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barbieaemond · 2 months

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The King of Qarth I

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Qartheen f!reader (use of third perspective)

Warnings: angst, dubcon (but not really), handjob, fingering, p in v, hints at sexual trauma, self indulgent use of sorcery

Word count: 11k (i know...i'm sorry...)

Author’s note: The foreign words you’ll find are stolen from Greek. Second and final part coming in two weeks. English is not my first language.

taglist: @zae5 @multyfangirl @arcielee @succnfuccubus @zaldritzosrose @kckt88 @venmondiese @miraclealignertlsp369 @ilikechocolatemilkh @credulouskhaleesi @bunbunbl0gs

He had taken each one of them. Dragons, power, the Crown. Snatched them from whatever divine plan the Gods had concocted, for others, never for him, and perhaps this was their punishment.

Death would’ve been a far too kind blessing, he would come to realise in one of those endless days spent wandering, roaming to find some meal, a softer clod to lie on, an identity.

Prince, Protector of the Realm, Rider of Vhagar, Blood of Old Valyria.

They were nothing more than shrouds. Once stripped of them, what was left was merely a man.

And a son. That’s what his mother saw when they threw him on the ground of the Throne Room.

Crawling on her knees like some commoner, she begged and sobbed until her voice became raw and her throat hoarse, chanting obsessively the same plea over and over like a mad woman.

"Please...have mercy in the name of the Mother… my only son...” she had bent so much as to graze the toe of Corlys Velaryon's boots with her face. “you took them all...you took them all...”

Whether she was talking to the Sea Snake, Rhaenyra, the Gods or fate, Aemond didn’t know. He didn’t know the woman kneeling before him, if he ever truly knew her. You cannot know ghosts, only walk through them.

He could not look at her. He turned his head and watched over that crowd of traitors looking down on him, as if they themselves had not looted, slaughtered, and burned more innocent than guilty.

Trained puppets they were, obeying like green little soldiers to Cregan Stark, a northern savage who had taken upon himself the right and duty to do justice. Corlys Velaryon knew it well, having spent days and nights in the dungeons as an accomplice in the poisoning of Aegon the Elder. And there they were, taking over the reins of a kingdom shattered and embittered by war.

But with the promise of Alysanne Blackwood’s hand in marriage, the Wolf had been tamed. He had stopped howling about trials and executions. Now, caution moved and bogged down their decisions. But one thing was clear as a law written in stone: there had to be peace, no matter the cost. Hence, a marriage had been arranged, between two children who, for no reason, had been taught to see the other as the enemy, whose eyes had seen too much death; orphaned and thrown like marbles into a game that brought neither smiles nor laughter to their sepulchral mouths.

She was looking at him, Jaehaera, and in her empty eyes Aemond could see Helaena climbing up the windowsill and letting herself fall.

“What happened to Vhagar?” The Sea Snake asked “Kinslayer! What about your dragon?”

"Dead.” He lied, although he didn’t know for how long that lie would remain so. That rope in his heart had loosened, weakened, but it still held. She must have crawled off to some remote place, perhaps beyond the Neck, to recover from the injuries to her neck and right wing.

Then the Sea Snake had turned his back, consulting with his council of leeches. Exile. He heard them say. Essos. And then that word he hadn’t heard for a long time. Dragonless. A kinder word for useless. Powerless.

“Let him go, Corlys. He’s always been a spoiled brat. He won’t survive for long in those savage lands.” Someone said outside the cell they threw him in, shackled with chains on wrists and ankles like some rabid dog.

He won’t survive for long.

How he wished they were right. How he wished to look into the beady eyes of the Stranger.

Alicent would curse him, perhaps she would slap him as she used to slap Aegon for being so blasphemous, not to the Gods, but to her. Aemond was no father, and no matter how much he could try, he’d never understood the fierce, unforgiving grip motherhood had on a woman.

When he saw her for the last time before being thrown on a ship to Braavos, he realized it was the only tether that kept her alive. Him and Jaehaera.

“Just a little longer, please…just a little…” she pleaded to his jailers. With the arranged marriage, cruelties had softened, and concessions became more frequent. The Dowager Queen was granted to see her son for the last time.

“Mother!” he screamed as they dragged him away “Keep your fucking hands off me!”

He needed to speak to her. He needed her to tell him she was lying.

“Mother, there’s a woman…”

“The Strong witch? Aemond, she’s…They captured our last allies from the Reach and…they said they found a woman in the woods but…she was in pain…and bleeding….”

The Gods’ punishment flowed through the long-cowled robe of the Stranger. And he took them all.

Aegon, Helaena, Daeron. Alys and the baby.

Alicent could not bear to see the last piece of her flesh and bones being cloaked by the cold shroud of the Stranger. And so, she crawled and begged to preserve his existence.

But that, that was no existence.

It was a limbo, a hanging life for the damned. And he was one, wasn't he? He killed kin, he killed innocent men, women and children, coming from above like a heaven banished God unleashing his wrath on the world. And even gods pay for their sins.

Only he would gladly have stuck his head in a noose or waited for the hangman's blade, a death worthy of a soldier, rather than wandering like a derelict, rootless and restless, with that rope pulling and fraying day after day. Or Weeks? Moons? He had no idea how much time had passed since he’d set foot in that limbo.

He seemed to be living in a slumber, a Milk of the Poppy hallucination. And yet, the ground was real beneath his exhausted feet, as was the heat, and at some point, the hunger.

The leeches had tried to appear civil and compassionate, lying to his mother’s face about the gold they would give him, to sustain himself once reached the East. But naturally, they didn’t keep their word. If he died of starvation, he was sure they would have lit a candle to each God in the Grand Sept. They probably prayed for that to happen.

Or maybe not. Maybe there was no greater gratification and source of amusement to know that the haughty Prince Aemond was tasting the everyday humiliation of having to steal in order not to starve, of not having clean clothes, feather pillows to lie on, the disgrace of not being able to give orders to anyone, but rather having to suffer them.

He stayed in Bravoos for a short time. It was too dangerous, too close to Westeros and too wary if anyone ever caught the color of his hair under the cloak’s hood. He remembered his history books quite well. It was the only one among the Free Cities that did not yield to the Valyrian empire; indeed, it was founded by a group of rebellious slaves fled from the tyranny of the Dragon Lords.

Volantis, on the contrary, worshipped the Old Empire. But in equal measure, they worshipped slavery. The city swarmed with mercenaries and slavers, peddling men and women like meat for slaughter, ready at every corner to steal children from the streets. And in Volantis Aemond understood that if he did not want to end up in some butcher’s hands, he had to be what he had always been: a soldier. For he realized that everywhere in the world, the most valuable currency was not gold, nor castles and titles, but blood.

This man for new fresh clothes, that woman for few gold coins and a mattress to rest his back, not to sleep. Sleep eluded him, as well as remorse. Unless his body shut his mind out of exhaustion, he lied there for hours on end, with blood drying on his hands, listening to all the ghosts floating around him, and trying to find a grip—something to hold on to. Duty had been the blacksmith who forged him and the altar to which he devoted himself. Duty to his family, his brother, the crown, the throne, even Alys, yes. For all her riddles and stumps of prophecy, he wanted her. He wanted that son.

But here, he had no high purpose to serve but himself. Stripped of all honors and many more curses, he fell into a daylong stupor, made of blood, humiliations and silent cries for revenge.

Until one day, the rope went taut.

Vhagar burned away the stupor. She had found him. For the second time, she had been his salvation. And on her back, he found a fragment of who he was, but who he was supposed to be remained a distant thing, clouded in smoke.

He flew south, over the ruins of Old Valyria, and then east, crossing all of Vaes Dothrak to the Red Waste, and by the time he realized he should've veered north or south, it was too late.

He was in the middle of the widest and driest desert on the eastern continent.

The Garden of Bones, as they called it, and with good reason. For in those few times that Aemond decided to land to allow Vhagar to rest, all his eye could see were sand, devilgrass and bones. But he didn’t care about the thirst, the dry and cracked lips, the white tow his hair had become.

Vhagar was his only concern. She was starving. She could not fly too high in the skies. And so, along with all the misery and humiliation, came the dread. For if Vhagar died, the last rope, the last tether, which had perhaps kept him alive up to that point, and perhaps kept her alive, would break.

But then, just as it happens in some book of adventures, or simply in dreams, a mirage, a true oasis in the middle of the desert, surrounded by the highest walls ever built in the history of men, guarding the greatest city that ever was and will be: Qarth.

“Hmm” she ponders, pursing her lips. “I’m not sure about this one. What do you think, Nyla?”

The young maid stops her morning chore and blushes. “I think it would match your skin wonderfully, your Highness.”

She hears giggling behind her shoulders, where two of her most trusted maids are braiding her hair after oiling them with mirrh and cinnamon. “You hear that, Nyla? They’re questioning your candor.”

“I am not, your Highness.” says Dora, one of the giggling girls. “But if you were looking for a less partial opinion, let’s say a more objective one...you should have asked me or Mysha.”

“Well, as it happens, I was looking precisely for a partial opinion. Look at her. She’s changing my chamber pot and still, she thinks that shade of purple would suit me wonderfully. Oh Nyla, I think you will soon become my favorite.”

“Is that a yes then, your Highness?” the merchant wastes no time to ask, standing in the center of the room with silk drapes of several colors resting along his arm.

“Yes, Jorio. Two yards of that purple silk.”

The merchant nods swiftly, too swiftly she notices. The man is acting awkwardly since the moment he stepped into her private rooms. Usually, he’s a big talker, a true born seller. He could make believe one could heal from Greyscale if they just wrap themselves in the soft embrace of his silks. But not today. He seems in a hurry. The exhibition of his goods too quick and excited. And then the sweat, lumped in a wet sheen around his bald head.

“Anything else, your Highness?”

Her forehead creases, acknowledging a thought, new but not quite, as if it has always been there. “Perhaps something green?” she ventures.

“Green?” inquires Misha “That’s a first.”

She shakes her head in a dismissing way. “Must be my father’s sorcery.”

The shadows, kóri, they speak to you.

“What do you have in green, Jorio?”

The merchant fumbles with his silks, a turmoil moves his hands clumsily until a few drapes of fabric flutter on the ground. He stoops to pick them up, only to drop the others still clinging onto his shoulder in a chaotic rainbow of colors on the white marble floor.

“Jorio, what is the matter with you today?”

“I—Nothing, your Highness, my apologies...”

“You know if you have problems with your trades, the Salt King and I would be more than happy to help you.”

“It’s not that—no. Must be all the fuss in town.”

“Pirates again?”

“Uhm—no, it’s the…beast outside the walls.”

“The beast? What beast?”

The man swallows, visibly. “A dragon, your Highness. A huge dragon, higher than the city walls.”

“But…that is not possible...” Misha tries.

“I’m telling what I saw with my own eyes. The Thirteen gathered outside the walls. I saw the Spice King along my way here. He said they were about to parley with the Milk man, see through his reasons.”

"Milk Men don’t ride dragons.” she corrects, standing from the soft cushions piled and spread on the ground. “This man’s hair…what color are they?”

“White as midday sun.”

"Your Highness! Come..."

The Salt Queen joins Dora on one of the brightly sunlit balconies overlooking the Route of Trade. There is indeed a great bustle in the town, a motionless bustle however, gazing with open mouths and bewildered eyes at the small procession moving up the street. The City Guard is leading, with their shields and spears to protect The Thirteen, rulers of the most important trading city in the world. They are all dressed in bright colours and precious jewels embroidered in their silk tunics, hanging from their necks, wrists and fingers.

If she narrows her eyes, The Salt Queen can swear she can see the gold ring her husband wears on his nose. What catches her eye though, is not gold or any other bright color, but black, and then white.

There is a man walking down the street with the thirteen, a tall man with plain dark clothes and a mantle of silver hair, white as midday sun.

“Wife, may I introduce you to our noble guest?”

A woman comes forward to greet him when Aemond enters a lavish hall with several windows adorned with colorful drapes of silk. He is sure he has never seen so much marble in his life, feeling even more inappropriate given the state of his clothes and his whole demeanor, shamefully far from the clean, soldierly appearance that left mouth agape.

“Prince Aemond of House Targaryen, from Westeros.” The Salt King declares as the woman stops just before him. He stands tall and imposing, no matter the misery of his shabby clothes, the state of his disheveled hair falling in silver tangles down his back. He is still a Targaryen, his chin is high and proud.

“More like from the Old Valyria.” She says raising an eyebrow, and sizing him up and down. “He seems to have just emerged from the Doom, miraculously unscathed.”

The Prince does nothing but seethe his teeth behind his dry lips, a distant shame in his eye that quickly turns into a focused and unblinking rage.

“Welcome to Qarth, my Prince. I’d trust your journey was uneventful but…I can see the Red Waste takes its toll, even on Valyrian beauty.”

Aemond takes a good, long look at her, inevitably lingering on her chest, dressed as the common Qartheen fashion dictates: one breast exposed. But a lot more of her is exposed. Her shoulders, her arms and legs, a glimpse of her hips, all crossed by swirling bundles of lilac silk.

If any married woman in Westeros dressed like that in the open, he’s sure any husband would lock her up. At least he would.

“You must excuse my wife, Prince Aemond, or rather, get used to her habit of speaking her mind.”

“Come now, Xavos. Surely Westerosi women can voice their thoughts?” she moves, walking past Aemond and her husband to reach a small table inlaid with gold to pour some greenish beverage into a cup. “I had a maid once, she was from…Rich Garden?”

“High Garden.” He sternly corrects her.

“Ah, yes. A delightful creature, always smelled so good.” She says distractedly “Anyway, she fled from your lands because she liked girls and not boys and she didn’t want to devote her life to being a brood mare sucking a flaccid cock until her hair had gone white.”

Her maids snicker somewhere past Aemond shoulders, stiffening his posture at the liberties those commoners are granted. “I should hope you Westerners listen to your women more than you do your horses.”

Aemond watches as she takes a sip and laces his hands behind, slightly tilting his head for a moment. “Where I come from, women do not possess such a sharp tongue. Furthermore, and fortunately, most of them have manners. They know how to address a Prince of the Realm.”

She turns to leave the cup on the same table and glances at Nyla. “Oh, he bites.”

“This is not Westeros, dragon prince.” She says turning to face him with a righteous smile “I don’t need to ask your permission to speak. The Salt King is my husband, that is why you will hear my maids and everyone else address me as Your Highness. So, you may lower that chin and stop waiting for me to bow down to you because technically my rank is higher than yours. You might say the only one meant to bow in this room were you.”

