I Don't Care If He's Not Benjicot Blackwood, Kieran Burton Is The Perfect Fancast. GIVE ME THE FANFICS!

Oath of Devotion

Kingsguard Gwayne Hightower x Queen Reader

Tags: angst, mention of SA, romantic tension, pining, forbidden relationship, hint of religious guilt, oral sex (female receiving), p. in v. sex, hopeful ending, third person narrative

Wordcount: 9,440 (I blame Freddie Fox for this madness)

As King Aegon is slowly dying from his injuries, his pregnant wife finds solace in Ser Gwayne's company. One night as the birth approaches, she confesses a terrible secret to the knight…

Author's Note: thank you so much to the lovely Lana who made a beautiful moodboard for this oneshot, here ♡

The Seven Kingdoms never had a Lannister Queen before the golden-haired lady had been sent to King's Landing to marry young Prince Aegon. The match had been decided quite hurriedly, as it had always been thought the eldest son of Viserys would marry his sister, but when the time came, a simple suggestion of alliance with the Westerlands by the Hand had been enough to sway the king's mind.

Strong allies were crucial for the stability of the realm, perhaps even more so than the purity of the bloodline, Otto Hightower argued, and Viserys agreed. Marriages could happen further down the line of succession to bring back dragon blood.

The dragon bloodline was safe, Viserys judged, but the realm was still weak and divided from his decision to name Rhaenyra as his heir. The Lannisters made their contempt and disagreement known many times, although never crossing the line of insolence or treason, and a match between their house and the royal house would no doubt appease them and secure their loyalty once and for all.

Therefore, on a sweltering summer day that would remain in people's minds for years to come, a carriage and a large party of armored soldiers crossed the gates of the Red Keep, bringing with them hope for peace, prosperity, as the young lady's dowry came in the shape of economic and trade treaties with the capital.

Gwayne had served his sister the dowager queen and her son after her, and when tragedy struck and a war for the succession erupted, it was ordered that he would now be sworn to the queen.

She was a bright and sweet girl, her mother-in-law often said, strong and resilient but kind and obedient, despite the occasional arrogance. The prospect of war had soothed her edges and calmed her fires, and she took the responsibilities that befell her more seriously than the young king did. She made a good queen, one that protected her people, and as the war tore the realm apart, she brought them comfort and strength.

Day after day and night after night, Gwayne shadowed the young queen as any threats against her were taken with the utmost seriousness and concern. On the other side of the Keep, brought back from the battlefield injured and without a dragon, King Aegon spent both his waking hours and resting ones in pain, a sweat taking over his body as the burns suffered at the hands of Rhaenys and her dragon spread across his skin in rashes that would never heal.

His younger brother Aemond was now regent, and as he took over with the guidance of Otto Hightower, Ser Gwayne was left to guard the queen away from matters of the realm. Even though he admitted to having felt cast away at first, hurt in his honor to be protecting a woman instead of defending his king on the battlefield, he soon came to understand that his mission was of the utmost importance.

As the queen's belly started to swell, Gwayne accepted that it was not simply a woman that he was protecting, but the future of the realm, as a male heir would secure Aegon's position further and lift the troops' morale as they fought across the lands.

It was a noble charge, a delicate one, and in Gwayne's mind, a holy one. He would keep the queen safe, insuring she would carry her child in as much safety, peace, and quiet as he could offer her, and in the end the realm might be rewarded with a new king to lead it, one with a golden crown of hair, with the soul of both a lion and a dragon.

As the queen's belly grew and the quickening was felt, the child keeping her awake at night and uncomfortable during the day, her mood soured. It was not a happy pregnancy, nor was it an easy one, and Gwayne felt for the young woman. He could see the shadows growing under her eyes, their shine becoming more dull—he didn't voice his concerns, as it was not his place.

He knew the bearing of a child could weigh heavily on a woman's mind and health. Such was a woman's curse, and a man could only pray that the gods would lift her burden.

Gwayne spent his nights in prayers, his eyes trained on the queen's door but his mind deep in pleas to the gods, reciting the texts he had learned. He prayed for an ease to come to the young woman, for relief of her pains, whether they were physical or of the mind, and for the strength to bear what was still to come. He feared she would not survive if she did not regain some sort of strength, spiritual if not any other.

Which is why his heartbeat quickened one night as the queen's first lady-in-waiting came out of the royal chambers with an unusual request.

The rooms were still lit with many candles despite the late hour, and the hearth was blazing hot and bright. She could not bear to sleep, not even to lie down, and even after two baths over the course of the evening, both with scalding water despite the Maester's recommendations, she still could not settle.

She was not one to beg nor reduce herself to ask service from her guards, and she kept to the schedule that was decided for her, but on this night, the burden was too much for her to bear silently.

"The queen wishes to visit the Sept," she heard her lady instruct the knight, but his answer wasn't the one she expected. Instead of agreeing as he usually did to everything she asked of him and leaving to attend to what he had been given, he stepped into the room and after a customary nod, spoke in a measured tone.

"The hour is too late, my queen," Gwayne tried politely, worried etched over his noble features. "Traveling through the city to the Sept is not safe."

