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darlingofvalyria · 8 months

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❝—Aemond, just shove your fist up my skirt!❞

part 02 | baby, all you gotta do is trust me

chapter summary:

[ Cregan is a menace in bed (sexily), Aemond is a menace on social media (derogatory), Helaena is a menace (lovingly). ]

[ 4,715 ] [ series masterlist ] | best friend's brother!aemond targaryen x f!reader, ft. cregan stark x f!reader & aemond targaryen x alys rivers,

contains— smutty beginnings, a bit angsty, mostly fluff - nsfw: p & v sex, orgasm denial, degradation kink, mating press - lemme just introduce you to firefighter!cregan stark ahe - toxic alysmond but both of them are at fault, fwb situations, fake dating, slow-ish burn - sad sack aemy is a pathetic meow meow - viserys i has a spank kink, no i will not elaborate further - no use of y/n - no gods, no kings, no betas.

a/n— it's entirely my fault, i know. i made cregan too hot. aemond might be a bit op w/ his relationship with reader, but he & her have a comfortable past...soz. comment, reblog & like at will, mwa ♡

There's this thing that Cregan does with his hips.

It's always that sweet spot when your legs are either over his shoulders or haphazardly splayed against his waist, wide open as he drilled into you like a miner trying to find gold (and he would argue that in fact, your orgasms are gold to him)—

There's that moment when he feels you clenching, when you're so close to the precipice of seeing heaven that the motherfucker of the North slows down, sweat-slicked and breathing hard, he slows down enough at the haze of you reaching orgasm where he just.

Produces waves across his body, keeping a slow, toe-curling momentum with his hips, body-waving his dick in and out of you in a slow but purposeful movement— and he's smirking down atyou're fucked out state growing irritated doing something for him.

And before you're truly out of that orgasmic state, about to curse his entire bloodline of ruined orgasms forever or push him off his own godsdamned bed and break his stupidly good penis, he's bracing himself against the side of your head, laughing— not meanly, just amused, the asshole —and asks, almost like he's just asking you for the weather, "Does the pretty little slut want to cum?"

And he's not really asking, because he's grasped your thighs, shoving you into a mating press, and having you see stars in seconds.

"You think my neighbours called 911?" he muses, fixing his hair while in front of the floor length mirror in his room as you lounge about lazily on his bed, already washed and dressed for your own shift at Meleys, sans your pants. That's still in the living room from where Cregan yanked it.

"Hm?" you ask idly, not really focused on the conversation as you scrolled through IG, rolling your eyes at Aegon's post; Hel's big brother was in Ibiza getting sun-tanned in the morning (as much as his pale as fuck skin could tan) and getting it down at clubs at night, liking it nevertheless.

"Your scream at the end there was so loud, I'm pretty sure you broke Mrs. Beesbury out of her coma." You look up at Cregan's menace of a grin, playful and goofy in his tight shirt and thick work pants for his shift at the fire station. "I might be expecting five jars of honey from Mr. Beesbury as thanks."

You roll your eyes at him, laughing. He always got like this post-orgasm; loose and goofy and prone to making the dumbest jokes. It's cute, and on a good day, it does it for you.

It's not like you don't find Cregan attractive. It's how you got into this FWB situation with him in the first place; the dark hair, the scruff on his face, the firefighter bod— and by the Seven, what. A. Bod — when he and his co-workers stumbled into Meleys two months back, seeing your former high school crush aged up and hot had you on your knees for him in the back alley faster than he can hold you from the roots of your hair and grunt.

On a good day, it's easy to see getting past the easy arrangement of sending emojis to alert you wanna get dicked down and him sending a tongue and a heart, sending memes just for the hell of it at random parts of the day— breaking the easy friendship, the nice arrangement, and see where it gets you two, with Stark. On a good day, you can be submerge in the what-if, cute couple-y scenarios and giggle.

But despite the orgasm that could shatter a septa's vows quicker than you can say 'Oh holy Mother', your good day was tentative, broken with a click.

Aemond had made his first social media post since breaking up (the latest one) with Alys.

A darkened bathroom with explicit, orange-glowed lights that covered most of his person but not the slick show of water, freshly showered, against his torso, his chest, his abs. Droplets clung in places one would imagine licking him all over.

You know that bathroom to be the one in his high class gym, one of his favourite places. Since the toxic cycle with Alys started, he frequented it more. Aemond Targaryen was a man of routines and sharp o'clocks, so you know this isn't particularly off-key for him. But the posing (mostly) completely bare with water on his wiry muscles?

"Oh, this whore." You can't help it, as much as it irritated you— because it is clearly a means to get it across that he is newly single without actually saying anything, you can just imagine his DMs firing up with notifs — you couldn't help but giggle at the absurdity.

Aemond Targaryen. Publicly posting a thirstrap.

As public as his social media can get, it's a private account with less than 200 people.

A call rings in your phone, Helaena's face flashing, and you're still giggling when she half-shrieks, "DID YOU SEE HIS IG STORY OH MY GOD."

Your gaze meets Cregan, his bushy, dark eyebrows firing upward upon being able to hear Hel's voice while you winced. You put her on speaker as Cregan giddily comes closer to the phone.

"Good evening to you too, Helaena," you say warmly, giving Cregan's arm a light kick, mouthing, 'Don't you have work?'

Stark had the audacity to shush you, pressing a finger against his lips. You mouth, 'Gossip.' In a mature response, he stuck his tongue out.

Truly a wonder that not twenty minutes ago, this man had you keening over an orgasm.

Helaena continues on, "— I've had enough of this. I already have one slutty brother, I cannot have another one. There can only be two sluts in this family and no more. And that backlit? Seven hells, the whorishness."

"Hel, babe, you are not a slut." You meet eyes with Cregan who waggles his eyebrows, pursing his lips in an air kiss. "Trust me."

Hel snorts. "I know that, I meant my father. The whore of Babylon got nothing on Viserys first of his name, spank king extraordinaire."

If you could simultaneously choke on air and saliva, you would. "Helaena Targaryen!"

Cregan smacked his entire face down on his bed and ate his covers to muffle his laughter, his body shuddering as he did his best. His ass did look good in this view.

"What? Stranger may have mercy on me, but I tell you, before he died and before their marriage imploded, and at times traumatically problematic, they sure did get it freaky when they could. They gave it a good run and traumatised me in the process. I shouldn't have insisted my room was that close to them, maybe I would have ended up being an upstanding citizen of the community."

Cregan flips up, giggles spilling him as he muffled it with his hands. You kicked him again, trying to keep him away from your phone lest Hel figure out where you were again.

"Helaena, my love, compared to your brothers, you are such an upstanding person of the citizenry, the mayor should be giving you an award at this point."

"Right? Maiden have mercy, how busy do you think your shift is going to be tonight?"

You bit your lip guiltily while Cregan smirked, standing up as he finished lacing his boots. Hel thought you had gone straight to work, making up excuses about trying out a new recipe for next month. "Um. Not sure? Probably not by much, it's a weekday."

You don't lie, not really. Cregan mouths 'liar' and throw a pillow at him.

"Good, I'll send Aemond to you tonight. I already told him yesterday and he kind of just made a noncommittal hum— praise hands for another traumatised child of Alicent Hightower who has his own brand of communications issues —" You can just see Helaena's hard eye roll, and you massaged your lips to keep your laughter. The first time you met Hel, you never would have thought she slapped-back self-deprecating jokes out of her pockets faster than you can think a response to the last one. She was sweet, kind, a floral, bohemian girl with her pastel lavender pants and daisy flower clips.

And then you met her, vibed, and there was a dark funny humour to Helaena Targaryen that you always fought just bursting out laughter at the most inopportune of moments.

As sweet and floaty as she appeared, she was a menace.

"— anyway, Mr. Social Whore is going there later tonight, I made him promise. I said if you don't tell me he didn't come, I'm posting every photo I have of him from his naked baby pics to pre-pubescent Teen Teeny-Weeny Aemond, I do not care."

You whistle. "Damn, Hel, okay, I'll tell you when he comes."

"Good. OPLAN Get Aemond Out of This Bad Track Before He Fully Becomes Aegon 2.0 has now commenced. I love my brothers, I truly do, but I can only handle one Aegon at a time. I cannot be scrolling through social media in fear for my life times two, bestie, I refuse." Hel's voice pitches. "I'll talk to you later, bye, babe."

"Bye, Hel!"

Before you could put the phone down, she calls out, teasing, "BYE CREGAN!"

Silence. Then Cregan laughs, calling out, "Bye, Hel!"

The last thing either of you heard is her tinkling giggle before she drops the call.

"Fuck," you mutter, call finished.

Cregan wolf-whistles. "She's good."

You throw another pillow. "It's because you kept giggling like a schoolgirl!"

"Excuse me, that was a manly schoolgirl giggle, I'll have you know." He picks up his keys, winking. "Come on, I'll drop you off at the bar before I pole dance the night away to my job."

You cracked, snorting through the mental image of Cregan Stark, Lead Firefighter of the Ice Wolves Division, shaking his ass on the pole. You pad to the living room. "I'll give you a dollar for your troubles."

"Cheap ass!" he shouts after you.

Aemond arrives two hours into your shift, a little awkward— no doubt remembering your silent judgment of him the morning of his post-break up affair as that has also been the last interaction you've had with him before this, almost a week ago, and now here, meeting you at the insistence (and plotting) of his sister.

Your eyes meet ice water blue. He freezes, then straightens up, giving you a shrewd tilt forward. A nod. It's jerky, mechanical. You roll your eyes, mouth twitching, before you motion him over.

You are already making his favoured drink starter, Sazerac, when he slides into an empty seat on the bar. Your back is to him, refusing anymore interaction, and you know the usual comfort he finds in the eased silence you provide is nonexistent.

Out of all of Helaena's brothers, you've always liked Aemond the most. You teased him it was because the others are Aegon, duh, and Daeron, still in high school and never really around you "old people", but it's also because it's so easy to be around Aemond. When Helaena introduced you to the tall, lithe man who hummed politely at his sister's introduction of you, you found him intriguing.