The silence that follows is so stark that the air the Prince quickly exhales through his nose sounds like thunder, alerting the Salt King. "Come now, wife. Don't wake the beast.” he says lightly, stiffening a smile “And I mean it quite literally. You should see the size of Prince Aemond’s dragon.”

“I heard.” she acknowledges “Jorio said he’s higher than the city walls.”

“She. And twice, than your city walls.” The Prince corrects her again, just as sternly. “She’s the largest dragon alive in the known world.” His chin remains high and haughty, simply because he can. Because she knows he could raze the entire city to the ground just by snapping his fingers. So, she looks down and says “Since you will be our guest, it is my duty as matron of this house to make you feel welcomed. If you would be so kind to follow me, your Grace.” She forces her tone to be as much as corteous, but then she smiles “Is my tongue acceptably sharp to your liking now?”

“Where are you taking me?” he asks as he follows the Salt Queen along one of the corridors, made of the finest marble with high arches of white stone and gold glittering under the midday sun.

“Down and down, to throw you in the dungeons.”

Aemond stalls for a moment and she does the same. “I was joking.”

He gives her that stern, distrustful look she starts to think he has etched on his features since his first wail and huffs. “God, have you lost your humor in the Red Waste?”

She resumes her walking, and Aemond follows, glancing around as they pass through many people, some of them are dressed like maids and servants, some others with long tunics of silk and jewels embroidered in the fabric. They speak to one another, he notices, as equals. But they stop altogether upon seeing a living Valyrian walk among them.

“God?” he asks “Which one?”

“Whichever you want. R'hollor, the Many Faced…I’m not picky. It helps me sleep better at night to know I didn’t dump all my sins on one God only.”

He is sure from his education and his mother’s faith that religion doesn’t work that way, but he has more pressing matters at heart. “Will you meet my requests?”

“About your dragon?” she asks stopping before a large wooden door closed. “Can’t she hunt on her own?”

“In the Red Waste? In these barren lands? Perhaps you should put your pretty head outside the city walls and see with your own eyes how big she is.”

The woman smirks, seizing him up and down and furrows her brows. “You seem very keen on emphasizing how big your dragon is. I should hope it’s not a compensating factor for the lack of something else.”

She pushes the door open, not bothering to wait for Aemond who just stands there for a moment, a little dumbfounded by the salt of which the Queen's tongue seems to be made. His bewilderment is only destined to worsen as he crosses the threshold and looks around.

Right in the middle of the palace, amidst all that marble and white stone, stands a wild courtyard, wild and beautiful in its unspoiled nature. Climbing plants and fruit trees grow undisturbed around a large square pool, decorated with mosaics of a thousand colors, harboring the most crystal-clear water he has ever seen; small clouds of steam rise from the surface, pinching his nostrils with the unmistakable smell of sulfur.

There are people bathing together and, obviously, much to his dismay, naked.

“Do you not take baths in Westeros?” the Salt Queen asks, faking true curiosity at the puzzlement she can read on his face, slowly turning into repugnance as he looks at her with a cutting answer.

“We have decency, in Westeros.”

She does not bother to disguise the long sigh blowing through her lips and then she turns to clap her hands vigorously, three times.

“My friends, apologies for the interruption!” she announces as everyone in the pool and outside turns to look at her “I must ask you to leave the pool for the time being. Our…prude guest demands a little bit of privacy.”

She can feel the Prince glaring but ignores him altogether to stop one of the servants.

“Priya, fetch some oils. And some silks, fitting for a prince.” She turns her head to look at him from head to toe, as if valuing a new drape of silk or a new sculpture to put in the Hall of Trade, but then she creases her forehead, as she often does when knowing. “Blue perhaps? To match the sapphire.”

The constant scowl seems to leave his features and she hears his question before he utters a single word.

“My father is a warlock. Magic runs thick in his blood, he says, as well as in the blood of his blood. Sometimes I sense things, bits of knowledge, and sometimes they happen to be right. But you don’t need to be afra—”

“I’m not afraid of sorcery.” He cuts her, his tone flat, his features stoic as ever and she looks at him, curiously, perhaps wondering what lies behind all that stone.

“Very well. Sapphire blue for Prince Aemond.” his name slips into his ears in a strange, liquorous way; vowels are more open in this part of the world.

When they’re left alone, she signals towards the pool. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

He hesitates for a moment, but it is not as if he has never undressed in front of one of his old servants. And frankly, he is too eager to get those filthy clothes off to be bothered by a foreign woman watching.

He throws everything on the ground without too much care, and she watches without too much shame, because that's not how things go there. Bodies, both male and female, they are not something to hide, but something to be displayed and worshipped.

Her eyes linger on scars, old and new, on a lithe body that once belonged to a prince and a soldier, now marked by misery, dirt and hunger.

“Everything.” she says at one point, when he’s left with only his battered cotton pants on.

Aemond thinks he heard wrong. But she only blinks, keeping her face blank.

“Is this the common way to welcome guests here?” he scorns.

“Actually, it is. At least after the incident with the scorpion.” she doesn’t bother to wait for a question or an eyebrow rising. “My husband’s great grandfather hosted a merchant from Yunkai once. He came here with gifts of all sorts among which was a poisonous scorpion, hidden in his clothes. The old Salt King died but so did the merchant. Fell face down in his chamber pot while taking a piss. Quite ironic, don’t you think? You have to be careful when handling such vicious creatures.”

He only looks at her, and she's the one to raise an eyebrow. “I could turn away if you like.”

Aemond sighs loudly, moving his cutting jaw at the umpteenth humiliation and then lowers his pants. She stares into his eye and surely, surely he thinks, she wouldn’t dare to wander down.

But a moment later her eyes sink past his snatched waist, and she smirks.

“I believe I owe you an apology.”

“What for?”

“Questioning your…natural gifts.”

Aemond blinks, running on the verge between scowling, raising his eyebrows and huffing a laugh. Certainly, it never happened to him to talk so bluntly about his cock with any highborn lady barely met, let alone a supposed queen.

“I’ll leave you to your bath, dragon prince. The Salt King and I have much to discuss.”

“Such as?” he deadpans, not really interested while he dives into the clean water.

“Well, a Targaryen Prince is not an everyday occurrence.” She says following his every move, the way water glides on his skin, silver hair floating on the surface like moonblooms. “We’ll make sure to have a feast worthy of your noble taste this evening.”

“And then talk behind my back about what to do with me?”

“Undoubtedly. And I will tell him the truth.”

“Hmm.” He hums, settling on one of the underwater steps of the pool, resting his shoulders against the rim. His mood instantly improves, so he pins her with his eye and looks her up and down. “Do you believe to know my reasons? You’re quite sure of yourself…your Highness. Unless your father’s sorcery allows you to read minds, I dare say even rather pretentious.”

“I don’t need sorcery to know that you, in the first place, do not know what you’re doing here.”

“And what makes you so sure?”

She sees that chin tilting, lifting with a hint of challenge. And she takes it. She has the truth, and indeed, she doesn’t need sorcery.

“Because Qarth is still standing.”

She gets no answer, just that diffident stern look to which she darts the faintest of smirks and then leaves the pool, under his watchful eye that stays on the door for a moment longer, before he lets his head sink underwater.

The Salt Queen gives instructions for the most sumptuous room to be given to Prince Aemond. She sees to it that he is provided with several silk suits and that food is served to him immediately when he has finished bathing. She has observed his body with pleased eyes, so scrupulously she knows the Prince has not had a decent meal in weeks.

“Did he settle?” Xavos asks when she enters his private room.

“In time, I’m sure he will. Valyrians have an impressive disposition to make their own what does not belong to them, do they not?”

She hears him murmur something in return from where he stands, on the balcony threshold that overlooks the city and its massive port. The Queen sits on a soft armchair and starts to twirl her hair around one finger, curling her mouth into a thoughtful pout. “I was thinking goose for dinner. Or salt beef? We should save goats and pigs for the beast. Apparently, poor thing is starving.”

In the silence that follows, she turns to her husband. “Xavos?”

The Salt King turns with one shoulder and a half-bitter smile. “We have a living threat who could burn us all to the crisp walking within our palace and our city, and you speak to me of geese and pigs?”

“It’s useless to cry over spilled milk. You let him in. You let greed lure you all like a piper with a flute. I’m wondering, on which tune did he make you dance?”

He walks to her with slow feet and looks at her after a long sigh. “Dragon eggs.”

“I should’ve known.”

“Cyril began talking of an opportunity of a lifetime. Of the Greatest City that ever was and will be becoming even greater. Think about it. With dragons…Qarth might become the center of the whole world. A newborn Valyria. If we play our hand right—”

“Quit the fancy words. What exactly are you asking of me, Xavos?”

She knows he is asking for something. She has known him for more than ten years, and he has asked, has demanded, a lot of her. She knows that when his voice drops a note, he wants something, as if whispered, it becomes less degrading.

He trails his index finger on her chin and lifts it. “To make him dance to your tune.”

“You overestimate me, husband. I cannot reason with a tiger when my head is in its mouth. Besides, he might be easy on the eye, but he’s as agreeable as a plant of spikes.”

She speaks smoothly—not a flinch or a blink at her husband's hand sinking between her lilac’s folds, and then between her inner ones. “Since when you are so reluctant about who’s allowed in your bed?”

“Don’t confuse me with yourself.” she says lifting her chin to look at him, unbothered by the circling his finger draws on her dry bundle. “I fuck who I want for pleasure, rarely out of boredom, but never to prove a point.”

Abruptly, he slips his finger deep inside, hurting her. “I should have taken your tongue as well.”

“And still…” she forces a smile over the painful grimace twisting her mouth “it would not have given you what you so desperately seek in every hole.”

His unwanted touch leaves her and he straightens, pacing lazily behind her seat. “He’s young. He’s had a rough time. Surely, he must’ve missed the intimate company of a woman.”

“For that kind of company, there are pleasure houses.”

“Don’t play dumb, now. You saw how proud he is. How do you think he will take it if we send a whore to his rooms?” Xavos grips the back of the chair and leans down slowly, speaking to her ear. “Listen to me. Cyril is right. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. We must make him feel…important…coddled, even.”

“Even if you shackle his feet with gold, you cannot turn a dragon into a lamb, Xavos.”

The Salt King sighs impatiently, and his tone drops just as earlier. “Do as I say.”

Young Nyla interrupts her masters as she enters the room, and the Queen turns her head. “Nyla, what is it?”

“We have escorted Prince Aemond to his rooms, your Highness.”

“Good.” Xavos says, and then looks at his wife with a pointed stare. “Make sure he has everything he needs.”

The Salt Queen barges in and halts on the door, bewildered upon seeing her trusted friend Mysha on the verge of tears, staring at the ground as if she’s waiting for an execution.

“My deepest apologies, my Prince, I meant no disrespect.”

“What happened?”

“Uh—Prince Aemond asked for some herbs, your Highness. An ointment, for his eye.”

“Aye. I did ask for that, not for you to fucking touch me.”

The Prince is snarling, his eye wide and menacing like a hound on the brink of defense yet hunting for flesh. His face is clean now, the Queen notices, shaven; his hair is damp and pulled back, leaving his chiseled features, that infuriating chin, and high, prominent cheekbones in plain sight. Stupid as it may sound, she can't help but think of one of those marble sculptures she likes to buy from art dealers.

“You may go, Mysha. I will assist the Prince.”

“I don’t need assistance.” He hisses with threatening calm. “Leave.”

He caved in the pool, but he will not suffer another humiliation in front of these foreigners. At least not with something so delicate and private as his eye. But of course, he realizes with annoyance, this woman will not falter at any of his empty orders.

“Are you dismissing me in my own Palace?”

He looks down, sighing and fuming, and she beckons Misha to leave the room.

“You must understand, servants here are treated differently. They’re granted more liberties.”

“I see. As the ones you so generously grant to slaves.” he mutters, and starts to fidget with a tray offering ginger roots, turmeric powder, and eucalyptus leaves.

“Oh, spare me. Of all people, you Valyrians are the least entitled to give a lecture on morals.” she counters, watching his long, tapered fingers hover without touching anything. Clearly, he was used to servants doing it for him.

“May I?” she offers, but doesn’t wait for his permission to make room next to him. “There are no slaves in this palace.” she tells him "How can you expect loyalty from someone you bought with something as cheap as gold?”

“Cheap as the golden ring your husband has stuck in his nose? He looks like a fucking boar.” he says as his eye trails on her profile.

“My husband is an imbecile. This city did not become the greatest that ever was and will be with gold. Trade is our currency. We call it antallagí. Exchange.”

“A true-born merchant’s wife.”

“Or a boar’s one?”

He huffs, and she turns, feigning shock at the faintest of smirks curling his lips. “So you’re not made of stone after all.”

She studies him for a few moments—more than is deemed proper for a married woman, in Westeros at least—but she can't help it. She wonders how it is possible that exile and moons of misery have not bent this man; what drives that rigid posture, whether it is too strict an education or it is all a lie, masking an effort to keep control, to impose it on others but perhaps more on himself.

“Ointment is ready, your Grace. It may burn a little, ginger is a godsend, but it’s tricky. I could help—”

“I need no help. Leave.”

The stone is in place once more. But she won’t have it.

She raises her eyebrows, biding all the time in the world.

Aemond chews thorns as he looks at her, swallows them, and tastes them again, piercing his tongue. “Please.”

“That must’ve cost you a lot. But it isn’t so hard, is it?”

His lips flatten in a thin line, and she smiles. “You are a second son, are you not? That’s the reason for that stubborn chin. You must stomp your feet to make anything yours.”

“Careful, woman. I’ve taken tongues for far less.”

“Why? Did you not see eye to eye with them?”

He moves like lightning, invading her space until he is a breath away from her face, and his mouth breathes fire. “Listen to me. I care not who the fuck you are or which title you make your slaves call you. I am not here to allow you to make a fool of me, Queen or no Queen. Mock me once more, and I’ll carve the word please on your vicious mouth.”

He waits for the fire to catch on, even though flames do not seem to touch her; she's unwavering and solid as marble.

“Get out.”

“I don’t—” she chokes on her words, on his hand seizing her jaw; cold fingers, leaving embers on her skin.

“I said, get out.”

