "you're mine. you can do this." and you do.

hours later, flushed and exhausted, you hold the tiny, wriggling, screaming bundle against your chest, sobbing with joy. aemond stands over you, his eye wide and shining.

you place the baby in his arms. and he breaks.

"my girl, my sweet girl," he whispers, a small sob escaping him as he gazes down at his newborn daughter with a loving look in his eye. "you've given me everything." you rest your head on his shoulder, baby pressed between you, and fall asleep to the sound of your husband's heartbeat and your child's soft breathing.

one week later, he brings home pink roses. he finds you in the nursery, rocking slowly with the baby in your arms, hair messy, doe eyes soft with love for the little girl in your arms.

you look up. he stops and stares. the light hits you just right. your body still hasn't gone back to what it was—but he doesn't care.

you're glowing in a different way now. soft. sleepy. motherly. his.

"you've never looked more beautiful," he whispers. you look away, shy and always so sweet. "i'm a mess." "you're perfect." he insists, his tone soft and full of awe.

he walks over, crouches beside your chair, and tucks a rose into your hair. then he kisses you—slow and sweet. you pull back and whisper, "i'd do it all again."

aemond smiles against your lips, his eye lighting up with mischief. "don't worry, baby. we will."

#aemond fic rec #fic rec

231 notes · View notes