It's not just the scarred eye, or the pretty, almost marble-statue visage (because by gods, seriously. The Mother took her sweet, loving time crafting the fourth Targaryen, bloody hell— like those cheekbones? With that cupid's bow lip? Okay, Mother, you have your favourites, we get it), or that he tended to keep himself in the background, let everyone else stretch into the conversation.

He often dipped in and out of the social pool like a mirage; a trick of the eye. A nod, a hum— almost, always an answer to someone else's direct question or someone— usually Aegon — dragging him into the conversation with an anecdote needing an input, not matter how inane.

And it intrigued you.

You took yourself and your drink of choice at the time— a Shirley Temple — and sat right beside him. He looked up at you, that one eye of violet widening slightly because you had just. Plopped beside him, thighs touching, before he smoothens out his expression, shifting at your direct eye contact and small smile.

"Can I... help you?" he finally asks, thoroughly waylaid but trying not to appear so.

"The scar." You nodded to his face as he froze. "Tell me about it."

His face had been so controlled, so guarded, when he tersely said, "My sister didn't tell you?"

"Nope. It's not something for her to tell me, isn't it? It's a personal thing. Most scars are." You shrugged. "Even if they aren't, I'd prefer if you tell me. It's your body. Your body your story."

He stared at you for a quarter of a minute before he asked, "Are you drunk?"

"No, why?"

"You're too... forward."

You smirked. "I've been told. So are you telling me or nah, pretty boy?"

And he stared at you for a minute longer, or two, or three— the stare flickers to emotions so fast; shock, confusion, flatter, his own intrigue — before he told you about a stupid fight between children, about a stupid reason par another, and though his words had been concise, obviously keeping a hell of a lot more between vowels and tightened jaw, you don't press him. You let him talk.

At the end, you said, "Badass. Definitely less of a lame reason than what I was imagining, but 9/10 story. Your voice really sold most of it. It's good for telling stories."

In his brain, you could just see the click when his eyes flicked to his sister and back to you. Ah, so that's how they're friends. And he hums, truly, more than anything, stumped by you. And you smiled.

"You're definitely going to be my favourite Targaryen Brother."

It's no wonder then, that you two had gotten close. You had forced a friendship out of him, and the very unattached guy to literally anything new— suspicious of offerings, angry at pity, wary of kindness — had taken into it with a white flag.

So when the whole Alys situation happened, things shifted.

"Sazerac," you announce finally, placing the drink in front of him. He thanks you with a quiet hum, having stopped fidgeting now that you've acknowledged his existence. You raise your eyebrow as his sips turns to gulp, crossing your arms.

Just because you had promised Hel you were going to help him, doesn't mean you were going to make it easy for him. He knows you're pissed; despite the calm structure he had composed himself in, you can see the twitch in his fingers, the way his eye turned away from you the moment you refused to project your normal, warm aura with him.

He settles his drink down, watching the rim of the glass for a minute before he speaks, low and steady. "You're angry with me."

You snort softly. "Wonder why you think so?"

He sighs. "I didn't mean to. To let it get this... messy." He winces at the word, hating it.

You sigh. "Aemy." He comes alive at the familiar nickname, sitting straighter, a relief on the edge of a cliff. "Honestly, I don't give a shit. You want to be trapped in this mess? You don't want to listen to other people tellign you, 'hey dude, maybe no?'"

He winces, remembering the third time he and Alys had broken up. The police car, Aegon vomitting, Hel crying. It makes you roll your eyes.

"Sure, have at it. Have fun, in fact. There's only so much sympathy I can give you for seeking out the problem that you know is a problem before I get tired. Before I stop giving a shit, because there's someone else I love that is starting to get hurt by it. I can only love you enough as much as you are willing to help yourself." Your eyes then narrow, half-glaring into him. "But what I'm truly getting angry about is how much this is affecting Helaena."

"I understand." He sighs again, calling your name but you raise a hand.

"Hold on, I have a bone to pick with you."

"Okay."

You look at him. A second. He waits. And waits.

He speaks up. "Yes?"

You sigh. It's hard to stay mad at him, you've always found so. "I don't know. I had paragraphs to say to you in front of a mirror, but now that it's you I'm looking at, everything just went away." Under your breath, you mutter, "stupid pathetic meow, meow face."

His mouth twitch. Ah. The familiar Targaryen smugness. Pinch Cocky Aemond is back. "Did my face distract you too much, ñuha riña my lady?"

You roll your eyes, unable to hide your own smile. If you called him Aemy, he called you the High Valyrian, his ancestral tongue, my lady. To tease, to establish comfort. You've always liked this better, being closer to Aemond than despising him for his stupid choices and big feelings he has a hard time unraveling, so he makes said stupid choices.

It's ease, it's familiarity, and you both fall into a high step.

"Okay, nerd, so what did Hel—" A customer calls you. "—One sec. Sorry about that, what can I get you? Ooh, nice choice, alright give me a minute." As you pulled a measuring cup and gin, you nod back to Aemond. "What did Hel tell you we're doing exactly?"

"That you're helping me... with Alys." A hesitance. "I know you don't like her—"

"— whoa, hold up, Aemy, I like her. I like her very much. I think she's a bad bitch, absolutely sexy, and clearly, she has good tastes which I respect her for." He had the good graces to blush, still sort of unused by the compliments you so freely give him. "What I don't like is how your relationship with her— here, hey, you're welcome! — has evolved. You were so good with each other, Aemy. And then..."

You mimic a sound of a crash and burn, and a tiny person screaming. He huffs out a laugh before sobering.

"I know." He sighs. "I don't... I don't understand it myself. There's a part of me that recognises I should walk away. And then there's another part that is just... it's Alys."

His palms, open and upturned, falls on the counter. Pensive. Begging. A confused, wanting penitent looking up at a god asking for direction. "I've loved her for so long." His voice quiets, like the words are sacred.

"I've loved her for so long," he repeats as if the words have worn itself out on his tongue, "it's hard to see past her. Ñuha riña, she has always been my future. It's all her. I don't know anything else outside of her."

You pour an Arbor Gold in a stemmed glass and pushes it to him. It's his favourite drink and he smiles at you, at the care, at the memories.

"I understand that," you say carefully. "And I already promised Hel I'd do it, whatever you need of me, to make her see you. But you should know that I'm doing this more for her than for you because... Aems, I believe you deserve so much more. A love that's exciting without it being harmful. A love that's pretty, as easy as breathing. One that doesn't hurt at the edges and pinches like a barbed wire."

"Is that possible for me?" he asks ironically, trying for a joke but you catch that lilt at the end. At that exhale. So much of his history had been broached by pain, borne from it. There are injuries that run so deep, they continue to bleed.

"Honestly?"

He places the wineglass down. "Yes."

You smile. "Yes."

You don't know if he believes you, or if he just indulges in your starry-eyed view of his future, but he smiles nevertheless, as best as he can and murmurs a gratitude.

It's pacifying, insecurity. You let it go for now because there's nothing you can say to a person truly down to trust your words.

"You're going to do this, then?" he asks. "For Alys and I?"

You shake your head. "I'm doing this for Hel and no chores for a month." And you, to show you that there's more past a future that you and I both know doesn't exist anymore. That if you prolong it, ignore how deep the barbed wire has gotten into your skin, it'll be too hard to untangle it when you realised you've bled out enough.

So will you just wear the pain proudly after that?

You shake another order in place, pulling ice and mint. You raise an eyebrow. "I've always known I was going to help. Are you willing to do this? Honestly Aemy, this can go two ways. One, she'll realise losing you is the worst thing that can ever happen— truly losing you to someone else, or two, she thinks you're truly moving on from her. And that's assuming she even thinks it's real, like I mean come on, it's me and you."

He arches a perfect silver eyebrow. You had already asked him if he gets his eyebrows done, and apart from Helaena messing with him back in high school, has been all natural. You think he's lying.

"And what is me and you?"

"Aemy, come on. I'm your sister's best friend. We're like... I dunno, family? She's always known that."

"Doesn't mean she's never felt jealous of you," he hums, swirling his wine with pinch fingers. It's elegant. Entrancing. The red liquid swirls and there are knots and strain in his hand, going through his arm.

And despite the bags under his eye, he still looks so good. Silvery blond hair wrapped in a low half updo, the shirt that hid nothing of his muscled chest.

His words sink in, breaking you from the hypnotizing reverie of looking at a marbled statue. "What? She felt jealous of me?"

He smiles gently, a little bit cockily. "Ñuha riña. Of course she did. Just because she understood your place in my life, in Hel's, doesn't erase the fact that you're gorgeous and we get along well. She liked you, truly, but she isn't blind. It's nothing that you've done, even she knew that. You're just too perfect."

You blink at him, unable to stop yourself from blushing. He chuckles meanly.

"Shut up."

He exhales a laugh. "I didn't say anything!"

"You know what you did." You give him the stink eye before you serve two more customers, thanking at a pretty hefty tip from one of your regulars, bidding him goodnight as he left. It is a slow night, you didn't lie to Helaena.

You almost don't catch Aemond murmuring, "I've missed this. I've missed you. I never like it when you're pissed at me."

"Good," you joke. "So you can watch yourself better. But yeah, I've missed you too. So how are we doing this?"

"I thought you had an idea, having agreed to Hel's plan before I even knew there was a plan."

You roll your eyes. "Well, I've had a few ideas here and there... it's more your comfort I'm worried about."

He frowns, pouty lips pursing. "My comfort?"

You place your palms behind the bar and hitch yourself up by your physical strength. He leans forward, confused still. You smirk. "Well, Aemy, I'm wearing a skirt."

"I... I don't know what that means, ñuha riña." He blinks his one good eye. "Nice skirt? You look pretty."

You force a pout instead of getting flustered by the compliment out of the blue. "I forgot you weren't all that popular in high school."

"No need for insults," he deadpans.

You laugh. "We're going to make Alys jealous, right? It'll be too much to hard launch my new status of existence in your life when you just broke up... but... if we can allude, at least..."

"I-" His frown deepens, the skin on his other eye, the scar, pinches as you see his mind whirr and whirr where your mind was reaching. "I'm still confused."

"Gods, alright, I'll just show you."