That evening, the already lavish palace of the Salt King was polished and decked out duly to honor the foreign guest. The walls, lit by braziers of fire, stood like a beacon amidst a sea of marble and white stone roofs. The Hall of Trade was a treasury, crammed so full of gold that it looked like a pirate's dream. Pillows were piled on the floor, long tables held food of all kinds. A huge bowl of wine welcomed the guests, who were given a goblet they had to dip into the large bowl and drink, otherwise they would not be allowed inside. It was tradition, a sort of good omen.

It pinched Aemond's nostrils when he brought the cup to his mouth and, thankfully, drank it in small sips. Despite his prudence, by the second he felt his tongue on fire from how spiced it was. By comparison, Arbor Gold was wastewater.

He wears the sapphire blue silk tunic, with a silk belt cinching his narrow waist, but his hair is different. Mysha learned the lesson she asked, and when he gave his consent, she got to work and braided his silver hair. Most of them are loose, falling down his back in a curtain of white. Others are laced in one, two, three braids, softly meeting at the back of his head.

If he thought the Salt Queen’s hospitality was somewhat a little too forward and a lot more intrusive, he had to reconsider when he found himself cornered as soon as his silver head caught the eye of every guest. Men and women, old and young, flocked to him with eyes full of wonder, as if the Salt King had captured some wild and rare creature and called all his friends to make them look.

But they didn’t just look. They talked openly and freely, voicing thoughts that, in Westeros, would have stayed inside one’s head.

“Look at his hair! They seem like moon rays!”

“And the skin! Whiter than milk!”

“What happened to his eye?”

“If only my wife were here…she always wanted to see a Valyrian!”

He had just gotten there, and his teeth were baring.

“My friends, please! Let our noble guest breathe!” the Salt King chuckles as he comes forward among the bewildered audience, looking like the loot of some theft, for all the gold and diamonds and emeralds sewn on his orange silk tunic. “Come, my Prince. The first taste is yours.”

Aemond catches a movement on his right and there she is, the Salt Queen, in a crimson red sparkling like a bloodied dew given the little, tiny red stones woven in her silks. Her hair coils into an intricate bun crisscrossed by a paper-thin gold chain that crowns her forehead with small, rough rubies, like grains of salt.

For a moment, he’s so enthralled by her figure, and her eyes, even more piercing because of kohl, that he fails to notice the clay plate she’s holding, filled with fruits. Some he has never seen, except in books, but he has no time to take a guess.

“Your first taste, my Prince.” she chimes. “Sweet or tart?”

His gaze falls back to the plate, but not before stopping, again, for a blink, on that absurd fashion of one bare breast. “Tart.” He says tightly.

She smiles, as if she knew, and puts the plate down. Aemond watches her bejeweled fingers pluck off a grape and turn, her hand in midair but not quite outstretched toward him. He nothing but give her a pointed look, one that translates only into a stern and irrevocable I can eat by myself.

“My Prince. My wife means no offense.” the Salt King explains “In Qarth, it is deemed a great honor, given and taken, and an excellent omen for the guest's stay, if said guest is fed by the matron of the house.”

His throat bobs and the Salt Queen can’t quite decipher if the dragon prince is more humiliated or angered by the prospect of being fed by a woman like a baby who just teethed. At last, he sighs and leans in, but her hand withdraws a little, leaving him with his mouth slightly open, stretched forth like a beggar waiting for charity. It is not Aemond who bites the grape, but her who finally, after another straight stare into his eye, lets it drop into his mouth.

The crowd erupts in a cheerful clapping, as does The Salt King who goes to stand just between his wife and the Dragon Prince, placing a friendly hand on his shoulder “You see, Prince Aemond, this is one of the extraordinary gifts of Qartheen women. They know exactly how to hold...and when to let go.”

Aemond does not bother to look at him, he is too absorbed, annoyed and deep down, without him knowing it yet, enticed by the tranquil smile that curls her mouth and at the same time curls his pride, mocks it, strips it bare and outright laughs at it, goading everyone else to do so.

Behold, the pink dread!

“Without further ado, let the feast begin!” The Salt King announces joyfully and in the same moment, a delicate and sweet melody fills the room, while Aemond chews what’s left of that grape, tasting his own bile.

An hour later, Aemond is fuming. Fuming because ruling the most important and influential city in Essos, he should’ve known the Thirteen were aware of everything that went on and was currently going on in the West. Perhaps even more than he knew. Did they know something about his mother?

He banished that thought from his mind just as he trained himself to do in all this damned existence.

They knew about the Dance, they knew about Aegon the Usurper, they knew of Rhaenyra the Cruel, the Storming of the Dragon Pit. They knew the kingdom was dreadfully impoverished and in the hands of a young boy.

But they spoke about it as if they were discussing the weather. Qartheens cared nothing about what was going on outside their impenetrable walls; whether it was a new king on a throne far away or a war that had killed thousands and thousands, it was all tittle-tattle to kill time between one cup of wine and the next. He was asked about this battle or the previous one without thinking that he had lived through that war; he made it, he carried it and perhaps he still carried it within him.

He was fuming for this, he was fuming for how women, and even men, gawk at him, for their bizarre custom of hosting a feast without a decent place to sit and eat like normal people do. He was fuming because no matter how much he tried to ignore it, a spool of crimson would always catch his eye.

Grabbing one more cup of wine, he decides to take a breath outside, standing on one of the marbled balconies of the Palace. Air does good to extinguish his fires, but it does not clear up his mind. Perhaps he should blame the wine, perhaps his head is still smoky.

Because you, in the first place, do not know what you're doing here.

As much as he loathed to admit it, the Salt Queen was right. He tricked himself into thinking the main reason for his coming here was Vhagar. She was weak, due to the wing's injuries as well as the old ones, and most of all, she was hungry. But with the promise of goats and pigs, came the clarity and the knowledge that he had no reason, no plan. He only knew he had leverage—a dreadful leverage made of talons and fire on these merchants and their city. But what to do with it?

He hears voices somewhere near, and once more, crimson pollutes his sight. The Salt Queen and her husband are talking behind a tall white pillar. He can’t quite hear what they’re saying, but she catches his stare almost immediately. The talking ceases, and Aemond knows they were talking about him, of course they were.

Xavos comes out of his hiding place with a placid and benevolent expression, walking right past him without a word. But she stays, and she looks, and then she walks to him.

“That will go to your head.” She warns as he empties the cup “I didn’t see you touch any food.”

The spiced wine burns his throat, makes his tongue sour and impatient. “Is your husband aware of your excessive concern about your guests? Or is it a thoughtfulness he has ordered you to reserve only for me?”

“I’m just being considerate since you’re a foreigner and not well acquainted with Qartheen tastes.”

“How exactly am I supposed to eat? Standing?”

She huffs a laugh and shakes her head trimmed with gold and red as she gives him a bemused, though genuine, look. “Good God, how spoiled you are? I thought misery made men humble, but clearly not men of House Targaryen.”

His jaw moves annoyingly, and he leaves the empty cup on the marble, but he doesn’t let go, holding it by the edges in a white-knuckle grip. She notices it as she leans against the marble, with her back to the city, and gives him a long, inquisitive look. “After all the misery you suffered, I thought you would’ve liked the attention…perhaps you do…perhaps…you want more.”

“Do you ever stop talking?” he asks boringly, and just as sourly, staring at the city.

“I must say, I’ve hosted so many people, from so many different parts of the world, and yet…I’ve never found myself before a face so full of contradictions.”

His eye pins her. “Need I remind you how you left my room earlier?”

“With your hand around my neck, because you couldn’t take a joke.”

“I don’t like being mocked. And I don’t like being played like a pawn. So, unless this is another one of your absurd customs, tell your husband to stop parading you around me like a whore. It looks bad when you insist on others calling you queen.”

“We all play parts, dragon prince. Sometimes, they blend. But in the end…it takes little to know the real you.”

Aemond chokes on his breath as her hand slips between them like water, cupping his crotch with a grip of steel, and fire, burning from her fingertips through the fabric. She holds it like a weapon, and his defense is low. She sees his throat bobbing down once, and twice, rejection curls his mouth, but not strongly enough to shove her hand away, to not start to harden against the flames of her fingers, brushing all his length until she cups it once more.

“Whore or queen?” she whispers, brushing his parted lips “Someone in there doesn’t seem to care.”

His grip on the cup loosens, a tremor runs down his spine, and he dawdles in the sensation, one felt before, elicited by other hands, and yet new. It’s been so long. The surge to touch, to clutch, to taste, drains his head of blood. But she eludes him, tilting her head to the right and then to the left to avoid the vise of his lips; her grip loosens, running the back of her fingers against his cock in a feathery brush, touching without touching.

He grinds his teeth to choke a whimper, but then she’s cupping again; she feels him go completely hard for her, and the knowledge washes over her like tongues of fire prickling down her back and between her thighs. The soft, slippery silk allows her to unleash her lunges more fiercely, to easily close her hand around his cock, and that same silk helps her to glide her hand deliciously up and down.

He's breathing hard, almost panting, brushing the tip of his nose against hers; her eyes are open, basking in the sight, the little twitches of his mouth as bends to pleasure, the breathing turning heavier and heavier, his hand that starts to flex. She imagines how those slender fingers would feel between her folds, how easily they would slip inside, and why, why is he not touching her?

“Do it…” she breathes. “Do you want me to say please? I would…there’s no shame in begging, dragon prince….it only makes you free…”

“Your Highness, my apologies.” Nyla calls her Queen suddenly, and she stops her wicked ministrations, abruptly bringing Aemond back to his senses.

“The Salt King sent me after you.” The young maid says, apparently unfazed by what she clearly witnessed. “We’re playing kottabos.”

"Ah, yes, of course.” she tries to regain some control, although she was panting on the sole anticipation, and goes back inside.

Aemond stalls, taking a long sigh in the fresh air to try to stop the blood from boiling. And he follows.

Kottabos, he discovers, is quite a tricky game. The rules are simple: one has to throw the last drops of wine inside their cup to hit a white plate balanced atop a bronze pole. It requires a bit of dexterity, because the player must put the index finger through the handle of the drinking cup and throw the drops while sprawled on pillows, laying on their elbows.

The Salt Queen, it seems, is quite adept at this game. It takes her only two tries to hit the plate and she’s rising from the pillows, bowing her head to thank the cheerful audience. Aemond's eye bends as the crimson veils bend with her every movement; he slips between them and lets them wrap around him, even though he should not, even though he reproaches himself for letting the blood, the wine, the flesh, that has been starved of other flesh for too long, win.

“My closest friends know I’m very fond of sweets and cakes but…on such a special occasion, I choose a special reward.” She announces when the crowd has quieted down, and before she even turns around, he feels her gaze on him as if she had two more eyes on the back of her head. “A sweeter reward…or perhaps tarter.”

She moves towards him, and every step she takes barefoot on the marble is an unmasking. With every step she takes, it seems to him that she is touching him, as she did just before, and more; he feels like her fingers are slipping under the silk, setting fire to his skin.

She stops in front of him and yet, he still sees her moving, feels her moving like a sea creature and her thousand tentacles of crimson silk.

Maybe he should put the wine down.

Wine is not for you, brother mine, your mind’s too heavy. It’ll soak like a sponge and you'll fall into your own vomit.

What she does not put down is her aim, moving her hands diligently as she grabs his face and draws him close to kiss him on the lips, and tilt her head back to look at him, so close she’s breathing his breath. “This…is your first taste.”

“Good! The Queen has chosen her reward. Let us play another round, shall we?”

Again, Aemond does not bother to look at the Salt King, he looks at her and the faint twitch between her lips at her husband's words.

“Come.” She says taking his hand, and he doesn’t know what drives him to follow her, whether his mind is too soaked, or his flesh is crying out to be fed.

What is certain is that now her bare feet tread the marble of his rooms and he is closing the door.

“I hope you don’t mind if we do it here. I don’t take men into my rooms.”

“Why?”

“I’m jealous of my things.”

“Liar.”

“What?”

“So used to play parts and yet, you look down before lying. Disappointing.”

“I’m surprised you were able to look at anything above my cleavage.”

This time, he lowers his gaze, but not to lie. He knows he has looked, many times, and the excuse of not being used to such a custom starts to creak. She walks up to him and looks at him with that knowing smile that makes him want to clamp his hand on her mouth and wipe it off her face, and maybe stick his fingers inside.

“Are you a virgin, my Prince? Did you have a wife in the West? Children?”

He swallows, and her eyes fall on his throat.

“Is that guilt you just swallowed? Or sorrow?”

“Why don’t you listen to your father’s sorcery while keeping your hole shut?”

“I told you, I am no witch. Qarth is the center of the world. Do you think we don’t know what happens in the East, West, North and South?” she angles her head and whispers in his ear “We know everything… Kinslayer, Terror of the Trident.”

She speaks his war titles in that liquorose way, opening the vowels as if she is casting a spell, but he hears the mockery. It is the same that loosened the tongue at the Strong bastards, the same one perpetuated by Alys. But Alys' mockery was different. She spoke in riddles, visions and flames. This woman speaks in truths.

“Do you regret it?” she whispers, and her tentacles thread their way through the silk “All those innocents you have burned…all the ones you have lost.” lazily, she pulls at the laces of the blue tunic and he stiffens, flaring his nostrils. “See? I don’t need sorcery. The more you stiffen, the more cracks reveal.” She straightens her head to look at him with eyes darker than tar, wandering over his face and he feels branded. “I can see them around you…ghosts…why don’t you set them free?”

“What is your fucking game?” he wants to seethe, but she’s so close to him it comes out as nothing but a hiss.

She smiles again and this time the victory is full. "The game is over, your grace. I won, and you're my reward. I will admit I never had such a pretty one...care to show me that sapphire or are you still keen on playing the prude bashful prince?”

Aemond has no qualms about touching her, grabbing her face with nails digging into her cheeks as he pulls her close, turning her chin to spit anger and all his tumbled restraints into her ear “Perhaps I should shove my cock into your mouth to make you shut it, hmm? Is that what you want? What your husband wants? That I fuck you like a whore?”

She stiffens, thrashing in his hold that she may not have expected, and manages to turn her head just enough to look at him, scoffing. “Is this the only way you know to use your hands?”

A taunt, another one. It turns his eye pitch black and he leans closer to her lips, almost baring his teeth, almost as if he wants to bite the words—the mockery, the victory—off her mouth. But once more, she eludes him, tilting back and so, any reason burns and dies into his head.

“D’you want to play games, don’t you? Let’s play, then.”