Gwayne carried himself with pride and nobility, a quality that she had admired from the beginning, even more so when the knight had been assigned to shadow her day and night. He made the perfect sworn protector, with a non-threatening demeanor that allowed the young queen to feel at ease in his presence, as well as a galant and reverent disposition that brought warmth in her chest.

He was deferent and respectful to a fault, which is why it made her take a step back as he entered the room without being prompted or invited, and for a moment she feared he was acting on the king's orders, as the young man was his beloved nephew.

"The hour doesn't matter," she insisted, hoping her orders would be the only ones he was following. "Wake as many guards or servants as it will require."

Gwayne shifted where he stood, curling his shoulders inward and narrowing his stance, and for a second she thought he looked much younger than she knew him to be, before fright took over any affection she had for the man. "Surely whatever ails you can wait until the morning, your Grace," the man tried to placate, but a sudden burst of anger rose in her chest until she thought she might suffocate with it. 

"No it cannot!" she roared, so sharply that her delicate voice broke in her throat and her maidservant flinched. Never had she seen her mistress speak as such, and it was with a trembling hand that she brought a warm cloth to the queen's cheek, delicately wiping her tears away.

"It cannot wait," she wailed, then covered her mouth in panic when her chest heaved and her stomach rose.

Her maid was quick to respond as the young queen turned and fell to her knees, surely grateful for the bucket the servant provided. She wept as she coughed and heaved, holding her stomach with one hand and gripping her maid's arm with the other.

"My queen, is it the babe? Shall I call for the Maester?" Gwayne asked worriedly, ready to bolt out of the room in search for help. 

"Call for the Septon, I beg of you," she whined as the maid stroked her hair and back soothingly.

Gwayne swallowed his worried protests and nodded again, retreating from the room quietly as the queen cried and begged in whispers, a despair so sharp that it brought tears to his eyes.

From this night on, Gwayne watched his sworn charge with rapt attention, following the young queen dutifully as she visited the Sept each day, morning and evening, and prayed on her knees with a fervency rarely seen outside of the order of the Sisters. His worries he kept for himself, although they must have shown on his face, and his prayers were silent on his lips as well.

As he watched over the young woman, he prayed without words, asking the gods for wisdom and guidance so that he could protect his queen to the extent that she needed.

She was in danger, at war with a despair so profound it could only come from inside, but no matter how many hours Gwayne spent on the issue, he could not figure out what threatened the queen so much. Her marriage with King Aegon had been young and loveless as the war started, and now that the pregnancy made her position more secure, she was neither saddened by her husband's condition nor joyful at the prospect of an heir.

Something terrible was afoot, Gwayne could sense, but his imagination failed him and he could not decipher it.

Whenever the hour or the weather did not permit traveling across the city to the Sept, she instead spent time under the Weirwood, which she found comforting. Back home in Casterly Rock, the cave where the ancient tree dwelled was a place of peace and harmony for her.

One evening, as her maid and her sword protector waited on the edge of the courtyard, she wondered with sadness if she would ever see it again. She remembered the way her whispered prayers would echo in the deep chamber, as though the rock was murmuring them back to her, repeating them as a parish would repeat a Septon's sermon.

"Ser Gwayne," she suddenly called, smiling as she heard the clinging sound of his armor.

"Yes, my queen," the man answered, and his melodic voice brought a warmth to her chest.

The man was often silent, but never cold, and she enjoyed his presence more than she had initially thought. He was pious and gentle, and he had the utmost trust of the dowager queen—a trust she found herself giving him as well, as each act of loyalty brought her comfort.

Kneeling under the large tree, a book of prayer on her lap even though her thoughts had strayed, she looked up at the man and found his piercing green gaze trained on her eagerly. There sometimes was an earnestness on his features, one that endeared him to her.

"There is a Weirwood tree where you grew up, isn't there, Ser Gwayne?" she asked, and he seemed taken aback by the question.

"Yes, there is, my queen."

"Did you visit often?"

"Not often enough. I wasn't so devout in my youth, I admit." 

She smiled as the ghost of a laugh passed her lips. Gwayne allowed the corner of his lips to stretch to the side, comforted by the fact that this detail of his childhood seemed to amuse the queen, and he wished he had more peaceful or cheerful memories to share with her. He had been sworn in to the Kingsguard not long after his mother's passing, and most of his childhood memories were now tainted with her loss.

"How strange for a man who was raised in the cradle of the Faith of the Seven," the queen pressed as a gust of wind blew across the courtyard.

She picked her shawl from her lap and wrapped it around her shoulders, covering her back with the bright red fabric where a golden lion was embroidered. 

"Without a doubt, your grace," he replied, and it seemed she found his answer lacking.

"Do you miss it?"

"No, I don't," he answered honestly, and as her bright green eyes lifted to him once more, he continued. "I am exactly where I'm supposed to be, your grace. My life is here, serving the royal family."

"Which is also your family. You are a loyal man, Ser Gwayne. A man of honor," she praised, and she could swear she saw him blush in the dimmed light of the evening, pink erupting under the starlight spatter of his freckles.