"Dude, bro, just put your hand under my skirt—"

"Ñuha riña—"

"Yeah, you know what, godsfuckingdamnit, if I alienate you that bad just shove your fist up my skirt, yes, Aemond, just shove your fist up my skirt!"

He calls your name, tips of his ears beet red, as a few patrons turn to you two, bewildered and a little amused. You wave at them but you sigh noisily at him. You're sat beside him on the counter, your phone on one hand with the camera app open, and you're glaring at him.

"Are you seriously telling me you've never placed your hand on Alys' thigh?"

"Of course I have!" He lets out a strangled sigh and groan.

"What's the difference?"

"I've never done it so publicly," he explains as calmly as possible, as if he's talking to a child. "And with the idea of posting it for everyone else to ogle. I've always just done it... under a table. Or. On her knee..."

"You're blushing so hard, you look like a tomato?" You snort. "I'm your fake Alys now, and we're soft launching an intimate relationship. This is basic."

"You're not my fake Alys. You're not my fake anytihng and you're not Alys." he says seriously, frown sharpening into a point before he exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Can't it just be my hand over yours?"

You frown, forgoing the uncomfortable twinge from not my anything and not Alys. "Is this uncomfortable for you? Am I making you uncomfortable?"

"It's not that, never that." He purses his lip. "It's the opposite. I don't want to make you uncomfortable with my touch."

"Aemy," you say softly, smiling slightly. "I am giving you permission. Wouldn't have suggested it otherwise. And you touching me has never made me uncomfortable. Now, come on. Hand on my thigh, pretty boy, so I can take this pic and get the ball rolling."

There's a second more of restraint, of holding back, and before you sigh and suggest something else— maybe he is truly uncomfortable with you, with you not being anything to him, and not being Alys, but is too polite to say anything — he places his palm, warm and heavy, against your exposed thigh.

It's a... new sensation. You've held hands with Aemond before, smacked it a few times even, but it's different when it's on a more... well, when it's not on a non intimate area of your body. New skin, new nerve endings to his familiar warmth and crease.

It makes you swallow how big his hand is compared to your whole ass thigh. Thumb to pinky and he nearly swallows the gaps.

He really has pretty hands. Knotted veins twisting upward to muscled arms.

Both of you nestle in the quiet, just staring at his hand over your thigh.

"Okay," he says, voice even. He's taller than you, always taller even when you're both sat down, and he's closer to the top of your head at this distance, his breath flutters against your hair. "What now?"

"I... take the picture." You blink, shaking your head slightly, as you take his drink and add your hand within the frame so it looks like you mean to take a photo of your drink and not the glaringly obvious hand on your thigh, before you you angle it. You take one, two, three. A few different angles before you feel you've got a few nice ones. "Okay, done."

It feels cold when he takes his hand away, giving your thigh a soft tap before it's back on the counter. He hums.

You get back on the work, choosing one and posting it promptly on your stories. You place Meleys' location and a kiss mark emoji before you post it.

"It does look intimate," Aemond hums, observing the story from his own phone. "But why did you post it on your account and not mine?"

"She's your ex, Aemy," you say, hopping off the chair and moving back behind the counter. The world re-orbits. Everyone back in their positions, the lines clear. The planets move in their normal trajectory again.

"She'll know it's your hand. And if we post it on mine, it has more of an impact, don't you think? We're friends on IG. She sees it on my stories, a man's hand on her thigh, in a background that's no doubt a bar. The hand is sorta familiar. And you posted that slutty mirror pic earlier tonight."

He blushes, you smirk. Planets and moons orbit back, their pace slow, their lightyears fast. Best friend's sister. Sister's best friend.

"If she doesn't recognise your hand at first, your story will prompt it on her brain. It's not a hard connection, you've been together for years. It's a girl thing. An exes thing. Bingo bango, the brain is running. Surely it isn't Aemond's hand? Even if it is... is it truly romantic?"

He exhales. "You're... kind of an evil genius."

"Just kind of? Damn." And you smile because he laughs, the sound spreading warmth across your chest.

Yeah, this is better. It always feels good when you and Aemond are on the same team, when you're not mad at him and vice versa, no matter how stupid the reason.

Saturn rings snap, black holes sink and swim in galaxies so far, far away.

You put your phone on DND as soon as the first five notifs pop up, prompting a barrage of other notifications. When you took a glance at it, it's all a varying degree of 'WHAT THE FUCK', 'WHO THE FUCK', and 'GO GET THAT DICK, GIRL OMG!!'

Only Helaena's message matters, and it brings a smile on your lips.

'Noice'.

Another ping.

'Also— what a bunch of harlots'.

You show it to Aemond and both of you burst in stupid laughter.

TAGLIST (message to be added! please ensure you are able to be tagged to get notifs): @fan-goddess @snh96 @valeskafics @opheliaas-stuff @tempo-rary-fix @fantasticpeaceharmony @diannnnsss @iamavailablesstuff @spinachtz @at-a-rax-ia @bespinnn @tsujifreya @moonlightfoxx @kemillyfreitas @joyouart @bananzaa @honey-on-mars @alexa4040 @cinnamonbambii @wintrr13 @wxb-slingrr

#aemond angst #cregan stark x reader #best friend's brother!aemond #aemond fluff #cregan smut #hotd fluff #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x you #hotd x you #hotd smut #cregan stark x you #aemond targaryen x y/n #elle writes !! ꒱ ↷˗ˏˋ🍒#aemond fanfiction #aemond crack #aemond targaryen x reader #tshbft ༊*·˚ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ

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smolvenger · 1 month

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My Lord (Prince Hal x fem! Reader Oneshot)

Summary: After you dance with another man, Prince Hal, your royal intended has a confession to make...

Warnings: SMUT! 18+ (fingering, p in v sex, doing it on a desk), historical inaccuracies for the sake of vibes, grammar and spelling mistakes, angst and fluff.

Dick-tionary: Smut starts at “Kiss me again, my dove,” and ends at "You pressed foreheads, feeling his warm breath and how soft his skin felt- comforting, gentle. "

Word Count: 3K

A/N: From @muddyorbsblr's request! It ended up being longer, oops. But enjoy!

A03//My Ko-Fi//My Etsy Shop//Masterlist//Wattpad

Taglist: @asgards-princess-of-mischief @jennyggggrrr @five-miles-over @fictive-sl0th @ladycamillewrites @villainousshakespeare @holdmytesseract @eleniblue @twhxhck @lokisgoodgirl @lovelysizzlingbluebird @raqnarokr @holymultiplefandomsbatman @michelleleewise @wolfsmom1 @cheekyscamp @mochie85 @fandxmslxt69 @skittslackoffilter @mischief2sarawr

Despite your fine dress and the rich wine flowing, you felt somber at your betrothal ball. Not that the ball itself was a sad event. No, you were not merry from everything around you. It was all merry with the throne room decorated with flowers and jigs being played by the musicians. Your melancholy was due to your intended.

Of all the good lords and gentlemen on this green isle, only one was destined to be the next king. And that was who you were going to marry. Your parents were thrilled when the king agreed to the marriage. They smiled and embraced you as an artist hugged their painting. They managed to sell you to the highest bidder.

His Majesty Prince Henry the Fourth of Lancaster. The highest bidder indeed.

Or Hal, as the taverns ruffians called him. Hal. Riotous, dishonorable, pranking, thieving, tavern hopping, wench chasing, sack drinking Hal. Beautiful, princely, decadent Hal. Every time his brothers had to tell their father the truth of Hal’s layabouts…the king would turn red with fury. Not that you were surprised.

Even if the scoundrel you were going to call your husband had been kind to you these past few months. He would be by your side. And trying to win you over or get you to smile. Flirt with you- he did to hundreds of women at this point! No doubt! Your inner giddiness was mixed with a silent rage and you weren’t sure which would pop out first each time he got your hand and kissed it gently. Hal was beautiful. A handsome, handsome man who wore his doublets tight on his lean frame and walked with a swagger, his auburn curls freed about his head. There was a charm to his manner, and feelings were in you when you looked at him. Feelings you didn’t like. Feelings you didn’t dare name.

For that, you remained polite. Never forward. Nice, but nothing more. For what else could you do? The world of court could be deadly and dangerous. The world’s eyes were on you. You couldn’t afford to make a reckless move.

Despite the garden walks and meals, there was that sliver of distrust. If you didn’t see him, he could be on the floor of the filthiest bar in Eastcheap passed out on the floor from drink. Or in a room with two tavern women in positions that would make a sailor blush.

And the last picture of him in bed with other women- it made you want to scream and sob and throw your goblet at the wall until it smashed into a hundred bits and then pick your skirts, march to the other end of the room, and slap him hard across his beautiful face.

You took a deep breath.

It was just your imagination. Nothing actually happened. One inhale, then another exhale. The walls were grey stone, the candlelight yellow, and the music from a flute was playing something fast.

Why were you like this, you had to remind yourself! You didn’t like him! Why should that matter? You had to remember how much you didn’t care and didn’t like him.

He could have every woman in England on their knees for him every night and you would not care. You would go about your merry way and when you didn’t have to squeeze out a son, you would enjoy the monetary benefits of servants, fine dresses, horses, gold, jewels, money to buy whatever thing you wanted, and the freedom to do as you pleased as queen.

You held your chin up. Only glad it was a lovely party. All were taking gentle sips of wine, sampling the roast boar, listening to lutes, and laughing over nothing. You felt like doing none. In a whole crowd of people, you felt alone, isolated, and cut off. Like a foreigner trying to make a friend but never knowing how to speak the language. They gathered and talked…and here you were. The most wanted and yet also the most unwanted.

Taking a deep breath, you continued to walk in to try to get your mind off of things.

There were dances as well. But you felt as if your soles were made of lead. For all were celebrating your marriage to this scoundrel.

This beautiful, delectable, leather-clad scoundrel. Looking at him across the room, something inside you churned. And you were frightened to name it.

He was in the corner, talking to his brothers. You turned your eyes down. For the party was in swing and in a way, as if they forgot you were its purpose. They wanted to laugh and gossip and drink. Forget their worldly cares and be merry.