Still gripping her cheeks, he roughly pushes her into the room, letting her go for only one fleeting instant of freedom, just long enough to grab her shoulders and force her to turn around. A gasp escapes her lips, but the next moment she’s bending on the table, he’s forcing her to. A thrill spills into her blood, making her insides clench with anticipation, and dread.

He traps her, planting his feet between hers to stop her from closing her legs. She tries to pull herself up with her back, but he scowls, pushing her head down to keep it firmly glued to the table. She whines as his long fingers pull at her hair, tearing the gold and red chain off, and she can hear him fumbling with the silks, the other hand hiking her crimson gowns up.

“My Prince, please—”

“Begging already?” snarling, he spits into his palm and gives a few quick tugs to his cock, hard and aching “I wonder who’s coming from. The whore or the Queen. Either way, you’ll get your reward, your Highness.”

“Wait—” she whimpers as she feels the head of his cock teasing against her folds, something coils in her belly, and something else, something cold, grips her heart. “Not like th—”

She chokes on her tongue as he slips inside her, easily but painfully, all the way in. Hissing, his hold on her hair tightens, a coarse exhale coming out of his parted lips as he adjusts to her walls, hot and wet, but tense. She’s tensing all over.

“Why are you fighting me?” he pulls her up by the hair, leaning his face close to hers “You wanted this, did you not? You have been teasing and mocking me since I set foot in here.”

“I—”

“No. I’ve had enough of your talks and taunts. Here’s what’s going to happen, whore queen. You will keep quiet and take it. And if I want to fuck you again later, I will. You are not in charge here—not you, not your husband, not all the fucking Thirteen. So don’t fucking push me, unless you want to die with fire skinning you alive.”

Without too much grace, he forces her back on the table and starts a relentless pace, fisting the crimson fabric and pulling to keep her low back flushed to his crotch. His pants mix with flesh slapping harder and faster as he tries to pour on her, and into her, the grief and rage, the misery and fire he’s made of. She writhes beneath him, arching and crumpling against the wooden with violent gasps; she feels like burning but inside, she’s torn in two.

She clamps her hand on the wood to grab onto something, just like that evening. She feels her, and his, arousal coating her thighs, just as blood did that evening.

The little girl wants to run, but the Salt Queen doesn’t want him to stop.

She’s sinking in her mind, but burning in every corner of her body and soul.

She can only moan, her mouth agape and dry, leaking saliva on the surface as her head bounces at each wild rut, hitting that inner spot over and over.

“Look at you, hmm?” he taunts her with purpose, perhaps vengeance “Fucked so good she lost her wits.”

Look at you, little whore. Bet you like it, eh?

Squeezing her eyes shut, she finds a raw voice hidden somewhere. “Harder—”

“What?” he slurs with a heavy-lidded eye, the braids are almost loose, dangling on his face at each thrust.

“Harder—” she pleads with her eyes still shut.

“Greedy wanton thing—” hips start to snap brutally, in a hurtful way, just as she wants, even if it’s hard to even breathe. Pleasure overwhelms her, drives her up towards the peak. But she finds she cannot climb; her mind is holding her down.

He grunts with each snap and curses in some foreign language she’s not aware of, and she doesn’t care; she’s too focused on letting herself burn. But it’s like sitting in front of a fire and barely feeling the flames.

And then his hips jolt faster, once, twice, and he halts, gripping her hips firmly, coming inside her with a long, satiated groan.

Completely spent, he slumps on top of her, resting his head on her shoulder blades to catch his breath. However, she is quick to slip from the scorching alcove, to slide out the door with her mind drowned but her heart pounding out of her chest.

"Your Highness!" Dora wakes from her slumber, and reaches for her Queen.

"Nothing, Dora." she says in a voice still hoarse, almost scratching. "Draw me a bath, please. And fetch mint and wormwood." Moon tea.

She starts to undo her silks and feels a distant smell of smoke sticking to her skin. Like one who has bathed in fire.

The morning after brings no clarity, because truthfully, Aemond does not need clarity. Everything is drastically simple. He is no coward. However his mind was less clear than usual, he could never blame wine for how he behaved a few hours earlier. And why would he?

Whether she was acting on her husband’s orders or not, she wanted him. And he wanted her. He could concede that he'd acted in a harsher way than usual, that he’d let rage and grief guide his purpose. It was not the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. But it all worked in his favor. A demonstration, a shift in whatever power game the Salt King and the other merchant Kings thought to play out. He only made it clear that he was not some precious pet to be coddled and ridiculed.

She had teased and mocked him at any occurrence. He’d only showed her the price of playing with fire.

His blue silks are fresh and clean when he sits down to have breakfast with Xavos; his long silver hair is tied up in a single low braid that starts from the center of his head and gathers lazily down his shoulder.

He has yet to get used to this strange Qartheen custom of sitting on pillows to eat; at least, however, he regains his appetite when he is served dishes once familiar to him, and less exotic.

"I took the liberty of having you prepare a breakfast akin to your old habits.” Xavos says chewing bread with olives “Ham, cheese, venison. And we have fresh fish every day. Blessed be the trades."

The Prince is sincerely grateful, though he would be a lot more grateful if the Salt King were able to shut his mouth when the sun is not even high in the sky. He goes on and on about the supposed trades, and then about the salt he so proudly sells to every corner of the world. He is just about to go on another monologue about the Thirteen and their hopeful wish to receive the Dragon Prince in their Palaces when he stops, frowning at the young maid clearing the place set next to the king. “What are you doing?”

“Apologies, Your Highness, but the Queen will not attend breakfast. She feels indisposed this morning.”

Immediately, Aemond glances up at her and she’s brave enough to hold it for a bunch of seconds before looking down and making her way to the door.

“Maid?”

She halts upon hearing the Prince and turns around.

“Tell your Queen I was promised something. She said she would see to it personally. And I expect her to keep her word.”

“Yes, your Grace.”

“Wait.” he stops her again, his tone almost bored, and slips a hand into the folds of his blue silks, pulling out a gold and red chain. “Take this. She left it in my room last night.”

He throws the jewel on the table and resumes his knife and fork, not bothering to look at anyone, certainly not at the Salt King who is indeed looking at him, looking as pleased as ever, like the cat that caught the mouse.

The Salt Queen did not in fact forget her word. She promised him she would see to Vhagar’s condition, ordering to save goats and pigs to feed the beast, put them on carts and send someone with the Prince to reach the desert, where the dragon was resting.

However, she should've probably assumed that such an apparently simple task would've turned out to be a lot harder to carry out.

She’s just about to finish her late breakfast with Mysha and Dora, when Nyla breaks into the parlor with quick feet.

“Your Highness—uhm—Prince Aemond is at the door, he asks to be received.”

“What is it now? He doesn’t like how the sun rises here?”

Mysha and Dora giggle, but the Queen stays serious and turns to Nyla. “Tell the Prince he will have to wait. I am sure that even in Westeros, barging in during meals stands for bad manners.”

Nyla leaves, but it’s with even quicker feet that she returns to her Queen in barely a minute.

“My Queen, Prince Aemond is quite adamant on being received immediately. He…also says that…keeping guests at the door is a synonym of bad manners in Westeros, as he is sure, anywhere else in the world.”

Tapping her fingers on the table, it takes her a minute to sigh loudly and stand up, throwing the kerchief on the table.

“My Prince.” She greets him as she stops at the door.

In his usual soldierly stance, he looks past her for a moment before locking her blank gaze. “Still adamant on not letting me in?”

“You were not that drunk last night. I believe you heard me just fine when I told you I don’t take men into my rooms.”

“Hmm. But you did take me, and quite eagerly, if memory serves me right. Are we not past such formalities?”

“Gloating like some common man is not very royal of you, your Grace—"

“Tis’ not gloating. And I might say, not very royal of you either to beg me to fuck you harder, your Highness.”

“You’re right. Fucked me so good I didn’t come.”

The proud mischievous smile that kept stretching his mouth vanishes in a blink, and she has to sigh to stifle her own. “What is it, my Prince?”

“You gave me your word.”

“Indeed. And I kept it. What is your complaint now?”

“Your slaves refuse to escort me in the desert.”

“Well, I can’t blame them. Can’t you feed your dragon on your own? Or are you too humiliated by the prospect of carrying a cart of dead pigs?”

From the way he is staring at her, and having already tickled his pride when the sun is not yet high in the sky, she knows he will not yield on this matter.

“Fine. I’ll go with you.”

“My Queen, it is not safe.”

“Do not worry, Dora. I’ll take the Sorrowful Men.”

Aemond almost laughs to himself as he stands on the left edge of an enclosed inner courtyard of the palace, resembling the training yards of Westeros. There are men intent on training with spears and swords, dressed in strange uniforms made of blue drapes and a strange golden mask on their faces. The carving makes the mask weeping, with a single tear embossed on the gold.

Aemond has no idea how they can see, as there seem to be no holes in those eyes of gold. But his gaze returns at once to the Salt Queen, talking to one of those men, with a large turban on his head. Some kind of commander, he assumes.

He bows to her and then six of these mysterious men march forward and surround the woman.

The Prince glances at each one of them, standing tall and proud as ever with his hands laced behind, seeming unperturbed by these safety measures. In fact, he says “Truly there’s no need to trouble these men, your Highness. What do you expect me to do? Feed you to Vhagar as soon as we are in the desert?”

“These men are not a safety measure for me, but for you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. To prevent you from having certain…Targaryen ideas.”

“Six armed men against the largest living dragon seems like a somewhat unequal battle.”

Narrowing her eyes, she watches as the same placid arrogance bathes his features, but she thinks now it’s the right time to wipe it off, and she knows exactly how to do it. “Sorrows bring sorrows.”

All at once, the Sorrowful men move, drawing their spears with impressive speed and aiming the sharp points at the prince. His whole demeanor changes, becomes menacing, she notices, but he does not flinch. She walks among the weeping men avoiding the spears until she stands in front of the prince and snatches the mask off his face, to wear it herself.

“Listen to me. These men live to serve me. They were slaves once, bought with something far more valuable than gold: freedom. And they chose to stay by my side. If I told them to take the only eye you have left, right now, they would do it. If I told them to cut your cock and bring it to me right now, they would do it. A shame, I will grant you that. So, you’re right, you may be in charge here…but if you push me…you will be dead before you have the chance to say Dracarys.”

Whatever cutting remark the prince has in mind, he does not have time to say it, as he is suddenly distracted by a strange sound, a whistle, like the cry of a bird.

Aemond turns his head and the Queen does the same, recognizing that sound at once. The Sorrowful Men lower their spears and a man steps forward, dressed in a strange purple robe. Aemond stares at him warily, wondering why, in the name of the Seven, this man’s lips are blue, like a corpse.

“Father…” the Salt Queen greets him, taking Aemond by surprise, but sounding a little surprised herself to see the blue-lipped man.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t answer to his daughter, because he can’t. He starts to move his hands in strange signs, circles and lines. And Aemond is grateful for his strict education, for he knows what that man is doing. Sign language. He is either mute, or tongueless.

Unfortunately, he cannot understand what he’s saying, but his daughter can.

“Kóri. Will you not introduce me to your noble guest?”

The Salt Queen sighs, casting a brief look at the Prince, and then she introduces him. “Father, this is Prince Aemond, of House Targaryen.”

The blue-lipped man looks at him with wide eyes, charmed to the point of looking unsettling. And then he bends into a long bow. Not even when Aemond sat on the Iron Throne, someone had bowed so low before him.

He tilts his chin down to greet him, and sees the warlock’s hands moving. “On behalf of the Warlocks of Qarth” the Salt Queen translates “I welcome you, your Grace. It is a great privilege to see a descendant of Old Valyria in the flesh. Your blood is as ancient as our beloved great city.”

Aemond cannot stop his eyebrow from raising, nor his tongue. “It seems at least one member of your family knows good manners.”

“You must excuse us, father, we have to go.” she hastens to say, but as soon as she takes one step, her father grabs her arm.

“Don’t run from me, kori. You have been knowing, yes? More than usual.” and then his hands rise and fall once more. “Trees wail. Leaves are bleeding. The doom, kori. The doom is near.”

PART 2

thank you so so much for reading!! 💕 💕

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aglaias-blog · 5 months

Text

"Wicked Game"

Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Author's note: in honour of my 9 year anniversary on this hellsite and us finally getting fed with some new hotd content, here is my contribution to whatever the craziness of the last two days was.

I saw this post by the amazing, the great @ewanmitchellcrumbs and thought that I had to post this, it was in my drafts far too long haha Feedback is welcome and appreciated 💖

TW: dub!con, MDNI, afab!reader, fem!reader, degradation kink, jealousy, hatefucking, possessiveness, Aemond is a meanie, reader is a brat

Summary: You make Aemond jealous on purpose as a punishment for him always having his eye on you. But his reaction is clearly more than you have bargained for.

Taglist: @watercolorskyy

Never before had you seen your husband this angry. Sure, he had had his moments – when you had barged into the Small Council to give the King a piece of your mind or when you had humiliated him in front of his brother – and countless other instances. But never infuriated like this.

It had been a perfectly good day in the Red Keep. You were just walking past the Armory when you had seen Ser Davios Rane. He had become a good friend of yours over the years, since you had been married to Prince Aemond. It was a simple conversation; friendly, but reserved, as usual.

The courtyard was buzzing with people in preparation for King Aegon’s name day festivities: servants running around, carrying baskets, tapestries, tableware and many other things from one place to another, the invited Lords and Ladies just arriving taking a look at the Red Keep, engaging in conversation.

Yet somehow your husband had managed to see only you - and just the part of the conversation where you had laughed at Ser Rane’s comment - and put your hand on his arm. A grave mistake, you had realised immediately.

Aemond had been by your side in an instant, cutting the conversation embarrassingly short. You hadn’t even seen him coming, it was the frightened expression on Ser Rane’s face that had betrayed the arrival of your husband.

He had scolded you in front of everybody present – quietly, of course, but it was obvious that they knew what was happening by his body language alone. Servants had stopped in their tracks to observe the humiliating spectacle, the nobility’s conversations had quietened down to hear his heated whispers. And you – well, you had only ripped your arm from the tight grip he had your wrist in, and ran away. As childish as it was, you couldn’t stand being gawked at while your husband chastised you like a little child. Of course, he had followed you, but not before throwing a threatening glare in Ser Rane’s direction. He would take care of him later.

You hadn’t meant to make him jealous – at first. It was only when you had felt his sharp gaze on you everytime you spoke with somebody – be it a servant, a Lady, a Lord, a goldcloak – that you wanted to give him something to look at. A sort of punishment for always stalking you, for never trusting you enough to follow his rules. Surely, it couldn’t hurt to teach him a little lesson?