You brought your eyes up to search for him. Your heart beat a little harder seeing Prince Hal at the other end of the room. How delicious he looked. His tight leather jacket was the color of the wine. He preferred rougher, bawdier parties- that was why he was frowning as his father went up to talk to him. And here you were, just to be tolerated as his bride. It seemed queenhood was a lifetime away, as was your marriage. For all of this fuss over you both being joined, you couldn’t help but feel separated.

Taking a deep breath, you put both hands on your cup and took another sip, resisting the urge to gulp down your wine and let the alcohol take its effect.

As you walked in, the Lord of Warwick went up.

“My lady- here is my nephew, Thomas! He’s going to appear at Court more often!” the lord introduced.

You curtsied and gave a smile.

The Lord of Warwick’s nephew with his own blonde hair and blue eyes and skin that tanned. He was a polite, warm friendly boy. For having just met him, he left a good impression on you. The uncle even stepped aside to let you talk. Then Thomas held out a hand.

“They’re having dances. Would you give me a dance, my lady?”

“I would love to,” you replied.

You enjoyed his company as you danced. He was very good too- Hal himself had no “strength in measure” and was inches from always stepping on your toes the grand total of two times you danced. Passing between couples, joining, parting, and reasoning hands to the lute music. You felt at peace.

Little did you know Hal’s eyes were on you.

They were on you every time you the whole evening.

Prince Hal scowled. He was practically red with anger. The second the dance ended, he marched up to you. Thomas looked sickly pale and you felt your stomach drop. You never saw Hal himself have any anger and part of you was terrified. They always say it’s the ones who are never angry you watch out for.

“My lord, what is the matter?” you asked after your curtsey.

“I would like to speak with my lady intended,” Hal ordered.

Thomas handed you over quickly.

Amidst the ball, Hal grabbed your arm. Fie, his hand- large, beautiful hands taking a whole of your arm and dragging you to the hallways and through a door. Jesu, was he going to hurt you? Hal never once did anything that would harm you. He seemed too mischievous and cheerful to seem capable of raising his hand to a woman, much less you. There was a fierceness on his fast that made your heart race. You didn’t know if you were feeling lust, terror, or both at once.

The room was a study. The night sky shone outside, though there were lights from the torches and candles. None were inside-perhaps at the party. With tall bookshelves and desks, it would have been a comforting room had your heart been beating wildly against your ribs.

He looked at you up and down. He saw your dress, how it formed you well, and hugged you in the right places. A warmth flushed over you, and you realized you were panting a little to deepen your breaths. But his face was still angry. Beautifully, beautifully angry.

“What, what is the matter?” you asked. Hoping to get this over with quickly.

“Quite a bit, that is the matter!” Hal replied, ruffling his curly hair.

You gestured at the door.

“My lord, they will notice we are gone. We have a party to attend to…”

Hal reached up a hand that he held in the air. You looked back at him. His voice remained soft, matter of fact, right to the bone.

“My lady, we have to discuss young Warwick. The way you were dancing at him, smiling at him.”

“Oh, him!” you said. You had deduced it. He just had to say it himself.

“Yes! The look he was giving you like he would be falling before your feet any minute! Your smile at him! And you were encouraging him, and I-”

“Are you jealous, Harry?” you interrupted, blurting out the obvious.

He turned a little pink.

“Yes, well- what if I am? Should I not be if a gentleman dances with my lady?”

“A lady can rarely turn down another man. My mother told me it is impolite to refuse a man’s offer to dance!” you reasoned.

Hal leaned closer to you.

“You have promised yourself to me, not him! You’re engaged to me!”

He paused and his mouth hung in mid-air. You saw his eyes were shining bright, he was…on the brink of tears. The jolliest scoundrel in all of England and…he was crying. When you imagined him with other women earlier…was that the very feeling he was having as well?

You closed the distance to him, you offered your hand and he took it.

“Hal, I am sorry. I didn’t think you would be upset or even care that I danced with him…” you consoled.

He brought up a hand and wiped a tear off with his palm.

“I forgive you, my lady. Only….That the way you were beaming at him, and not at me, I…I don’t even have words for it and- YN- it makes me angry because…because…I wish it were me you were smiling at…me and only me. That one smile. Then I’d know for sure that you’d love me and we could be find a way to-”

You gasped.

“What did you say?!”

Your face was closer to his, your voice even softer. He paused. His tears stopped.

“You…you love me?”

He flushed, hung his head low, and then back up.

“I do, my sweeting. I love you so much. I don’t know how else to say it or what speeches or things to give. If I am under your spell, I never wish to be out of it. I don’t ask you to love me back at all…I only ask you…you… pity me.”

His face was right before words. Your own mouth began to speak of its own accord. The music was softer, and distant, as if the ball was a world away.

“Hal…even with everything in Eastcheap, I…I… I…I cannot help but…but want to see you, and speak to you, I think of you and wonder what you are doing when you’re away. And I…I worry about you. I want you happy- more than happy, safe.”

He closed the distance and kissed you. The first kiss you ever had other than chaste pecks on the hand. You shuddered at it as he wrapped his hands around you, one hand crawling up your back. He knew his way around a woman’s body. And he knew what would make your knees tremble. You melted into his arms, collapsing into the kiss, into the embrace. He tasted of wine, of freedom.

He let go. But it was as if something awoke that was long asleep. You let him keep his hands on you, to feel your body beneath your dress—one on your hip, fingers inches away from the most private, precious of places on you. You kept on babbling despite yourself.

“All the battles your father sends you on and… and…I was worried, worried you would die…worried something would happen to you- and then, the Eastcheap visits….I was worried…worried you and Doll would.”

“There were no whores. Not since we’ve met,” he replied.

You kissed him again, and you leaned closer to him, wrapping your arms to feel his back. Dizzy and drink on him. You heard his moan.

He leaned back on a chair and had you straddle him. You gasped, feeling your legs come apart. Places between you were starting to dampen and it was just over where his most secret places were. You were never this close, this intimate with each other

“Kiss me again, my dove,” he commanded.

You kissed him again, his fingers crawling, up your leg. He found your hip and then moved you. You moaned from the friction, the touching and brushing of your bodies.

But you wanted it, you didn’t stop him.

His hands were over you, greedily touching since you were all his now-his betrothed, his wife, and soon his queen- and he would make sure you never forgot it. He gave you a last grind of your hips.

His hands desperately searched your clothes, trying to find the seams. But you were aching, going up for him, needing him.

“Hal- Hal!” you whispered

“And what if I do? I can’t bear it- the longer I’m with you, the more desire overcomes me- You drive me mad- I can’t, I can’t take it, my dear, my love-I-I have to ravish you, here-now-”

“Yes, you may…”

He slid aside the papers and books so the desk was clear. You swallowed, getting incredibly wet but excited with his flushed face. But his eyes determined, an animal after his prey. And nothing could tear him from his prize.

He kissed you, prompting you to sit. He undid a bit of your bodice, pulling it down, finding your breasts. The cold air touched it as his pupils darkened over the sight of you.

“You’re exquisite, darling, and you’re not his, you’re mine-”

Once they were revealed, he fondled them, thumb grazing over the hard nipples. You moaned appreciatively. All while he kissed your neck.

“Say it, say you’re mine,” he whispered.

“I’m yours,” you replied.

He then freed a hand. It moved up your leg.

“All of this, this beauty, it is all mine-and I’ll drive you there, until you cry out for all of them to hear.”

slid a finger inside and you gasped, feeling it stretch you. You gasped as he curled up- surprised his long finger could go so deep, and find a spot that brought so much pleasure and pain as he discovered the little nub inside you.

“My- my lord!”

He kissed your neck again, then looked at you, smugness spread on his lips.

“Yes….yes, call me that.”

He gathered your skirt up and then undid his codpiece and released his pants, standing at full attention. You gave a small gasp at the sight of his size. He looked at you darkly, a new tone in his voice- deadly and commanding, a king to his whore

“You will be good and make it fit, every bit of it. And you will call me my lord.”

His hands made your legs come wide apart, he moved you up. He was slow, entering you, so you got used to it. You let out a moan, tugging onto him.

“Yes…take it…like a good girl…take it.”

He forced your legs further apart, sheathing you in with a grunt. You let out a sound, your insides penetrated, clutching onto him, feeling your bare breasts against his leather. Your blouse fell lower, exposing both. He then gave a first, sloppy thrust. Then he was seated inside you.

“My lord!” you cried out.

“There-there- I will make you scream it louder,” he growled.

Then he began thrusting—his moans in your ear. You dug your fingers into his shoulders and grabbed your hips, keeping tight. The desk made a sound as you did. It began slowly.

“My-my lord, oh- gods- yes, there, my lord-gods-gods blood-”

It then picked up, your breasts bouncing and your heart racing. All you knew was him, felt was him. You were moaning even louder. It was a desperate, animal. Pounding his hips into yours.

He released one hand. It found your nub between. You gasped. He then strummed it with each deep, forceful, desperate pounding.

“H-My-My lord I-I-there-oh-oh god-I’m-I’m going-going to-to die, but- don’t-don’t-don’t stop-”

“You’re close, you’re-you’re close, darling-call me that-yes-now-fuck,yes-yes-

“Say it, say it when you cum-I’m-I’m going to cum-cum inside- cum, fie, lady- fie, it’s on me now- cum, fie, lady -cum!”

He picked it up incredibly fast, you held onto him, your pleasure spinning out of control.

“Yes- close, close- come on now, give in- let go-”

With a grunt, his seed shot into you and the release of pleasure broke inside you. You didn't say his title but gasped. The light had hit you and made everything duller, things spun, and you felt as if you were in oblivion.

In a final whisper, you only whispered once more “My…my lord…” Your nails dug into him- your lord, your intended, your prince, and your husband. A marriage not sworn but already consummated.

He pulled out, and then cupped your face, “as you are my lady.”

You pressed foreheads, feeling his warm breath and how soft his skin felt- comforting, gentle.

He helped you off and then readjusted your dress so all was well. Making sure the blouse covered you up and that your skirt was in place.

“Are you not hurt?” he asked.

“Not a bit.”

He wrapped a protective arm around you, leading you out.

“Here…we must return to the party…I will fetch us some wine.”

“And…you can have the next dance, my lord,” you said.

He smiled at you- not a naughty smile, but a kind, genuine smile that burst with love.