Well, now he was chasing you through the corridors of the Keep, taking his jealousy out on you.

��Are you content now? Was it your plot to infuriate me like this?“

Your husband had talked himself into a rage since you both had left the middle bailey, following you to your shared quarters. His face was marred by unadulterated wrath, his predatory gaze focused only on you.

„You are a Princess of this house! You’re much too sharp to think that it would be seemly to throw yourself at some goldcloak in this shameful manner!“

You had only wished to make him a little jealous – you should have known better. There was no moderation with Aemond Targaryen, only extremes. And once he whipped himself into this obsessive state, he was insufferable to be around. No word of explanation would get through to him.

„Did you think that I wouldn’t see? Attracting the attention of a mere goldcloak, in broad daylight, too, like a common whore!“

You couldn’t stand the thought of being in his presence any longer. He would drive you insane, you were sure of it! So, once in your quarters, you ran to open the door to your bedchamber and darted inside.

The sound of the lock turning sounded absurdly loud in the sudden silence.

„Open the door.“

His voice sounded treacherously calm.

You had leant against the table opposite the door, your trembling fingers gripping it tightly, your chest heaving with quick breaths of anticipation. What could he do now?

Tipping your head back, the tense giddiness in your body broke out of you in gleeful laughter.

„Open the door. Now!“

Oh, how you loved having him at your mercy.

„Say ‚Please, my love, be so kind as to open the door‘!“, you yelled, giggling.

„No“, was the only response that passed through the door.

„Fuck you, then!“

Your anger had returned with a sudden force. Who did he think he was? He had humiliated you in front of everybody, the whole court had borne witness to your embarrassment! How did he have the gall to talk to you as if to a little child? He could rot in the seventh Hell for all you cared!

He hadn’t responded yet. The sudden silence was highly suspicious. Did he give up - had he actually left? Oh, he was no fun!

Your victorious smile was wiped from your face the moment you heard the crash. Through splintered wood flying into all directions, your husband appeared on the threshold – breathing heavily, bearing his teeth, his gaze wild - the embodiment of fury.

After three quick strides he lunged himself at you – his hand painfully gripping your jaw, towering over you.

„You forget yourself, wife“, he snarled through gritted teeth, the vein in his forehead throbbing.

„You should have the good sense to remember your place.“

You simply stared up him calmly, defiantly, searching for the darkness in his eye that let you know that he was almost there, almost – before spitting in his face.

Before you had time to think, your head was whipped to the side, the heat of your blood throbbing in the place where his hand had just been. The slap had come out of nowhere - the sharp sting of pain in your cheek forced tears into your eyes – and yet you couldn’t help the wicked smile that formed on your lips. You had him exactly where you wanted him now, and he had fallen right into your trap.

This was the twisted game you played. You both knew it. Yet it didn’t feel like you were pretending. The rage was real. And so was the intoxicating thrill.

„Oh, this is all a game to you, isn’t it?“, he sneered, nostrils flaring. Let’s see if this is still a game to you now.

„Bend over.“

„No.“

„I’m not going to repeat myself.“

„Make me, then“, you said brattily, challenging him to make good on his word.

And he did. In the blink of an eye, he had his hand in your hair, turning you on your stomach and slamming your face into the table.

You felt your heartbeat in your whole body for the few seconds it took him to bunch up your skirt and loosen the ties on his breeches – you couldn’t move, his hand on your neck forced you to stay still, his leg between your thighs made sure that you kept them apart.

And before you knew what was happening, he sank into your wetness, immediately setting an unforgiving pace. He allowed you no time to adjust, completely merciless. You cried out, struggling against his hand that held you down, hands blindly reaching behind you, clawing at whatever part of his body you could reach. It was no use though – he wouldn’t slow down.

You could only hear him groan depravedly in response - he liked the way you tried to fight him, it dawned on you. The more you tried to resist him, the faster he slammed into you. Fed up with your antics, he grabbed both of your hands in his, bent forward and slammed them above your head. The new angle made your knees buckle.

„Don’t go weak on me now, wife“, he laughed into your ear. He laughed!

„Smug cunt“, you moaned. Immediately, you received your punishment. The sting on your ass hurt less than his hand in your hair, yanking you up against him, forcing you to arch your back almost painfully.

„Think you’re too good for me? Hm?“ His laboured breathing was hot on your neck. „But good enough for Davios Rane?“ He spat the name like a curse.

You could only whine in response, not being able to stop the desperate moans.

„Should we open the window, let him hear you? Hmm?“

He slammed into with such force then that it made you squeal. You couldn’t get a word out. With your eyes rolled back you couldn’t even formulate a simple thought.

„No? Then shut - your fucking - mouth“, he growled, emphasising each word with a thrust.

You couldn’t. You tried, you truly did, yet you failed miserably. Your body reacted before you had time to think, the loud pleasured whimpers and moans fell from your mouth before you could try to control them. He forced them out of you with each of his rough movements, knowing well that you had lost control over your own body.

He placed his other hand on your mouth to muffle your whines for you. The sharp edge of the table digging into your hips over and over again combined with his painfully pleasurable thrusts forced humiliating tears into your eyes. He could feel them flow over his hand down to your chin.

„Oh, are you sorry now?“

„Mmph!“, was the only muffled sound that passed through his hand on your mouth, as you shook your head ‚no‘.

„Say it“, he growled. „You know damn well that you need this, you’d do well to say it. Now!“ He lifted his hand from your mouth, giving you a chance to do as he told you.

„Detestable bastard!“, you only spat out through sobs, your hair still twisted painfully in his hand.

„What was that?“, he said harshly, stilling his movement completely, threatening to pull out.

„You’re sick, Aemond!“ Who cared if he left you now? You certainly didn’t! At least you would be left with your pride intact.

Yet, when he pulled out of you, the vast emptiness you felt made your heart ache. You regretted every single word you had said up until that point.

„N-no, I’ll say it!“, you sobbed, hating that he had this power over you. Hating that he could make you hate yourself, taking your dignity like this. Making you weak.

Patiently he waited for the words he had demanded. „Go on, humiliate yourself. Like you humiliated me“, he growled in your ear. Abruptly, he pulled your head farther back to get a better look at you. His fevered gaze was on you, as he watched your tear-stained face intently, curious as to what choice you would make.

He not only wanted you to swallow your pride; he wanted you to crush it, destroy it completely in a display of sacrilegious devotion to him.

Tears of shame were running down your face freely now. You didn’t want to do as he told you, hadn’t he degraded you enough already? This was more than you had bargained for – you hadn’t expected him to react this way when you had started your little game earlier in the day.

Now you had to pay the price for having dared to challenge him.

The feeling of his cock between your thighs made sheer desperation curse through your veins. You wanted him so badly, it was driving you mad! It would’ve been so easy to just- just wriggle down a bit to-

„Don’t!“, he hissed, biting down on your shoulder. Hard.

It broke you.

„I’m sorry!“, you cried. Through your sobs your words were almost unintelligible. „I’m sorry, I didn’t – I-I don’t care about him, I just – I need you, only you, please, Aemond-“

It truly was a pitiful sight – and disturbingly arousing. His wife with her dress sliding down to her waist, begging for him, her tears streaming down to her bare chest, degrading herself– all this only to have his cock inside her again. With a sick satisfied smirk, he watched you babbling on, only gibberish leaving your mouth now. He had driven you to your breaking point.

And now, you needed to learn your lesson. He let go of your hair suddenly, letting you fall back on the table weakly.

Your jaw went slack, eyes rolling back, when you felt him slide back into you with one smooth movement, settling back into his merciless pace, two hands holding your hips in a bruising grip - pounding you as if he hated you. You rested your head on the tear-soaked surface of the table, moving with every delicious thrust he gave you. With your eyes closed, you gave yourself completely to the sensation, to him.

He was everywhere, all around you, in your nose, your hair, your body, your mind, your soul.

„Fuck“, you heard him curse with a trembling breath. He had bunched up the fabric of your dress over your hips, watching his cock disappear inside you over and over again. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight – the way your glistening cunt swallowed him whole, coating his cock in your wetness was simply too much. The perverse sound of your slickness alone would drive him mad, he was sure of it.

He had to remind you that you were his, that he possessed you completely. He couldn't allow you to forget it - he had to ensure that the only thing he held dear in his life would never dare leave him. It was this wicked desire that drove him to insanity everytime he saw you with somebody else, somebody who wasn’t him.

„I own you“, he moaned, his hand had found its place in your hair again – twisting it threateningly when you didn’t respond. He didn’t allow you enough time to catch your breath, you had to concentrate to form any sensible words.

„I’m yours“, you responded hoarsely, without resistance this time. „Only yours, Aemond, yours, yours, yours…“ Like a prayer you mumbled the words – yet it felt like somebody else had put them there.

His eyes rolled back in his skull with a helpless groan at your admission. Those were the only words he ever wanted to hear you say - such a shame that he had to force them out of you brutally.

He could make you say anything he wanted, but your body was yours, still. You knew him like yourself, you anticipated what he would want, long before he said it out loud – so you wouldn’t give him the pleasure of reaching your peak on his cock simply because he told you to.

He could fuck you stupid, and you would refuse him what he most wanted – an admission of carnal weakness.

But the terror crept up on you slowly, and with your eyes wide with fear it dawned on you - this little rest of resistance had already been crushed. Your body had cruelly betrayed your mind.

The savage groan Aemond gave when he felt you clench around him wiped all thoughts from your mind. He didn’t withhold his moans, showing you so openly the pleasure your body gave him – it made you squeeze down on him again. It was raw, primal – beyond your control.

In an effort to stifle his groans he bent forward, sinking his teeth into your shoulder again, making sure to leave a mark.

„Your body knows it belongs to me“, he cooed. „No matter how convincingly you try to deny it.“

The hand that had been in your hair now moved around your hip, finding its way between your trembling thighs.

„N- no!“, you gasped, trying to squirm out of his grasp. „Aemond, please!“

Your humiliation would be complete should you give in to him now. You could pretend that he didn’t own your mind, but you couldn’t pretend with your body – it knew that it was his. It was honest. Always. And he knew it.

„Oh, you don’t want to reach your peak?“, he chuckled darkly.

„There’s no use in lying, wife. I can feel you clenching around me.“

He groaned again when your body proved him right.

„Your treacherous body belies your words.“

He knew that he had to draw your peak from you tenderly, he couldn’t brutally force it, like he forced those beautiful sounds from your throat.

The sudden sensation of his soft fingers overwhelmed you entirely – it was so in contrast to his harsh words and his merciless thrusts inside you. Your whole body was fragile now, having been so abandoned by loving touch that you jolted in his grip the moment his fingers gently made contact with the most delicate part of your body.

His other hand went to your shoulders, immediately pushing you down when he noticed you trying to get up again. You couldn’t let him do this, you couldn’t, you had to-

„Don’t - refuse me!“, he gritted out through clenched teeth. With his brow furrowed, he had to focus on his fingers on your cunt - he would come undone this very moment should he allow himself to take in the glorious sight in front of him, feel your writhing body underneath his hands, pushing him away and pulling him in at the same time.

„Please!“, you choked out. You didn’t know what you were begging for. For him to stop? For him to continue?

You had been prepared to withstand his roughness, thinking that he would use you for his own pleasure and then cast you aside. You had been starving for his kisses, adoring words and gentle caresses on your body – you had been so hungry for any sign of love that his unexpected soft touch on you now would make you fall apart.

The feeling of lightness cursed through you, as your mind went numb. Your body, however, felt his every move – outside of you, inside of you, around you, all at once.

The lighter you felt, the hotter the pleasure coiling in your stomach became - you tried to fight it until the end, defying the urge to give in to the warmth that spread from your innermost core – and then it effortlessly crashed over you in waves, pulling you under, drowning your resistance completely.

As if under water, you heard him come undone behind you, spilling himself inside you with choked moans and curses, gripping your hips so tightly, so painfully tight…

And then - floating. You were floating. He had pushed you too far. You didn’t feel anything anymore - you had slipped into a place where time had no meaning.

You felt weightless and then crushed down to earth again - heaviness and lightness played their ever-changing game with you.

You tried your best to find a way out of the fog in your mind, but you were just so tired, so utterly spent…You didn’t want to think, to fight, to do anything – surrendering to the divine nothingness seemed so inviting now, you wanted to stay in its warmth, to just float forever…

#aggiewrites #aemond targaryen #hotd #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond fanfiction #aemond #aemond targaryen x you #aemond the kinslayer #aemond one eye #prince aemond #hotd aemond #aemond targaryen smut #aemond smut #aemond fic #aemond targaryen oneshot #aemond targaryen x fem!reader #aemond targaryen x female reader

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theostrophywife · 1 year

Text

AZRIEL

→ LEGEND

(*) indicates smut.

→ SERIES

the prince of hell

part one. part two.

→ FICS

karaoke night. stars in your eyes. middle of the night. * unholy. * skinny dipping. * high for this. * thrill of the ride. * little wolf. * (feat. eris) starfall. take it off. * in my head.* the art of punishment. * stargazing. be my baby. (feat. cassian and rhysand)

→ REQUESTS

fuck about it. * song of the phoenix. baby fever. big brother. secrets. who did this to you. kitten. * surprise. distracted. * shooting star. winter solstice. needy. all mine. * slow down. * delicate. rain clouds. into it. * little black dress. * obsession. innocence. * wake me up. heat wave. * (feat. cassian) crave.

→ DRABBLES

nonsense. shortcake. just friends. ice cold kiss. * ride it. * mind games. * (feat. rhys) disturbia. * honeybun.

#don't mind me just revamping my whole masterlist #azriel #azriel shadowsinger #azriel fic #azriel acotar #azriel fanfic #azriel fanfiction #azriel fluff #azriel spymaster #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel/reader

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wildestdreamsblog · 1 year

Text

Hiraeth: 1

Pairing: Kim Seokjin x Reader

Summary: You had always been his, and no one could take you away from him. Idol!AU

Warnings: Yandere behavior, Obsessiveness, Possessiveness, Manipulative behavior, Slight age gap, Murder intention, Mention of death, Sexual themes, If you’re not 18+ please, PLEASE, do not interact. Be mindful of the warnings. Let me know if I miss anything.

A/N: I’m in my Jin-I-miss-you era and I’m taking u all with me. Idk yet if this will be two-shot. Do tell me your thoughts 💜

Masterlist

“I’m going to marry you.”