“As you have all of mine, my lady.”

His smile shone brighter than any candlelight. He gave you a last kiss before you were on his arm, returning to the party.

#smut #carrie writes #prince hal #prince hal x reader #tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston characters #angst with a happy ending #the hollow crown #prince hal fanfiction #prince hal x you #prince hal x y/n #prince hal smut #prince hal imagine #prince hal the hollow crown

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bucknastysbabe · 2 months

Note

criston cole in a greens win au really is the kingmaker if he’s cucking aegon. slapped a crown on the king and now he’s making bastard kids to go on the throne. u go king.

Now I must write a blurb hnghhhh cuckingggg this is prob ass bc I’m sick rotting in bed with flubonic plague but OH WELL

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Dayne!reader, greens win AU, Criston is dark and manipulative, Aegon sad sacking around the place, cukolding, exhibitionism, breeding kink, crispy creme pie, infidelity, v!fingering, oral (m!receiving), pnv!sex, no beta I die like Ned stark, jealousy, one-sided-ish

Taglist: @starogeorgina @moncherri @bambitas @aemonds-holy-milk @targaryenbarbie @arcielee @valeskafics @sugarpoppss2 @fairysluna @lovelykhaleesiii

Do Your Job - C.Cole

Criston stopped caring long ago, pulling himself out of the layered filth of blood, gore, and dirt. Bodies of his men. The butcher’s ball they called it. Criston made sure that the Winter’s Wolves, Benjicot Blackwood, and Roddy the Ruin got a nice death by dragon. After some torture.

He saw through with that, as the Hand of the King and Lord Commander of the Kingsguard Criston had to attend to such matters. Such as what to do with Rhaenyra’s last child. Or the fucking mess that was Aegon. Aemond was still lurking around Harrenhal— said to return when his child was born. Aegon meanwhile, made Criston’s blood boil. Alicent was a maddened gnat in his ear.

Aegon had been recently remarried to a Dayne of Starfall, seeking out the ashen hair and Valyrian eyes of the Dornish house. She was gorgeous, eager to please, and could suck Criston’s prick under his desk for hours. The adorable queen had trouble with Aegon— considering the man was a bag of shattered bones and burns. The maesters had been attending to the two’s fertility plan.

She was not hard to woo, seeking Cole’s comforts as Aegon still wanted to hoard playthings and whores, uncaring much of his wife at the moment. He bedded her regularly— but they had to be careful with his bad leg and hip. Criston’s little star, beautiful as one, was the shiniest thing in the dreary keep by far. But horribly lonely, so he’d been keeping an eye, asking the Queen to help him with letters and tasks of the realm.

It wasn’t long before she was in his lap crying about how terrible the Red Keep was. Criston had his proverbial claws sunk deep into her by then. He meant his words of praise, how special his star was, and meant doubly on how much he too hated the Keep. Criston’s fingers crawled up her dress as he cooed, bringing the girl to likely her first orgasm since arriving.

They sat together in the Hand’s foyer, Ser Cole writing a letter to some raucous lordling. He ran a hand through his hair and sat back, dark eyes meeting a strange indigo of sorts. “Have there been any advancements with the maesters and your womb?” She shook her head, blush dusting her cheeks.

“Go on, what’s the issue my star?”

She leaned over the table to grip his hands, pleading in her body language. “Do not grow wroth when I tell you this okay?” Criston nodded, there was no chance he would not be pissed. Just a feeling. The Dayne sighed, “He’s impotent but he swears it’s me, I don’t know, they’ve started transferring his, seed, into me. By now I’m not sure, he berates me about it.” Criston’s eyes narrowed and she squeaked.

The smaller figure was picked up by him, striding to the King’s chambers. Where Aegon was like to be making two court favorites defile themselves. The queen begged, “My lord, please, I know you feel strongly for me but-“

He growled, “No!,” then softer, “No. He’s being a fool, a lady’s desire should help the process. I’ll oversee you two. We need heirs to the throne.”

He kicked open the door, startling a half-awake Aegon. Criston gently laid the Queen on the bed then turned to a glaring Targaryen. Aegon’s burnt face twisted in annoyance, slightly slurring, “The hell is going on here Cole?” A goblet of wine sat in front of him— of course he was drinking.

Criston folded his arms. “You’re drunk right now? It’s barely even past midday.”

“Sorry, one tends to get bored when his wife would rather cavort around with the Hand,” he acridly spat back.

She protested from behind, “Alright, I can stay around, it’s fine!”

Criston eyed his star and back to Aegon. He asked “You have a beauty like that and can’t fill her belly with seed? You have the maesters stuff her like a turkey instead? Pathetic.”

Aegon’s form shook with rage, reaching for his crutch, Criston swiftly kicking it out of the way with a clatter. Aegon barked, “I’m your goddamn king, bring that back now! Maybe she’s the one barren, dirtied by lowborn seed!”

That little fucker! Criston’s eye twitched. He had not put his cock into her sacred place but now? Someone had to do the job— and it would be him. The taller brunette forced Aegon’s chair closer to the bed, the king hissing in pain, violet eyes wide. Cole chastised, “Since you’re so smart, I’ll do a little test, see if my lowborn cock has sullied her womb.” Aegon’s soft face pulled into a frown, squirming in position.

Criston began to pull at his gauntlets in quick snaps, then the bracers, and the chest plate along with the heavy shoulders. He decided to keep his chain of hands on as an ego boost. Lowborn cock raised to the second highest position in the realm, doing the highest position’s job.

Dayne stared at him, eyes flicking to the strangely silent Aegon, then back. Criston smiled at the queen, winding a tan hand into her ashen locks. He murmured, “Don’t worry dearest, we’ll have you feeling wonderful in no time, right your Grace?” Aegon remained stone cold— lips pouting.

The hand began to ease off the simple Dornish layers of her dress, baring that gorgeous body. How could she not be fertile? His star was all curves and soft skin, she would be great as a mother. Criston told her that, earning a whine, her legs wrapped around his waist. He panted to the king, “First, they need to be actually attracted to you.”

Cole pressed lush kisses to her neck and shoulders, his big hand testing the waters between her thighs. She was a little wet, not yet how he could get the Dayne, sopping. He rasped just for her ears, “Relax for me, he’s so jealous you might get an obedient king. Gorgeous star doesn’t know her own wiles.” She writhed a bit, tits pressed tight against flat chest.

“Oh, oh, there my Lord,” the blonde panted.

Criston was pumping one finger into her velvet heat, sliding in a second one to crook upwards. His thumb swirled around her swollen bud. He laughed carelessly at Aegon, whose scarred hands dug into the sides of his chair, puffy lips open. The brunette snarked, “See how easy it is not to be a selfish prick? It’s quite rewarding to make your lady come— although I think she’s already too attached to me.”

The king whined softly.

The queen moaned louder, crying Criston’s name and wetting his fingers further. The knight pulled from her full tits, purposely working her cunt over while asking. “Doesn’t that feel good little star? Don’t you wish your King would take care of you like that?” The queen gasped and mewled, cheeks a deep flush, eyes guiltily looking over at the squirming Aegon.

Criston patted her cheek, pressing a kiss over plump lips. Inky eyes and smug lips turned again to talk down to the Targaryen. He added in a dark voice, “Obviously you can’t do the fucking job so I will until you get it up and pump her with a blonde one. Although I am quite attached myself, she’s a wonderful little star. I’m going to fuck her good and thorough. Our first time too.”

Aegon whined, begging, “Ser, stop, I didn’t know, don’t!” But his hard cock was pulsing and the king had made no attempt to call for help. He couldn’t move either, the crutch out of his grasp. Aegon watched Criston work his wife into a peak, her pretty breasts heaving, thighs twitching. Utterly gorgeous. Jealousy swelled within his burnt chest.

The Dayne beauty sloppily mouthed against Criston’s mouth, trailing down to press kisses against his lower belly, grabbing his cock before asking. “You want to impregnate me sir? Give me an heir?” She could almost explode at the thought. Criston nodded, eyes hazy as her plump lips enveloped his cock, hands expert on rolling his balls and the other working in tandem with that warm mouth.

Aegon made a gutted noise.

Criston groaned deeply, watching his length disappear down velvet throat. The queen kept her indigo eyes on him, teary and wide. Fucking beautiful. He swallowed down a weak noise and rasped to Aegon, “She’s quite good at this, willing to please and eager to learn your Grace. But there you are, quickly back to your old ways.” She shuddered at the praise, Criston easing his star off so the real fun could begin.

He murmured, “On your back sweetling.” He pecked her once, shivering at the taste of him. The queen laid on her back, instinctively tucking a pillow under her hips. Criston rumbled, playfully giving her ass a smack. “Good girl, mmm, you just want to be a mama hm?” The shared noises of Aegon and his Queen made the Knight laugh.

He eased himself on top, making sure her thick thighs spread around his waist. The knight laid forward, grinning and nuzzling her nervous face. He cooed, “You’re safe with me star, pretty baby, doing so good.” Her arms slunk around his shoulders, their bodies fitting with together as Criston eased himself into her slick, swollen folds.

Fuck, she was tight and pulsing already, inner walls aiming to milk the man. Lady Dayne cried out, busty tits heaving as she was filled up by Ser Criston’s heavy cock. It was foreign, having so much care put into her pleasure. She moaned in surprise when he bottomed out, rasping nonsense against her neck.

Aegon sniveled now, watching his Queen get something he couldn’t possibly provide. Ser Criston, the crafty fucker, already worked his magic and cock into his queen. The blonde regretted many an action against his wonderful wife— seeing how she mooned over fucking Cole. Cole; a common born conniving oathbreaking madman, he truly enjoyed seeing suffering and agony. But there he was, giggling and gently fucking Aegon’s queen, the picture of chivalry. He needed more wine, and to tug his miserable cock.

Criston hiked her legs up, the back of her knees in the crooks of his arms— a mating press. She cried out, little hands scrabbling at his shoulders, eyes getting teary with pleasure. He moaned low, forcefully fucking himself inside her tight cunt, making sure she could feel every little drag and thrust. She mewled in ecstasy, “Criston, Ser, breed me, breed me please! Ohh I want it, need it!”