The nine-year old Seokjin lost his concentration upon hearing your declaration. He blinked, and all of a sudden, the game signaled that he lost. His hold on the game controller slackened. It gently hit the carpeted floor. He hated losing. It was game over all because of you.

“I’m never gonna marry you,” he said so meanly that he was sure you would finally stop following him around. But the five year-old you merely grinned, several teeth missing and announced that he would marry you. You were sure of it.

“Will you stop following me?!” Jin seethed, glaring at your small form as you didn’t mind his anger and continued walking behind him eagerly. Jin was at the stage where all he wanted was to move, to burn the excess energy. He was into sports lately. And because he was fond of it, you were, too. Wherever he went, you’d follow. It was like he had another shadow besides his own.

It was annoying.

But it was also comforting.

On times when he’d fall, knees and hands bruised or bloodied, there you were, quietly telling him it was going to be fine, gently washing the blood off of him. You were always there to help him stand up again. You always carried around cute bandaids. He liked to think that you carried it for him.

He was twelve now, and you still followed him around. He even told his mother about you, but she merely giggled and told him that you were the cutest little girl she had ever seen. He should have known she wouldn’t side with him. After all, your father was his father’s best friend. This was why you were always around…and he was used to your presence that when you couldn’t attend some of his family’s event, he would sulked. But the young Seokjin couldn’t wrap his head around the reason why he hated when you were gone.

Yet, he was irritated by your presence.

He saw you as a nuisance, but you saw him as someone who was larger than life. In your young mind, he was the epitome of perfect. He looked like a prince, and his family treated him as such. You wanted nothing but to be his princess. And so, you spent your younger days following him around. You saw him through all the stages in his life, until he became that lanky, yet sporty teenager.

He was fifteen and you were eleven. You knew he was even more irritated with you than glad that you were with his family during their vacations. His mom treated you like her own daughter, saying that you were the daughter she never had, and you were only too glad to have a mother figure. On some vacations, Jin would be kind and played with you with the sand. On some vacations, he would watch out for you whenever you strayed too far on the sea.

On some days though, he scoffed at your presence.

Like right now.

You looked at the entrance of your school with mild confusion, your strides faltering as you realized it was Jin who was waiting for you outside the school premises. He was cooly leaning against their car, their driver sitting on the car, waving at you with a smile on his face. But Jin looked angry.

“Who’s that?” Your close friend and classmate, Chan, asked you. “Why does he look mad?”

Yes. Why was Jin mad?

Perhaps, Jin was too impatient to wait for you because not a moment later, his legs that you noticed were becoming longer as the years passed by brought him faster to you. He stood in front of you, towering over you and Chan. And was he glaring at him?

“Jin!” You gushed in excitement, your adoration to him apparent that you were sure your eyes were gleaming with unrestrained happiness. “Why are you here?”

He turned to you after scaring the poor boy, “Your father asked me to pick you up from school. Our families are going to have dinner together,” he replied in a tense voice. He didn’t even let you speak when he grabbed the backpack that you were wearing, and dragged it to the waiting car.

You didn’t get the chance to say your goodbye to your friend.

Inside the car, his eyes were trained on the window, watching the passing cars. He was pouting, his lips protruding adorably. And there you were, sitting beside him as you nonchalantly ate your candy whilst talking animatedly to their driver.

“Does your father know you have a boyfriend?”

You blinked owlishly, confused with what he suddenly said. The driver only shook his head lightly and smiled. He was watching the young sir sulked until Jin couldn’t keep his silence anymore.

“W-what boyfriend?”

“That boy you were walking with.”

“He’s a friend!”

Jin turned his head to look at you, his eyes appeared darker as he took you in. You were ridiculous in his eyes.

“Sure he is. I’m going to tell your father about this,” he promised in a monotonous voice. His jaw was clenched as he remembered clear as day how the two of you walked so near each other. He knew how other boys thought, especially on that age with their silly crushes.

But if he thought you would be mad, he could not be anymore mistaken. You instantaneously slid across the sit, almost plastering your side to his as you looked up at his eyes.

“Oppa, are you jealous?” You asked with a wide grin on your face, your lips the color of the sweet candy you were eating.

He blinked repeatedly. He could not believe he came across as that! He was just…looking for you. Right?! He was just somehow protective of you.

As gently as he could, he pushed you away. “Don’t be delusional! I’m just worried for uncle! He works so hard only for you to be with boys when you’re so young!” he explained in an annoyed voice, the volume of his voice rising like the way his ears reddened.

“So I should not be with another boy?”

“Yes.”

“So if I stay away from them, will you marry me when we grow up?”

“No.”

You only rolled your eyes at him, unbelieving that the two of you would not end up getting married. Your young self was sure that you would end up with him. A year later, your father transferred you to an all-girl’s school. You didn’t have to know that it was him who influenced your father to do so. At such a young age, Jin was starting to become darker, perhaps a little bit more manipulative. He had done it so underhanded by using his charms and well-placed words that no one would think of him as anything but a sweet, young man.

You were thirteen when girls started being mean to you. Why did kids have to be so mean? Why did kids have to find someone else’s weak spot and attacked it?

You were walking to an alley, a shortcut to your home, minding your own business when the mean girls from school saw you. You learned hate because of them. Your steps faltered when one of the mean girls noticed you.

“Look who’s here,” she sneered, looking at you up and down. Her other two friends paused their chats to look and you and laughed.

“What’s with your messy hair?” One of them asked in disbelief, circling you as she lifted some strands of your hair. You would admit you were bad at combing your hair. You were used to being one of the boys that you didn’t put special care to your appearance. “Do you look like that because you have no mother?”

“You looked like a rat that came from the sewage,” she mocked you. And then the three of them laughed in that annoying way of theirs.

It was not even funny.

You shook your head before attempting to walk past them. But apparently, they weren’t done with you. A scream erupted from your mouth when someone grabbed your hair, tugging it with enough force to bend your neck.

“Where are you going? You think we’re done with you?”

“Yes, freak. We’re done when we say we’re done!”

Even though you fought with all your might, you stood no chance. Three outnumbered one.

Until he came, like a hero you always thought he was.

Jin was in your house, his parents eating dinner with your father. He repeatedly looked at the clock, wondering where could you be. You should be home by now. His knee wouldn’t stop moving as he watched the clock. His parents were laughing with your father when he asked them where you were.

“Oh, she’s on her way home. She’s probably around the alley. You know that girl, she has no patience walking around the block.”

And that was when he left. He politely excused himself, telling them that he would just buy something from the convenience store. Yet, he found himself walking to the mentioned alley.

And he was glad he did.

You were so close to crying, something you didn’t like doing because it always took you forever to stop when someone roughly and carelessly pushed the mean girl away from you. She landed on the ground harshly and you heard her pained whimper. The other two went to their friend, pulling her away from the angry boy. You felt a gentle hand pulling you to stand. You felt Jin brushing the disheveled hair from your face. And then he flashed you a reassuring smile, yet his eyes remained angry.

You were limping as he walked with you. Up until now, he didn’t say anything. And you were all too glad he didn’t. That day, he pulled you to a convenience store, brought medical supplies, and cleaned your wounds quietly. He was bent down as he placed the final bandaid on your knee.

“What are their names?” He asked with an air of nonchalance, but what you didn’t know was his mind was brewing something unpleasant. He was going to unleash hell on those girls.

Without any thought, you told him.

And come morning, you never saw those girls again. Apparently, they were reported to the school and had to transfer.

He was seventeen when he saved you.

You were fourteen and he was eighteen. You were waiting for him outside the university he wanted to enter, in your hand was the placard you spent the whole night making. You were waiting to congratulate him on his entrance exam. There was a crowd outside the school, waiting for their sons or daughters to finish the exam. You were so sure that he was going to pass. Your Jin was the smartest man you knew.

You were grinning and waving wildly when you finally saw him. The years had only made him taller and more handsome. You sighed as his perfect face became more apparent as he neared you. You were so entranced by him that you didn’t notice his other friends and some girls trailing behind him. And they only teased him further when they saw your placard, snickering about how some young girl was pining over Jin.

As if he would be with you.

As if the Jin they knew would be with someone lower than him.

He was so embarrassed that he told you to go home.

“B-but-“

“Go home, Y/N.”

But you meant to ride home with him…

That day, it rained so hard and you were only too pitiful as you walked to the bus stop. You were shivering as you arrived home. And it didn’t come as a surprise that you caught a fever that night. For the first time, you ignored his text asking you if you arrived home safely. You had barely woken up when you noticed his form sitting beside your bed. Your father trusted him so much that he let him in your bedroom. He was silently watching you. On the bedside table was a basin of water and a cloth he used on your forehead. Jin might have appeared stoic in front of you, but inside he was dying from worry when he didn’t hear from you last night.

In fact, he was so worried that he came to your house, knocking on the door sheepishly when he woke up your father and asked if you were home.

He had been here for hours now.

“Are you mad at me?”

You smiled at him weakly. “Never, oppa,” you whispered.

“I’m sorry for leaving you. You should have not came alone, princess,” he lectured gently, still worried that you went on your own for more than an hour travel to cheer for him.

“I wanted to support you,” you pouting defended yourself.

“I know. But next time, don’t. I know you support me even without you going there.”

“W-were you worried for me?”

“Yes.”

“Then,” you said, sitting up slowly before flashing him your cheeky smile. “Will you marry me?”

Seokjin only shook his head.

He was eighteen when he didn’t outrightly said no. He was eighteen when he realized you meant the world to him.

Yet, he was nineteen when he hurt you the most.

It was Christmas. It was the first year he went to college, while you were still in high school. It was the first Christmas he looked forward to because your family and his were spending it together on a cabin near a frozen lake. He was the last one to arrive at the cabin, and he didn’t anticipate the traffic rush from people scrambling to enjoy their holidays that he arrived at a much later night. He didn’t know why, but he spent his first year away from home messaging you daily. He even went as far as demanded you to tell him when you would get home, or when you would go out with your friends, or when you needed someone to pick you up because he would. He would go to you regardless of how far he was. He would drive for hours for you.

Jin parked his car and entered the cabin. He knew you were probably sleeping already, but when he passed the dining room, he could hear conversations that turned something in his brain, something so horrible.

It planted something vile and poisonous in his twisted mind.

“Are you sure about this?” He heard his father’s voice resounding over the quietness of the night. He didn’t know why, but he stayed silent. He was always the polite one, always the one to greet his elders. But right now, he opted to forget his manners.

He opted to eavesdrop.

Your father sighed before putting the glass of whiskey on the table. “I am sure about this. I think it will be good for Y/N and I to move to America. I think it’s an offer I cannot refuse.”

Jin felt a stabbing pain in his heart. No. You would leave him. Your father would take you from him. He didn’t want you gone. He couldn’t have you gone. He would lose it if you weren’t around.

“When will you leave?” His mother asked gently. And Jin dreaded the answer.

“Next week.”

Not if Jin had anything to do with it. No one would take you from him.

“Oppa!”

He snapped out of his dark thoughts when he heard your angelic voice calling to him. You were running full speed to him, and before he knew it you were jumping in his arms. The blunt force of your body slamming to his brought him back to life, to his sanity that was slipping from his grasp.

“You’re here!” You grinned at him as you wrapped your arms around his neck. He was silent. He probably hated your embrace. He probably found you annoying, still.

You were about to step back when he wrapped his muscular arms around you.

“Y/N! Let Jin go. He’s tired from driving all night,” your father nudged you gently, his smile comforting as he greeted Jin. But to Jin, your father lost all his charm the moment he decided to take you away from him.

The lake was frozen.

It was the perfect time to skate. You were giddy as you and your father skated in the early morning of the Christmas eve. It had always been the two of you since you could remember. Your mother died when you were barely walking. To you, your father was your whole world. Your laughters resounded over the whole cabin, and Jin’s parents’ were happy just listening to you. Jin’s mother was preparing hot chocolate, and his father was putting gifts under the tree.

It smelled like Christmas.

“Jin! My boy, come join us!” Your father called when he noticed from a distance Jin who was standing statue like near the lake. His black coat was in perfect contrast of the whiteness of the snow. His cheeks and lips were almost red from the cold temperature.

You thought he looked like a prince.

You waved at him before twirling around the ice. You landed perfectly on your feet. Your father beckoned you to him, and you were only too eager to skate to him when you heard a cracking sound.

You threaded on the thin ice.

And before you knew it, you were falling in the deep, cold water. The unforgiving temperature of the water swallowed your screams. It swallowed your resistance. You managed to get your head above water only to see you own father fell down, the very ground he was skating on cracked under his weight.

It was merely a second but you saw the horror that flashed in his eyes, the despair of his situation, and the anxiety that he would not get to you on time.

The second time you managed to get your head above the freezing water, you saw Jin running to you, shedding his black coat on the ground.

“My father! Save him!” You screamed, even as your voice shook.

But Jin still ran to you. Without any thought for his own safety, he dove down to the harsh water. He dove down like an angel you thought he was as you sank further down, only the light from the cracked lake shone through. He thought he wouldn’t get to you, but by his strong, sheer will, he managed to grab your wrist.

Pulling you up was harder. But Jin was a determined man.

He swam up with one hand, while the other was secured around your body. He managed to drag you up, noticing how blue your lips were. His parents were screaming as they ran to the lake.

“Stay there!” He shouted, knowing how unstable the ice were.

“M-my father. S-save h-him,” you pleaded your hero, gripping his sleeve with weak hand as he wrapped his coat around your shivering body. It was a though he didn’t hear you, only focused on your well-being.

He could save him.

He still had the energy, the adrenaline rush still strong in his veins.

He could technically save him.

But your father was going to take you away from him.

“Jin, p-please save him,” you whispered frantically, looking up to his dark eyes with your pleading ones.

And so, Jin stood up slower, ran slower, and dove a little slower to save your father. No one would technically call him on his bullshit. After all, his parents saw him dove after their friend. You saw him with his own eyes how he dragged your unconscious, pale father from the pits of the cold lake.

You saw him.

“She’s so young to be an orphan. What a tragedy,” you heard them say as you stood stoically on the side. You had not said a word since your father was pronounced dead. They said you were in shocked. They said you were still processing what happened. They said you would be better in time.

But how would they know that?

You were grateful for the Kim family for taking care of everything; from the funeral to the papers, to taking you in. Even Seokjin filed a leave from the university to stay with you.