He grinned at Aegon’s sobs and pulling of his own prick. Criston teased “You want my seed star? Want to be all pretty and round, knowing your Lord Hand made you swell? Tits and hips so ripe for me, such a pretty mother you’ll make.” She tightened around him, arching her back, practically drooling. He focused on fucking her deep, swiping his thumb around her button, earning the cutest little mewls.

“Yes! Gods yes! Criston,” she howled, clamping down on his prick. He pressed his lips to hers, grunting as he fucked her to the point of no return. He cooed at his cute little star crying out her peak, gushing all over his still-moving cock. She weeped, “Please, give me your seed, want to be a mama, please!” Cole couldn’t deny her request, groaning long and low as his tummy tightened, emptying pump after pump of his cum into her tight pussy. He bit his lip bloody in the process, feeling feral, but the knight wouldn’t tear her skin like that.

He let go of her legs, gently holding her canted hips, humming, “How long do they say wait Aeg?”

A sharp cry, gasp, and tortured, “15 minutes.”

The Dayne didn’t even seem to be worried about her broken husband, smiling and holding Criston’s big hands. She kissed at each knuckle, eyes full of adoration and love. How they should be. How he deserved all along. What a special little star.

The first two came out with brown hair and eyes, sending a familiar shock across the keep. Then the third had ashen hair, just like the Queen. Mayhaps the Targaryen gene wasn’t that strong within Aegon, people whispered. Criston would smile, not indulging a secret. He’d rub her pretty bump alone, let Aegon play the daddy. He did alright enough.

#hotd fanfic #hotd smut #one sided feelings #aegon ii targaryen #ser criston cole #ser criston cole x reader #Criston cole x reader #Ser criston cole imagine

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silversoulstardust · 8 months

Text

[punk hazard/dressrosa arc spoiler heavy lawlu rambling]

recently I saw a video that was comparing luffy to naruto and the fact that luffy is not a hero when compared to naruto because naruto saved people even when the people that needed saving refused it (ie uchiha sasuke) but luffy? luffy saved countries on his selfish whim and all the other people he saved, he waited until they asked for it. he waited nami to ask for his help and robin to tell him she wanted to live.

except you know who? trafalgar law.

we could tell that law was planning on a suicide mission when he went to punk hazard on his own. he sent off his crew to zou and was wandering alone to find out more about the SAD factories and knew he risk angering doflamingo by destroying it. during that time, he saw an opportunity, formed that alliance with the strawhat and marched on to dressrosa.

retrospectively looking at it, there was no doubt that he was using the strawhat crew. he was putting them all in an unprecedented amount of danger by stepping on doflamingo's turf, the risk he wasn’t willing to put on his own crew that he sent away much earlier.

law definitely felt guilty over it.

at least for a little bit, when law watched luffy almost got his ass handed to him by doflamingo when law was helplessly restrained on the flower hill at the new king’s plateau and was making a fuss for the others to let him free despite his heavy injury until robin who could see through law’s intention and action had to say it: “luffy is here because of his own free will.”

after the deal at greenbit fell through and law found out doflamingo had been manipulating the press, he tried to break the alliance. threatened to kill luffy once luffy uncuffed him. but luffy just shut him up and lugged him all over the place like a sack of flour over his tiny shoulder and fought doflamingo till the end.

one could argue that luffy did that because rebecca asked him to, but revenge against doflamingo was also one of the things that occupied law’s the most since he lost cora-san. he just didn’t directly ask luffy to beat the shit out of doflamingo on his behalf. yet luffy did it anyway.

so back to the whole naruto vs luffy comparison at the beginning of this post? at least there’s one exception where luffy helped someone against his will and acted like a goddamn hero. and it is towards the damsel in distress that is trafalgar d water law.

#my gosh this rambling almost go off tangent because i cant round up my own thoughts #i feel so normal about them :)#i wanted to include manga screenshots to go with the rambling but it'll require me to go through the manga and i simply do not have the tim #i shouldnt even be here rambling about lawlu in the first place i have a garda vetting form to fill up and get packing bc im moving soon #am i putting lawlu up there against the great sasunaru? maybe #lol #lawlu #lulaw #trafalgar law #monkey d luffy #one piece #chromie writes #chrmz.txt

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delightfuldevin · 11 months

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It sucks how much people genuinely think that supporting something in a fictional context is the same as supporting that thing in real life :((

Like, do you people really truly believe that fictional characters are in any way equivalent to real life people? Do you understand how absolutely ridiculous that sounds?

“But they’re minors/siblings/victims/etc!” NO THEY’RE NOT. They are a figment of someone’s imagination that can have literally any traits you want them to cause fiction is something made to be manipulated for our viewing pleasure. That’s why AUs are a thing. That’s why headcanons are a thing. Cause fiction is meant to be manipulated for you to enjoy! You can’t have headcanons for a real life person. Because real people are not the same as fictional people. At least, I hope you don’t treat real people like they are fictional characters.

“But why would you want to ship [insert thing here]? It’s gross!” Okay, and? It isn’t hurting any actual real person, and it could even be helping someone who is using this to cope with their own trauma! And no, your personal discomfort is not a reason to completely delete content cause you can easily just block the tag/the creator and never see it. It is your responsibility to curate your own experience and if you are incapable of doing that, it is your responsibility to stay out of fandom spaces until you are mature enough to do so. It is not the responsibility of everyone else in the world to cater to your specific needs. You shouldn’t expect every single person to have the exact same needs as you and the exact same ways of coping with said needs.

“But groomers will use this thing to manipulate vulnerable people!” Indeed, that does happen. But it is not the fault of the person who made the content. It is always, and I mean always, the fault of the groomer themself. By saying “I was groomed by this content” you take away the responsibility of the actual groomer who did it. Don’t absolve them of their crime because of what they used for the crime. No matter what, it was always their fault and the responsibility of that is on their shoulders. Even if that content didn’t exist, they would’ve found some other way to groom you because that is simply who they chose to be and that is the unfortunate and sad truth.

It is completely okay to be uncomfortable with something! Grossed out even! Or something can be literally triggering for you. That is okay! And if someone doesn’t tag their content properly and it gets to you, you have every right to be mad about that! But that does not mean the person who made the content needs to delete what they made. You just have to block them so that you’ll never see their content again. You don’t even have to engage with them. That’s the beauty of the internet! We’re all strangers and once someone is blocked, it’s as if they never even existed! You’ll never meet them irl or be forced to interact with them. They are dead to you.

Also side note, but helpful information! When you block someone on Tumblr, their posts can still end up on your dash if someone else reblogs from them. Idk if Tumblr has changed this in the few years I’ve been gone, but a way around that is to add their blog name to your filtered content! That way, even if someone else reblogs from them, it’ll still be hidden from you :D

#i dont expect the target audience of this post to actually read it so its more just a vent for me #i just cant believe this is something that is so hard to grasp for some people #im not using any main tags for this because i reeeeeally want to stay out of discourse #i just really needed to say this #i dont even like most problematic ships #they are not appealing to me and some of them are even downright uncomfortable to me #but do i care if anyone else ships them? no i dont #because i have the power to simply not engage with the content and curate my own internet experiences #honestly the worst ship for me isnt even a problematic one but it makes me feel faaar worse than any problematic ship ever could #and yes i have the tag for it blocked #if i see a post that says it has my filtered content in it i simply scroll passed it #im also not a fan of dark/angsty topics even in ships i do like #so once again i avoid it like the plague #i dont care if other people enjoy that stuff. good for them! i hope theyre having fun/gen #i will simply stay in my lane and make sure i never have to see that stuff #king sad sack #<- thats my vent tag lol

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aita-blorbos · 21 days

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AITA for sacking a kingdom? Title sounds bad but I’m in the right. Someone’s making me post this. So here’s the story. My brothers (860-750M) and I (813M) have spent hundreds of years fighting to recover my father’s greatest works of craft, which were stolen by the evil tyrant (∞M) who killed my grandfather. My father and brothers and I all swore a mighty oath that we WILL recover my father’s masterpieces, and kill whoever tries to keep them from us. (The fact that we swore this oath is COMMON KNOWLEDGE. This will be relevant later.) It was also my father’s last wish, when he died in the fight against the evil tyrant, that my brothers and I keep our word and get his works back for our family. But unfortunately the evil tyrant is stupidly powerful, so despite all our best efforts we haven’t been able to get our family’s sacred heirlooms back from him. That brings me to my question. See, a few decades back a rival king sent this guy who was in love with his daughter to steal one of our heirlooms from the tyrant AND BRING IT BACK TO HIM, THE RIVAL KING. And the king’s daughter ran away and helped the guy, and they both somehow got incredibly lucky and succeeded. So this other king had one of our treasures, right? Which HE KNEW was ours by right, but he wasn’t about to give it back. And his kingdom was walled off with magic, so we couldn’t really do anything about it - though I wanted to figure out a way! But my oldest brother M said no, that this was the time to try for the other two, because if that guy and the princess could manage it then why not us? And M and another king got together this huge alliance to attack the evil tyrant, and it was an absolute disaster. Everybody died - well, not EVERYBODY, but you get what I mean. The other king died. Not the thief one, sadly - he didn’t even show up - I mean my brother M’s ally. The evil tyrant completely won, and me and my brothers had to go on the run from him, and M was a complete mess about the other king’s death. Anyway. So the thief king ignored ALL OF THIS and sat around in his magic kingdom while the evil tyrant’s armies rampaged across the continent. But then he got killed in this incredibly stupid way, getting in a fight with some dwarves over OUR HEIRLOOM, and the kingdom lost its protection because the thief king’s magic wife was too sad to do magic or something, I don’t know, anyway. The thief king’s grandson (36M) got the throne, and we wrote to him and told him he needed to give our heirloom back to us right away. And he writes back and TELLS US TO GET OUR OWN. FROM THE EVIL TYRANT. Y’know, the thing we TRIED TO DO AND EVERYBODY DIED? The thing HIS OWN GRANDFATHER decided not to help with because he didn’t like us personally, never mind THE FATE OF THE ACTUAL WORLD? So yeah, we marched on the idiot grandson and sacked his kingdom and killed him. Like our oath required of us. WHICH HE KNEW. And bla, bla, I died in the process - stabbed Idiot Grandson before I went, so that’s something - and now the guy in charge of dead people is making me ask you all if I was wrong. So AITA for killing a thief who knew what he was getting into?

#aita #am i the asshole #unreality

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thanksjro · 5 months

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Transformers Holiday Special (2015) — Wishing You and Yours a Delightfully Secular Wintertime, Containing Absolutely Zero References to the Birth of Christ

Despite what some might like to think, Christmas isn’t for everyone; even with all the commercialization, at its heart, it’s still about the Baby Jesus. You can tell that we haven’t shaken the Christian connection, because the cover for this special issue has the father, the son, and the holy spirit, which is hidden behind the company logo.

And if Rodimus doesn’t stop screwing around, his resurrection’s gonna have to happen a lot sooner than Easter.

Because this is a comic special, things are going to be a little different. Instead of one standard-size issue, we’re getting three mini-stories, each with their own writer (from each of the comic runs that were publishing at the time) and artist. Our stories are listed here:

Don’t worry about what Ultra Magnus is up to behind that text.

Now, you may ask, why on earth am I covering this issue, which is a specifically Christmassy one, now, when it’s not currently Christmas? Well, according to Roberts, the story “Silent Light” takes place after MTMTE #49, and #50 is when the crew manifest for the Lost Light gets shaved down some, so realistically, this is when “Silent Light” happens in continuity. So I want you to keep in mind that Getaway’s Christmas isn’t going so great.

I won’t be going back to catch up on the other runs’ plots, as the Christmas stories are stand-alone.

Getting into it, our first story is:

Penned by Mairghread Scott and drawn by Corin Howell. We open up on a cityscape featuring a happy sun and some eye-searing narration boxes.

I went to Howell’s Twitter to see what her deal was, and was greeted with a banner consisting of a sexy succubus lady with her boobies out, so I’m going to assume she simplified her style for this issue, since mecha are hella difficult to draw.

Also, I hope you like the structure of How The Grinch Stole Christmas!, because that’s what we’re getting for the next little while, complete with chunky, white text on painful-to-view red.

Our story opens with all the transformers from the colonies visiting Cybertron and making friends with each other. Everything is beautiful and nothing hurts, which pisses off President-King Starscream to no end. Being the drama queen that he is, Starscream feels that everyone should be paying attention to him 24/7 and feed him grapes as he reclines on a sofa, because hasn’t he done enough for all these sorry sacks of shit? He hasn’t even caused a war, unlike the last guy who was in charge. Bumblebee (who is a ghost) tells him to just be fucking nice for once in his miserable life, but Starscream wouldn’t be Starscream if he could settle down like that.

Our god-king of the planet calls for his aide, Rattrap, who is going to be in his alt mode for the entirety of this story, to help him set up for a public broadcast addressing his need for attention and adoration.

He sends Rattrap off to deliver the tape to the news, which seems to consist of two very sleep-deprived individuals. Because they’re apparently the only two robots stupid enough to attempt to cover the nightmare hellscape that is Cybertronian current events, the last bit of Starscream’s tape is cut off when one of them falls asleep on the switchboard. This turns Starscream’s personal worship holiday into “For the Love of God Be Nice to Each Other” Day. Everyone takes to it beautifully, getting BFF tattoos, going on vacation with their husbands, hugging in the straightest gay way possible, holding parades, giving each other bombs, and getting absolutely shitfaced.

Starscream, distraught that nobody is giving him the emperor treatment like he had wanted, sulks in his twin bed, then moves to his dinky little throne as the night wears on, making the most miserable faces he can the whole time. Eventually, Chosen One Day ends, and he’s been completely ignored. Very sad.

Then, there’s a knock on his door, and Starscream creeps over to the peephole just in time to be smashed flat by Wheeljack slamming the door open. Last time we saw Wheeljack he was assumed dead by most, and floating in a tank at Starscream’s behest. He’s gotten better since then, clearly.

Wheeljack came with friends— the entirety of the main cast for Windblade/Til All Are One, to be exact— and they’re here to make sure that Starscream isn’t completely alone on this friendship holiday he accidentally invented. Everyone toasts to his good, totally intentional idea, and Starscream decides against killing all of them for at least the next 24 hours.

Now pay attention to this next story, because it’s actually canon-relevant, because of course Roberts would write a holiday special mini-comic that ties into his overarching plot. Fucking nerd.

Our artist for “Silent Light” is Kotteri (or Kotteri!, as it’s been written on some of their other publications) the pen name for Ikumi Fukuda. Kotteri is primarily a manga artist, having created their own works and well as working on other projects. I admittedly can’t find much on this person, not even their preferred pronouns, TFWiki itself using “they”, which I will default to. All of the info they’ve provided themself is, of course, written in Japanese, but even running things through a translator only proves that information to be purely professional. Their personal Twitter is protected, and my follow request was never answered, as far as I know. There’s a fan Twitter account for their art that claims “she”, but I have no way to verify, and I don’t want to assume anything based on art style, because that’s sort of shitty. Let it never be said that I didn’t do my due diligence here— I fucking hate using Twitter.

We open with Rodimus having just returned from Meteorfest, a festival where you surf on meteors and avoid your co-captain and SIC’s calls like the putz you are. He’s greeted by said co-captain and SIC decorating assembling a Christmas tree cloaking machine and finishing each other’s sentences like an old married couple. Rodimus tries to deny the existence of Minimegs, then we get our heavy-handed and lampshaded explanation for the crux of the issue. Megatron handles Minimus like a baby doll as the two of them explain that the Lost Light is about to hit Mauler territory.

Maulers are notorious for wanting the Cybertronians dead, but Megatron is too much of a macho man to pussy out and go around them. So instead, the crew will be hiding in special sleeping pods that will mask their spark signatures, and pray to their pantheon of gods that no one notices the ship the size of Manhattan. Brainstorm has like fifteen new inventions, despite being on house arrest from his lab. Megatron’s autobot badge is wearing a hat. Merry fucking Christmas.

Over at Swerve’s, it would appear that everyone’s favorite television junkie is closed for business, as it’s just him, Nautica, and Whirl, sitting on the floor getting absolutely shit-faced on subspace-filtered engex. This might’ve been an issue, as folks are supposed to be bedding down in their B.E.D.s for the next leg of the trip, but Swerve slipped Magnus some Bing Crosby earlier so they’re cool right now.

There’s a banging at the door, and Whirl decides to answer, even though it’s not his bar, because if it’s trouble come a-knocking, it was probably looking for Whirl anyhow.

When Whirl answers, however, it’s not Magnus having caught wind of Nautica disrespecting the Autobot code, but an entirely different flavor of problem.

Now, I know that thing Whirl’s holding looks like a fucked up Hitachi Wand, but it is, in fact, an entire-ass baby robot. It seems that when Cerebros (Fortress Maximus’s friend, if you’ll recall) sent the engex through the subspace, this infant Cybertronian (Luna One-ian?) got mixed in with the other supplies.

We learn a bit about how baby Cybertronians work before we remember, oh right, this kid is gonna get everyone killed if they catch wind of her spark, since there isn’t a B.E.D. for her. Yes, it’s a girl! Congrats to our three idiots on their Cybertronian gender non-conforming little princess.

They gang decides to shunt her back through the subspace hatch, so they head over to where it’s currently being housed— the office of Ultra Magnus. Nautica, using her wits and all the tools in her arsenal, smashes the window to the office and they break in. The empty Magnus Armor sits in the dark like a grim monument to being married to your job. Whirl informs Nautica how to comfort the baby that he super for-sure doesn’t care about, handing her off while he uses his titty glass to replace the window in the door. Swerve tries to bite through iron chains holding the subspace hatch hostage, only to be stopped by the sound of justice coming down the hall.

The gang, of course, looks suspicious as hell standing stock straight immediately in front of Magnus’s office, but Minimus rather likes the change of pace out of these goofy morons, and is maybe also trying to deflect his embarrassment at being caught performing his own personal karaoke. He sends them off to their B.E.D.s, and it looks like all’s well that ends well until Whirl asks where Sparky is.

Yes, he named the baby.

Don’t worry though, he’s totally not attached or whatever.

Nautica, in her panic to not be caught stealing/vandalizing/using equipment she doesn’t have the clearance for, stuffed Sparky in the Magnus Armor. And also put the helmet portion back on the body, for some reason. Anyway, it looks like our little princess is gonna be a load-bearer when she grows up, because Magnus is up and looking for hugs. Nautica, a paragon of level-headed thinking in times of crisis, handles this in the best way she can.

And that’s a wrap on Minimus Ambus! Let’s give him a hand, folks! And let’s also give a hand to the new Ultra Magnus, Miss Sparky Whirldòttir! Where did that little scamp get to, anyhow?

Swerve nominates himself to be the one to drag Minimus to a B.E.D. to sleep off his concussion, leaving Whirl and Nautica to track down the baby.

The scene changes to Megatron announcing a last call for beddy-bye time on the intercom, just as Ultra Sparky enters the room. She looms over Megatron, putting him in a very compromising position as he hits the intercom button with his arm. Rodimus, climbing into his own B.E.D., wishes that his co-captain and SIC would stop being gay for, like, five minutes, or at least wouldn’t do it where it can be broadcasted throughout the whole ship in audio format.

Whirl and Nautica come save Megatron from the onslaught of physical affection, stating that “Magnus” has had a bit too much to drink. Megatron orders them to bed from his fetal position on the countertop.

It’s bedtime, but we still haven’t figured out how to get the kid back to Luna 1 so the Maulers don’t super-murder the whole crew. Nautica leaves Whirl to figure it out, getting into B.E.D. and wondering who the fuck knocked on the door in the first place. Whirl tells her not to worry about it and to go to sleep, so he can be the one to deal with this mess.

Whirl, notorious for doing all the nastiest jobs— former Wrecker, intended bullet sponge for the time travel situation, attempting suicide via Megatron— is going to add another tally to the list labeled “Reasons My Peers Don’t Really Like Me All That Much”, by throwing an entire baby out the air lock.