And he did stay with you. Right now, he was standing beside you, accepting condolences in behalf of you. He was a rock, just a rock that you didn’t want right now. A rock that you somehow selfishly associated with your father’s death.

He stayed with you even when you didn’t want him to.

You had not even looked at him since that tragedy. You knew it was wrong, you knew it was unfair for you to blame him. But were you wrong to blame him when you felt him hesitate? Had he moved a second sooner, would your father still be here? Would he be lying on the hospital bed instead of his coffin?

It was a month later and you still hadn’t said a word despite you going to therapy. It was a month of silence and of you acting like he wasn’t there, like he wasn’t waiting for you to look at him.

“Dear,” his mother called you one night, sitting you down on their living room. “We were thinking…we want to adopt you.”

If you were shocked, Jin was even more surprised. He didn’t know about this. How could his parents decided to do this? To do this to him?!

Your widened eyes looked up from your hands to them. Did they really mean that? Did that mean you weren’t going to be alone anymore? Were you going to have a family again?

“But only if you want to. There’s no rush, dear. Either way,” Mrs. Kim said gently, clasping your hands in hers, tears brimming in her eyes as she took in the pitiful you. “Either way, you’re already a daughter to me.”

“Thank you.” That was the first thing you said in a month. You were so happy. You were so thankful. You were about to hug her when Jin slammed his hand on the table.

“No!”

“Jin! Watch your tone-“

“No, father. I don’t want to be her brother! I don’t want her to be my sister!” He shouted, his voice extremely loud. And for the first time in a month, you looked at his eyes with your hurt ones. He couldn’t even bring himself to regret this. You didn’t know this now, you probably didn’t realize this right now but he was fighting for the future of the two of you. Why would you say thank you to his mother?! Weren’t you the one who kept on bugging him to marry him? Did you now change your mind? No. No, he wouldn’t let you. He didn’t do all of those things for you to change your mind now.

“I’ll never treat you like a sister, Y/N.”

You were turning sixteen when he let you go.

It was already way past your curfew when you arrived at Kim’s home. You were silently walking in the darkened room, certain that no one would catch you creeping in when all of a sudden, light from a lampshade flooded the room.

And there he was, sitting with his legs crossed, his face void of any emotion as he watched you.

“Princess,” he called you in a slurred voice. It was his voice that finally made you looked at him, to look at the boy you used to adore. It was apparent that he was drunk. His cheeks were tinted with redness, and his eyes were somehow unfocused.

You blinked as you took him in. “You’re drunk.”

“And you hate me. And it’s killing me,” he replied back softly, tears were quickly filling his eyes. He could not go on like this. You were killing him. He could not live another day with you being so close yet so far. At that point, he would do anything to get back the young girl who used to adore and support him. Jin stood up, shadows following his form as he neared you.

Had you not let him touched you that night, he would not agree with you leaving him.

But you did not step back when he caressed your face. You did not step back when he hugged you, his shoulders shaking as he sobbed.

“How can I make you love me again?”

“Let me go to America,” you replied calmly. You did want to go abroad, to leave all this mess behind. Had you father not died horribly, the two of you would have lived there by now. But Jin was preventing you from leaving with all his might. The influence he had in his parents was powerful, something that you did not consider. In your young mind, you knew leaving was the best course of action for you. South Korea was killing you. Living with him was killing you. Remembering that he saved you instead of your father despite your endless begging was killing you.

And you hating him because of that was killing him.

Jin towered over you as he leaned back to look at you, his eyes tired and sad. “And if I let you leave me, will you love me again?”

Your heart was beating fast. At that point, you would say anything to get away from him and the memories he represented.

“If I let you leave, my princess,” he whispered as he looked down at your lips. “If I let you leave me, do you promise to marry me when you get back?”

“Yes. I promise, Jin.”

It was your lie that cemented your future.

You were now twenty-five. Years passed by so fast. It was true was they said, time could heal wounds. The promise you made before was long gone from your mind. Your then young mind rationalized that Jin only acted that way because of guilt, that he only asked you to love him again because he was so used to you loving him that once you stopped, you shifted the orbit of his world. You hadn’t personally heard from him in almost nine years. As soon as you turned eighteen and no longer needed the Kim family as guardians, you cut off all communications from him. Yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to distance yourself from Mrs. Kim. She was the mother you never had. But every time you called, Jin would even be more desperate for you. Even his mother was worried for her son, claiming that ever since you stopped communicating with the young man, he started becoming closed off. Every time you called his mother, Jin would snatch the phone away from her, yearning to just hear your voice so badly.

Seokjin was miserable. But his misery was not without anger. He resented the fact that he let you go, that he believed you when you said you would come back to him…that you would marry him.

He regretted letting you leave him. He swore that once he got you back, he would tie you to him so fast you wouldn’t be able to leave him again.

It had been almost a decade.

You weren’t living under the rock, no. To him, it was as though you disappeared from the face of the earth. It was difficult to find you in a foreign country even with his wealth and power. He didn’t know how you were right now. He didn’t know what you look like. He missed the years he could have spent with you. He missed you.

To you though, you could not escape him. His face was everywhere you looked, his life out there for everyone to see. It didn’t come as a surprise to you that he made something more out of himself. After all, ever since you were younger you thought he was larger than life. You were scared to see him in person, though.

You thought seeing him would bring back the pain you so desperately wanted to forget. Your therapist encouraged you to face your fears slowly, saying that you could see him without him seeing you.

You saw him once during their concert in America. Seokjin looked like a prince when you were a child. But now, he was like a king. His persona screamed elegance. He looked happier too as he danced and sang with his bandmates. It was apparent that life had been kind to him. You thought you could finish the whole concert without panicking, but Jin looked a little too long at your direction. And that was when you ran away.

“Do I really have to?” You asked you boss sheepishly, borderline on begging him not to send you back to that place.

He looked at you with an exasperated face, “Do you want to keep your job or not?”

“Right now…” you trailed off, your utter aversion of going back to South Korea was somehow outweighing your desire to eat and afford a roof on your head. “I’m not sure I want to.”

You sighed as you stepped out of the airport. Your company prepared ahead of time, arranging hotel for the whole month you would be staying in this country. You crafted a well-planned schedule which would take you around the pertinent parts of South Korea. You promised yourselves that you would be smart with your time so you could leave as soon as possible with the finished project your company sent you for.

You were expecting a calm and quiet first day.

You really were.

You were praying for that, in fact.

“I apologize, but our system cannot find your name.”

You flashed the hotel receptionist a tight smile, breathing deeply in an attempt to calm yourself. “Can you try one last time?”

She nodded reluctantly, but the result was the same. No room was booked under your name. You thanked her for her time before you attempted to call your boss to no avail. You knew it was probably due to timezone difference, but you couldn’t help but curse him in your head. You would so demand a raise once you get back. You tried booking at another hotel but weirdly enough, all of the rooms were already booked. You even tried booking for an airbnb but the ending was the same.

It was eventually seven in the evening when you swallowed your pride and called her. Mrs. Kim was elated that you were finally back, her motherly warmth could be felt despite her being out of the country at the moment for their anniversary. She did instruct you to go to a house that was an hour away from Seoul. She gave you the passcode and said she would see you as soon as she arrived back to South Korea. By the time you arrived at the white, modern house, it was already almost midnight. The jet lag and the timezone difference were starting to get to you that you decided to shower then sleep rather than touring the house. You would do that tomorrow.

But tomorrow was different.

For the first time in years, you slept so deeply. You had never felt rested since the day of the accident. But today, you felt so serene, so rested. It must have been the wondrous bed that lured you to sleep, or it must have been the extreme weariness from your travel. And probably, it must have been the warmth beside you, your cheek resting on a beating heart.

Wait.

What?

You opened your eyes in sudden alertness, all traces of sleep now gone from your body. The first thing you saw was a plain, white shirt and a pair of black shorts of whomever you were sleeping on top of. The shirt stretched out over a muscular chest and your mind was hopelessly telling you that he smelled familiar…

Slowly, as to not alert whoever this strange man was, you pushed your body away from the man you unknowingly made your bed. You felt his hand resting on the small of your back fell on the bed. With wide eyes and shallow breaths, you looked up at the face of the man you never thought you’d see again- only to find him already looking at you with hooded eyes.

Seokjin gazed at you with warmth, his plump lips lifting on the sides.

“Miss me, princess?”

Hiraeth II

#bts seokjin #kim seokjin fic #kim seokjin yandere #yandere bts #jin x reader #jin x you #yandere!seokjin #jin x y/n #kim seokjin x you #kim seokjin x y/n #bts fic #yandere jin x reader

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hazerun3 · 27 days

Note

I just saw your post about the difference between passive and swan. I'd like to ask the difference between young swad and dream?

shittier doodle this time cuz Im getting tired but the ramblings are probably more unhinged

I dont have particularly strong feelings on dream so this is gonna be mostly younger swad and comparisons to dream when needed

-Views social interaction as inherently transactional and as a game that he can learn to play (he doesnt realise that in the village he was never going to be a player on equal ground, this is why after his ascension his persona is more deity ified rather than a king or smth like nm cuz he wants to be Above it all and in control.)

-Been obsessed with swan even as passives (His Duty to help people got drilled into him, the village feels entitled to his help and swad slowly grows tired of them, but his little brother is always kind to him and doing things for him feels so much more rewarding [tho eventually the village tries to stifle any attempts swad does to get something nice for his brother which frustrates swad so much and swan not asking for anything and just being happy to see him and trying so hard just to make swad happy, even as hes hurt fuels this.] so the mix of the sense of duty, him being the older brother so self imposing a sense of responsibility and swan being nice to him leads him to adopt a mentality where Swan is the only one whos special and actually cares about him not just what he can do for him, but with the way hes raised by the village he tries desperately to try and do something for swan in return cuz he still feels like hes failing in his part of the social bargain)

-Also the cult village placed sooooo much value on stuff like never being angry, always being happy :), youre not allowed to be mean, you Must be hardworking all the time, visibly showing that youre sad is Evil. And swad seethes constantly cuz no one in this fucking village follows that and the one person who embodies all these values the most is swan (who everyone still hates for reasons inexplicable to swad, who believes theres still a way to get swan out of his outcast status if the village just realises that swan is the kindest soul in this rotten place.)

-Dream maintains a more "child" status in the village even as hes older than when swad fights to "adult" status, seeing it as a way to get more social power cuz he picked up that Adults have more power than Children but lol not for him, he just gets to have more responsibilites, the expectation to cut off swan and no money OR gifts for his work cuz gifts are for children doing chores not working adults and since its both swads duty and the fact that he doesnt have anything to spend it on that wouldnt be spending it unwisely they just dont pay him at all! and also hes an object not an adult to them so rushing to try and be an adult backfired miserably

-Swad loves listening to swan read stories to him, reallly wants to be the Prince who saves the damsel and sets his enemies on fire and he projects that persona

-Both he and dream were taken hunting I think, but dream didnt take to it (he had a knack for archery but as soon as he was told to turn that arrow on an innocent bunny he couldnt do it, his more "child" status helps him get out of it) swad was also aprehensive at first but since he places a lot of importance in being the Older Brother and being responsible (also he wants to kill people) so he shoots the bunny, he feels bad and cries about it to swan but he cant let go of the feeling, the smell of blood, the idea of that being someone who hurt swan

-in my head he killed people already lol (used the hunting trips as cover but his hit list is soooooo long and he gets less and less opportunity...)

-he loves shiny things so much but being materialistic and greedy is one of the sins, swan cant get him anything but he does press little flower ornaments for his brother and so much flower jewlery so that swad can roleplay being a prince.

-he hates everyone soooooooo much <3

#hazes drawings #utmv #swapdream #hazes swapdream #swap dreamtale #swad sd #haze rambles #dream sans

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annamcdonalds67 · 27 days

Text

Challenge for the writers 2024

hello, to all the sturniolo fandom writers

I've made a little challenge for you guys that I would like you to participate in

I'm going to write down a bunch of songs down below and I need you to write down a one shot inspired by that song.

This is obviously optional for everyone if you don't want to do this then no problem!

I will edit this post whenever someone has posted a one shot inspired by the song so no one gets blamed for copying

You guys have no limits. I will choose one winner for each category and two runner ups as well

If you see any songs that are like this it means they're taken

The challenge will end at 10th April, and the winners will be revealed a couple days later

Category's

Smut

Fluff

Angst

Rules:

Choose a song

DM me what song you have picked

Tag me in your post

Specify which category you're participating in

And have fun!

Songs:

"Slut!"- Taylor Swift

Make You Mine- Maddison Beer

Golden Hour- JVKE

Better Than Revenge- Taylor Swift

Back To December- Taylor Swift

Is it Over Now- Taylor Swift

Low- SZA

Playing Dangerous- Lana Del Rey

Get Him Back!- Olivia Rodrigo

Labour- Paris Paloma

Bloodline- Ariana Grande

So It Goes...- Taylor Swift

Miss Americana and the Heartbreak Prince- Taylor Swift

Should've said no- Taylor Swift

The Great War- Taylor Swift

Willow- Taylor Swift

Lavender Haze- Taylor Swift

Labyrinth- Taylor Swift

Cupid- FIFTY-FIFTY and Sabrina Carpenter

Our Song- Taylor Swift

Nonsense- Sabrina Carpenter

Feather- Sabrina Carpenter

The Heart Wants What It Wants- Selena Gomez

Shake It Off- Taylor Swift

I Knew You Were Trouble- Taylor Swift

Red- Taylor Swift

West Coast- Lana Del Rey

22- Taylor Swift

Bejeweled- Taylor Swift

The Man- Taylor Swift

Style- Taylor Swift

Blank Space- Taylor Swift

Wonderland- Taylor Swift

Wildest Dreams- Taylor Swift

Bad Blood- Taylor Swift

Vigilante Shit- Taylor Swift

Strangers- Kenya Grace

Delicate- Taylor Swift

End Game- Taylor Swift

I Did Something Bad- Taylor Swift

Paper Rings- Taylor Swift

Anti-Hero- Taylor Swift

Bad Idea Right?- Olivia Rodrigo

Enchanted- Taylor Swift

Gorgeous- Taylor Swift

Speak Now- Taylor Swift

Bubble Pop Electric- Gwen Stefani

Cardigan- Taylor Swift

Dress- Taylor Swift

Lover- Taylor Swift

Look What You Made Me Do- Taylor Swift

Earned it- The Weeknd

...Ready For It?- Taylor Swift

Superman- Eminem

Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High- Arctic Monkeys

Daddy Issues- The Neighbourhood, Syd

Cruel Summer- Taylor Swift

Don't Blame Me- Taylor Swift

Video Games- Lana Del Rey

Salvatore- Lana Del Rey

Million Dollar Man- Lana Del Rey

Art Deco- Lana Del Rey

Radio- Lana Del Rey

Sad Girl- Lana Del Rey

Vampire- Olivia Rodrigo

Everybody Wants To Rule The World- Tears For Fears

National Anthem- Lana Del Rey

Summertime Sadness- Lana Del Rey

Sweater Weather- The Neighbourhood

I Wanna Be Yours- Arctic Monkeys

We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together- Taylor Swift

Karma- Taylor Swift

Because I Liked A Boy- Sabrina Carpenter

Say Yes To Heaven- Lana Del Rey

Boyfriend- Dove Cameron

Older- Isabel LaRosa

I'm Yours- Isabel LaRosa

Eyes Don't Lie- Isabel LaRosa

HEARTBEAT- Isabel LaRosa

all-american bitch- Olivia Rodrigo

People You Know- Selena Gomez

Can't Catch Me Now- Olivia Rodrigo

You Belong With Me- Taylor Swift

Iconique- EMELINE

American Horror Show- SNOW WIFE

Reckless- Madison Beer

CARNIVAL- Kanye West, Playboi Carti, Rich The Kid, etc.