However, Whirl is being written by Roberts, who would never allow the number of robot babies to go down, so Sparky’s adorable assimilation of Whirl’s signature physical features gets him right in the soft underbelly he swears doesn’t exist.

Wow, Roberts put a baby in that robot. Surely this is as overt as we’re going to get with this imagery, since we’re in a major publication and not some fan-fiction!

ANYWAY

Whirl wakes up in the Medibay, emptied of infant and freaked the hell out about it. Velocity— who I will remind you is basically the only medical doctor on the Lost Light, since everyone else is too busy getting railed by weeaboos and joining unethical polycules to do their actual jobs—informs him that his daughter is, in actuality, a massive colony of scraplets that combined to look like a newborn.

It turns out that Nautica is a bit of a snitch, having spilled the beans after she woke up. Whether or not she thought Whirl had thrown the baby out the air lock isn’t really addressed, but thank god he didn’t, because then we would have had to send everyone’s favorite gun-addled dipshit to jail for the rest of forever. Checking security footage revealed who the mystery knocker was— it was the scraplets, forming the shape of an arm.

When Nautica asks how the hell they all survived this, seeing as Whirl kept the murder baby, Whirl informs her that he cut off power to his own spark to allow everyone else to live, including his sweet baby princess, winning him a #1 Dad mug, and also several emails from Rung to please make an appointment with him.

Whirl’s miracle Christmas baby lied and stole with the intent to murder everyone on board, and that makes her the ultimate daddy’s girl.

I hope you’ve all enjoyed this canon-important holiday special story about Whirl becoming a father.

In our third and final story, it appears we’ve been transported to Whoville, by the talent of our MTMTE Season 1 colorist, Josh Burcham. Within Whoville resides Anna Log, a human woman who owns two turbofoxes and sleeps in full military body armor on her couch. The wall in her living room suddenly explodes, revealing a late-night visitor.

Motherfucker, you are supposed to be on the ship right now.

Mega-Claus fusion-cannons Anna Log, and we cut to a film noir office where none other than Thundercracker has his feet up on the desk. The art grayscales for this section, as he narrates that he’s a detective. He’s wearing a fedora. It’s January 7th. He has a mysterious past and probably thinks that makes him very sexy.

The phone rings, cueing Buster, Thundercracker’s puggle, to put on her own fedora, and the two go to see the crime scene, where Thundercracker is the same size as a normal human man and wears a trench coat.

It turns out that Anna Log is the director of security for the entirety of planet Earth, which is sort of a big deal. When Thundercracker and the cops look at the security footage, they see who did it— Santa Claus, played by Megatron himself. Fucked up.

Sure, pal.

Thundercracker must now fly to the North Pole and kill Santa, because that’s how the law works. He transforms, flies by Club Penguin and a Coke commercial, reflects on his job, and then gets ready for a fight with Santa’s security measures, as Busters glowing nose warns him of incoming danger. She’s very talented, Buster.

Thundercracker makes quick work of the cybernetic security reindeer with his twin energy katanas and Buster’s jetpack. He kicks down Santa’s door to find the jolly elf himself standing in the dark, potentially rabid. The two start kung-fu beating the shit out of each other. It should be noted that this Santa isn’t the Megatron Santa, who shows up behind the two as they brawl, but rather original-flavor fat man Santa. How Thundercracker didn’t notice this isn’t addressed.

Thundercracker demands to know why Megatron dressed up as Santa Claus to commit a murder— the murder part made sense, Director Log and Megatron would be diametrically opposed— and Megatron reveals the greatest slight against himself he’s ever known.

Framing Santa for murder ain’t exactly gonna turn that coal into a diamond, Meggy baby.

Thundercracker clocks Megatron, he becomes besties with Santa Claus, and they ride a flying tank into the sunset. Thus ends Thundercracker’s most brilliant writing project yet, which he was reading to Marissa Faireborn this entire time.

Marissa isn’t terribly impressed, poking holes in all the little nonsense bits, while also not feeling thrilled about having been killed off in the first two pages of Thundercracker’s book. While the two argue, Buster and Ayana Jones make a Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown! reference together, and the issue closes out with a big ol’ Autobot symbol, even though Thundercracker was a Decepticon, Ayana and Marissa are humans, and Buster is a goddamned dog.

Thus ends the Holiday Special. Up next, more direct story progression!

#transformers #MTMTE #holiday special #jro punches me in the face #maccadam #Hannzreads #text post #long post #comic script writing

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bandulin · 9 months

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I love the idea of Daemon x Alicent

Imagine this...

Alicent and Daemon get engaged in an attempt to settle the feud between Otto and Daemon. Viserys marries Laena instead. (Rhaenyra still marries Laenor and still has bastards with Ser Harwin. The Velaryons will try to get Laena's firstborn son on the throne instead of Rheanyra. Thus Team Blue is born. )

Otto keeps his position as hand (because Viserys is not falling over himself to get Rhaenyra to forgive him for marrying his best friend). In his eyes it's all the better because this way his daughter won't be corrupted by his brother anymore, so she can complain all she likes his mind is made up.

Because of this, the newlyweds stay in King's Landing, and as a boot this way Viserys and Otto can keep an eye on them, Alicent is not so isolated this time.

Daemon can't hurt Alicent physically at all and the one time he humiliates her in public (by calling her his green broodmare) Viserys tells him that one more stunt like this and their kids will get the Hightower name. (Otto was also seen leaving a conversation with Daemon but there were no witnesses in the room. No one is sure what Otto threatened him with but Daemon was visibly shaken after it. (He will deny it 'till his dying breath that he was ever afraid of Otto but the truth stands))

The point is that he can't hurt Alicent in an overt way, so he keeps needling her to cause enough distress for her to find a way out of the marriage. He is sure that if she bats her eyelashes and asks nicely enough, Viserys will annul the marriage. (He could never resist a pretty face after all)

At first Alicent is walking on eggshells afraid of his husband. She is still young and Daemon's insults cut deep, making her insecurities so much worse. She still refuses to ask for an annulment though because of her faith. Duty is more important than her feelings after all.

They have to lay together every week to make heirs, but it's a very miserable experience for both of them. Daemon can't help noticing how beautiful Alicent is, and he hates it.

Otto encourages Alicent to 'kill him with kindness' so she starts to be super nice to Daemon. Trying to have bonding time, showing interest in Daemons hobbies (mostly dragons and swords, but after about a month she finds out that he has a love for theatre (the dramatic cunt) and she is gleefully dragging him to their favourite plays) . She even let's him take her for a fly on Caraxes. (Daemon ofc knows she is afraid of it that's why he offers (as the sad excuse for a semen sack that he is)) She is trembling the whole time and she clutches Daemon so tight it leaves bruises, but afterwards Daemon respects her a lot more so it's worth it.

She even tries to resolve the past conflicts between them. She opens up about why he disliked Daemon (she refuses to use the word 'hate' even if it would be an adequate expression) and Daemon seems to be understanding and even apologetic about it. Ofc she doesn't get an actual apology but the next day there is a beautiful hightower green dress in her room with a necklace with the symbol of the seven incorporated in it. It's everything Daemon claims to hate and Alicent is so moved she cries.

Daemon is softer a bit but still not trying to make an effort to make the marriage work. So after her mooncycle is late, and a master affirms her that she is pregnant, she gives up and adapts the tactic of not bothering his husband at all if it's not necessary. She is still kind and polite when they are together but she doesn't make the effort anymore.

And Daemon... Misses her. He is too proud to reach out to her, but he can't stop himself from thinking about her every day. He keeps an ear on court gossips and tries to watch her from a distance, and he swears if Ser Criston touches her shoulder one more time he will break something. (all the while Alicent and Criston bond over their thoughts on duty and their shared ideas on cleaning up Flea Bottom. Alicent thinks the white cloaks could close the child fighting rings, while Criston believes the prostitutes wouldn't feel safe asking the guards for help even if they needed it. They also share cherry tarts sometimes as a treat)

Since getting married Alicent slowly but surely starts to get more confident in herself. Laena reaches out to her and they become fast friends. They bond over complaining about their husbands (in a polite way), and they find out they have a lot in common. They take a stroll in the gardens almost daily, and it's as much sweet as it aches for Alicent to have this friendship with someone other than Rhaenyra. But Rhaenyra is not here and even if she was Alicent is not sure they would get along again.

Alicent tries to help the common folk whenever she can, and she is loved by them in return. Otto notices (with glee) that Alicent has an affinity for politics and tries to cultivate it. He asks her opinion on resolving court matters and after a while it turns out that Alicent can be ruthless and cunning and in the end she still always comes out smelling like roses. Daemon sees this from afar and for the first time he thinks he is in love.

Parenthood brings them even closer together. Their love for their child turns out to be a wonderful base for their relationship. Daemon for the first time actually tries to woo Alicent. He is rusty but it's the effort that counts. He tells her his favourite tales of Valeria and in turn she shares the sauciest parts of Hightower history.

Aegon is a delight to them both, and spending time with him is the highlight of their day. He loves flying on Caraxes especially if his mother is with them as well, so Alicent has to get used to flying on the Blood Wyrm every second Tuesday. (She brings him a fat goat beforehand every time. They have an understanding.)

Daemon and Otto declare truce after Alicent, pregnant with Helaena, yells at them so hard they are afraid she will go into labour. (They have to make peace with each other or so help her...) Daemon tells her he loves her the very next day.

The dance still happens. Alicent leans towards team blue because of her friendship with Laena and because of the morals of the faith. Daemon still holds fond memories of Rhaenyra and wishes to fight next to her. They can't agree on it at all.

The decision is made when Helaena approaches them with the declaration that she wishes to marry the first son of Laena. Daemon would let it happen for the political opportunity alone but for Alicent the thing that settles it is the tangible love between the two of them. With love like that she would let her marry him even if he was a street urchin.

The path behind them was long and hard and in front of them it will be bloody too but at least they have each other to lean on.

#I don't care if it's OOC #Let me have my fun #Alicent is manipulative but with a gentleness #Daemon grows to love his non-valerian wife against his wishes #house of the dragon #team green #alicent hightower #daemon targaryen #otto hightower #pro otto hightower #criston cole #laena valeryon #alicent x daemon #daemon x alicent #alicent hightower x daemon targaryen

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