Water- Tyla

Exes- Tate McRae

Agora Hills- Doja Cat

Barbie World- Nicki Minaj and Ice Spice

Moonlight- Kali Uchis

Houdini- Dua Lipa

Slumber Party- Ashnikko, Princess Nokia

Greedy- Tate McRae

Obsessed- Olivia Rodrigo

Softcore- The Neighbourhood

Freaks- Surf Curse

Twin Size Mattress- The Front Bottoms

Me and My Husband- Mitski

Always Forever- Cults

Yes, and?- Ariana Grande

Super Freaky Girl- Nicki Minaj

American Jesus- Nessa Barrett

That's my Girl- Fifth Harmony

2002- Anne-Marie

One of The Girls- The Weeknd, JENNIE, Lili-Rose Depp

@hearts4chriss @evieolo @evie-sturns @flynnriderishot @hysteria-things @breeloveschris @lovingmattysposts @sugrhigh @meg-sturniolo @hoesformatt @vanteguccir @freshloveforthefit @gamermattsgf @b2cute @freshloverr @worldlxvlys @sophssturn @matts-k1tten @sukiipjs @rootbeerworshiper @teapartyprincess4two @muwapsturniolo @freshloveee @chris-slut @fake-sturniolos @solarsturniolo @sturnmaee

SPREAD THIS TOO AS MANY PEOPLE AS POSSIBLE

#imagine #mattsturniolo #sturniolo imagine #the sturniolo triplets #christopher sturniolo #matt sturniolo #fans #nick sturniolo #sturniolo smut #inspired #favorite songs #imagination #blogging

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infinitystoner · 8 months

Text

Exaltation

AO3 | Masterlist

Summary: In which you express the depths of your devotion to Loki of Asgard (whilst on your knees).

Pairing: Prince!Loki x Female Reader

Word count: 2.2k

Tags/Content: Teasing, Bratty Behavior, Humor, Bit of Fluff, Praise, Smut, Oral (m receiving), Established Relationship, Second Person POV, No Y/N

Rating: Explicit; 18+

Author’s note: So, I’m kind of obsessed with writing Prince Loki at the moment. Perhaps this is the start of a new collection? Anyway, here’s a lil’ something for @sarahscribbles’ birthday celebration. I hope you enjoy these brats in love, my dear!

Loki huffs as the two of you cross the threshold into his rooms, kicking the heavy golden door shut behind him, the impact reverberating off the stone walls with a resounding thud.

Norns, he’s as eager to get to the bedchamber as you are. And rightly so – it’s been days.

“Loki!” You giggle as you turn to him, warm laughter faltering at the sight of his solemn countenance, a shift that tinges the atmosphere with something you can’t quite place.

It’s unexpected, yet familiar. Anticipation simmers in your stomach as he releases your hand, jerking his chin toward the blazing hearth at the center of his study.

“Over there. Now.”

Oh.

Just a few hours earlier, Loki, Thor, and their entourage had returned from a week-long royal hunt. Your reunion at the celebratory feast had been nothing short of scintillating – a mirthful evening of rousing conversation, stolen glances, abundant wine, and teasing touches.

But it hadn’t been enough. With Loki, it’s never enough.

He’s always a bit insatiable after time apart, but tonight something is different. There’s a sense of determination emanating from him as he observes you following his order without hesitation. His jaw is set, the muscles of his neck subtly tensing as he holds his head high, nostrils flaring slightly as his eyes bore through you.

It’s quite thrilling, really.

The fire emits a symphony of pops and snaps, flames lapping at the logs in an enchanting waltz as Loki stalks forward, commanding your attention with each step. He unfastens his cloak, draping it over the settee. You wonder why you’re not already draped across the sofa, Loki’s body pressing into yours. But you dare not move from your designated spot, especially when you notice the devious glint in his sharp, calculating gaze.

“It’s been much too long, love.” He’s in front of you now, poised and majestic and biting his lip in the most devastating way. The crackling fire crescendos as logs shift, casting shadows that flicker and sway throughout the chamber, and you furtively take a small step to the left. It’s a vain endeavor to quell the mounting ache between your thighs, but at least the new position allows the amber light to accentuate each curve of your silhouette. Because whatever little game Loki’s planning, you intend to win.

“I don’t know why you insist on making it longer.”

He only hums in response, quirking a brow as he rocks on his heels, regarding you.

Infuriating brat.

Loki slightly startles when you impetuously fist the collar of his tunic, crashing your lips into his. You don’t expect him to lean in, considering his little display of dominance and all, so it’s your turn to be caught unawares when his tongue slips past your lips. It’s slow and sweet, and the lingering taste of honey wine envelops your senses and sends you reeling with pleasure.

When Loki breaks the kiss, you lurch forward, craving more. It’s never enough.

But any momentum you might’ve summoned with your amorous advance is now gone – the deep, jovial laugh rumbling through his chest a stark contrast to your shallow pants.

“Ah, ah,” he tuts, his palm flat against your collarbone. “Remain where you are so that I may get a good look at you.”

“I believe you did enough looking during the feast,” you quip, finally catching your breath. Loki takes another step back, eyes crinkling in mirth and appearing every bit the mischievous god that he is.

“There wasn’t much else that could be done in front of the Allfather and half of Asgard, now was there, darling? And surely you cannot fault me for wanting to admire a divine creature such as yourself.”

Damn that silver tongue.

“But I am curious to know all the sordid thoughts hidden away in that pretty head of yours,” Loki continues, his darkened eyes raking over your body as a familiar warmth ignites every nerve ending like a fiery enchantment. At first, you think he’s magicked away your gown – a dash of disappointment arising in you when you realize you’re still fully clothed.

“Whatever do you mean?” you reply, tauntingly narrowing your eyes. It’s a wily attempt to lure Loki into your trap – because the only thing he loves more than provoking chaos is countering a challenge.

“Careful, little one. Do not lie to me. Not when both know your intentions are less than honorable, what with that rousing performance licking the ambrosia from your fingertips at the high table.”

An impish smile tugs at the corners of your lips as he circles you, the stealth movement reminding you of a predator on the prowl. You refuse to be his prey. For now, anyway.

“Oh, that? Merely an ill-timed consequence of misplacing the serviette.”

Loki’s fingertips trail down your arms before he grasps your hips, pulling you against his solid form.

“Is that so?” he rasps in your ear, his cool breath sending a chill down your spine. His erection is evident, and you both shamelessly groan as you grind your ass into him.

“See?” The timbre of his voice vibrates across your flesh as he cups your breast, his thumb roughly flicking your nipple through the sinfully thin fabric of your dress. “Trouble.”

“You love it.”

“Oh, do I ever,” he hums, scraping his teeth over the sensitive skin below your ear as his hands continue their exploration. It’s an addicting action he knows drives you wild, and, in the haze of lust he’s conjuring, you don’t realize he’s deftly unclasping the pin at the shoulder of your gown.

A small gasp escapes you as the silken bodice pools around your waist. Even with the hearth burning beside you, the air in the chamber is crisp, and Loki’s hands are cooler still. He circles you again, tugging the lustrous material over your hips, a smug grin adorning his face as you stand completely bare before him. You straighten your shoulders as he retreats, his pupils expanding with unabated lust as he drinks in the sight of you.

The light ebbs and flows around you, but your eyes are solely focused on each other as Loki settles into the plush velvet armchair across from where you stand.

“So brazen,” you tease, stepping out of your slippers and lightly kicking your discarded garment to the side. “But I thought you fancied yourself a benevolent god, Loki.”

“Hmm? Oh, yes,” he says, eyeing the front of his trousers. “I suppose that was quite unfair of me, wasn’t it?”

He waves his hand with a flourish, his clothing evaporating in a flash of emerald.

Gods, he’s gorgeous. Golden light flickers across his immaculate physique and a part of you wants to stay here forever – committing the impossible splendor of this maddening man to memory. But Loki has other plans.

“Enjoying the view?”

You release a shaky breath, the throbbing in your core becoming more unbearable by the second. “Yes.”

“But it’s not enough, is it?” His voice drips with a blend of amusement and mockery, as if savoring the mere taste of your frustration.

He’s going to be the end of you. You shake your head, watching in awe as he widens his hips, the ripple of elegant muscle beneath his alabaster skin accentuated in the firelight – but it’s the sight of his beautiful cock resting against his thigh that makes your heart stutter. You’re gawking, too; you’re sure of it. But you don’t care.

When your eyes dart up to meet his, Loki smiles and silently beckons you with a graceful curl of his forefinger.

Finally. Arousal thrums through your veins, but as you move to climb atop him, he snatches your wrist, and you freeze.

“Kneel.”

It’s a command so powerful, so sensual, that you know surrender is imminent.

You’re between his thighs in a heartbeat, yearning to worship every glorious inch of him. Your knees sink into the plush furs at his feet as you prepare to indulge every request he makes.

“Loki…” you say breathlessly, dragging your nails up his muscular calves.

“You know–” he interrupts “–out there, in the wilds of Asgard, the vision of you on your knees, begging for me, possessed my every waking thought. In fact, darling, I was so preoccupied that I nearly clipped Thor with a rogue arrow.”

You breathe out a nervous laugh at his admission, and his lips curl into that damned smirk as he looks down at you. It’s the one he always dons when he’s up to something, and suddenly everything falls into place.

“Beg.”

Your resolve shatters, words tumbling from you without conscious thought. “I need to touch you, Loki. Please.”

“Oh, you can do better than that, dove,” he taunts, languidly beginning to stroke himself. “Beg for me and I’ll give you exactly that which you desire.”

You inhale, mouth watering in anticipation and mind reeling with possibility. And then the perfect words come to you.

“My king,” you say with an air of innocence, pride bubbling in your chest as Loki’s cock twitches in his palm. “I am yours. Completely.”

Your gaze meets his as you caress his thighs, pushing them slightly outward as you lean forward. He exhales when your hand replaces his own, shifting in the chair as you emulate his unhurried strokes.

“Words alone cannot express my eternal devotion.”

His eyes glisten as he reaches down to tenderly grasp your chin, the pad of his thumb massaging your bottom lip.

“That isn’t–” Loki hesitates, his voice carrying a hint of wariness, and your heart aches for him. All these years and some small part of him still believes he’s unworthy of your affection.

He deserves every ounce of veneration you can bestow upon him – and not just tonight. For as long as time stretches across the cosmos, you’ll spend your days and nights proving to Loki the love you share is real and that he is worthy of it and so much more.

“Allow me to exalt you” is what you think you say before he guides himself into your mouth, but you’re not certain of anything right now. Except that he’s warm and heavy on your tongue, and the sweet, tangy taste of him is divine.

You hear him gasp from above, and you moan in turn, watching in fascination as he responds to your touch. He’s everything you desire and soon your fervent slurps and Loki’s soft grunts are the only sounds accompanying the crackles and pops of the fire.

“Gods, yes,” he pants, delicately placing his hand at the nape of your neck as you quicken your pace. “That’s it. That’s my good girl.”

His praise spurs you to flatten your tongue against his cock, working your magic until his hips rise to meet your every movement.

Saliva drips from the corners of your lips as his sounds of pleasure intensify, thighs shuddering around you. His brows knit, face contorting in ecstasy as you gag around him.

“Faen… I- I’m,” Loki manages to say through gritted teeth, chin pointing up to the heavens before his hips jerk once, twice – a strangled groan echoing around the chamber as he spills into your mouth.

When his hand falls from your head, you slowly pull off of him, sitting back on your heels to admire the view before you.

He’s still hard, and you already miss the weight of him on your tongue, but the flush of pink on his cheeks and the thin sheen of perspiration on his brow, along with the ragged rise and fall of his chest, assures you he’s properly sated – for the next few minutes, at least.

“Get up here, woman,” he instructs, eyes twinkling as he guides you to his lap. As you straddle his waist, Loki’s head tilts to the side, an expression of absolute reverence that no one – save for you – ever bears witness to on his handsome face.

“I love you.” It’s a whispered incantation on your skin, his cool breath sparking a yearning that burns brighter than any star in the night sky. Surely this must be what Valhalla feels like.

You open your mouth to respond – to tell him you’d unquestionably journey to the ends of the universe and beyond with him – but the passion burning in his eyes compels you to kiss him again. You delight in the small whimper he makes when you bite his bottom lip, rolling your hips against him in response. Loki deepens the kiss as you comb your fingers through his dark curls. It’s surprising that he allows you to continue your search for friction as you grind into him, but just as you’re nearing the edge of bliss, he pulls away, stilling your motions with his hands as you whine in protest.

The glow from the hearth illuminates his dimples as he grins up at you before playfully swatting your ass.

“You know, I don’t believe you ever actually begged,” Loki says, turning his head to leisurely kiss along your inner wrist. “We’re going to have to rectify that.”

“Is that a threat or a promise, your highness?”

Truthfully, you aren’t sure which prospect excites you more, but without warning you’re in motion, a small shriek escaping you as the prince lifts you, his hands gripping the back of your thighs.

Loki pretends to ponder your question as he lays you gently on the sofa, his practiced fingers dipping between your legs.

“I promise you this, my love: You’ll be begging for release before the night’s end.”

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