For a moment she feared her secret would tumble out of her lips and her chest swelled with the raw emotion of it. She took a deep breath under his attentive gaze, wondering whether he would accept her confessions and bear her burden as she was forced to.

As she took in his noble features, the breeze making his copper strands dance, shame suddenly rose in her stomach and the words died on her lips before she could even give them shape. How could she even begin to voice the terrible secret that she bore, how could she ask such a devout and honorable man to keep her confidence, one that was rooted in utter disgrace and the most unholiest of acts.

Her hesitation must have shown, as the knight took a step forward and offered his arm to help her rise from the cold ground, but as he spoke she was reassured that he had not the faintest idea of the shame and self-loathing she carried.

"The hour is growing late and the air has quite a chill. Perhaps my queen would like to go back," Gwayne offered as he saw her shiver again, and she took his arm with a whispered thank you.

She rose in silence, wrapping her shawl around herself tighter as they walked back to the castle, still tormented by the moment she had just lived. She had been tempted to take the plunge into complete honesty and bare her shame to her sworn shield. 

She desperately wanted to be seen, just as she viciously wished to protect her secret and her shame. The duality of such a burden weighed heavily on her, and she was afraid she would die, crushed under this unsurmountable trial. 

"Shall I call for a bath to be drawn?" Gwayne asked from where he walked, always a step behind her on her right side.

"This is above your function, ser," the queen remarked casually, almost glad for the distraction. Still, her tone was almost breathless and the knight stopped for a second and dipped his head in silent apology.

"My apologies, I have overstepped," he replied in a demure voice and this time it was the queen's turn to stop. Standing under the archway leading back into the Keep, she turned to face her sword protector, an open expression of gratefulness overshadowed by her sadness.

"You have not, Ser Gwayne. I merely meant that it is unusual for a knight to concern himself with such mundane tasks."

"I concern myself with your comfort, not only your safety," Gwayne explained, keeping his eyes low in what could be interpreted as reverence, but in truth he was unsure if he could bear to look her in the eye at that moment. "You are carrying the future of the realm, after all."

"Of course," she replied, but this time her tone was clipped and cold, and by the time Gwayne raised his eyes to her, she had stepped away again. One of the layers of her shawl was floating behind her as she rushed inside and up the stairs, as though she was eager to take her leave of him. 

Shame curled in his stomach as he realized he had crossed the young queen somehow, and for a moment he wondered whether she had been expecting something of him, something he had failed to deliver. He thought of her words, of her emotions that played so openly in her eyes; if one knew how to look past the regal air she gave herself as armor, and he found himself caught on a delicate edge.

He was unsure where the line between insolence and amicable conversation was, whether or not he was meant to speak of his own volition or wait for her prompting. There were times where he felt she waited for his words, as though they bore some profound meaning that soothed her.

"Did I overstep this time, my queen?" he quickly asked, their footsteps echoing in the empty stairwell.

This part of the castle was deserted at that hour, since most of the lords and ladies had retreated in their quarters for dinner, but Westerners dined at later hours, he had found out.

"No, you didn't," she assured, glancing at him over her shoulder. Curls had come loose from the breeze, bringing layers to her updo.

It wasn't until they were back in the antechambers of her quarters that Gwayne realized there were tears in her eyes, and as she turned toward him to dismiss him, her gaze looked like a forest in the rain, a storm drowning acres of pines.

"I have upset you," he stated with mild panic. "Please forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive, my good ser. I have upset myself," she replied with a smile that further concerned him. She took a breath that seemed to rattle her chest or heave her stomach, and her hand drifted to her abdomen. 

Gwayne suddenly remembered the night his worries had arisen, and the question that he had kept contained for fear of being insolent suddenly pushed past his lips. "Is there something wrong with the babe?"

The young queen took a step back as though he had struck her, and heaved once more. "Now you are overstepping," she accused, tears rising in her eyes, but Gwayne knew he had found an element, if not the source, of her enduring despair.

Part of him defended that it was his duty as a sworn knight of the realm to protect the future of the crown, but he knew deep inside that his concern for the queen overtook his concern for the realm.  

"I am your sworn shield, my queen, your protector. How can I protect you if I do not know what ails you?" he pushed and her hands curled into fists, holding the brightly-colored shawl in front of her like it was giving her composure. 

For a suspended moment Gwayne thought she would strike him across the face or order for him to be disciplined, but she did neither. Instead, her face smoothed over and all emotions left her, like a steel vault closing. She took measured steps backward into her chambers and beckoned him inside with a quiet word.

"Leave us," she ordered to the girl who was currently preparing her bed, propping pillows and smoothing the covers. "I need a private word with Ser Gwayne."

The girl left without a word, barely a quick curtsy, leaving him alone with the queen. She looked strangely calm, all of her emotions swimming in her eyes behind her blank expression. She walked to the fire, observing it for a moment as though it held the words she was looking for. The orange light illuminated her features and she spoke without looking up at Gwayne.

"Would you keep a secret for me," she whispered, as though the mere question was a treason, something reprehensible. 

"I would never betray your confidence," the knight replied, his heart galloping in his chest as a wild horse. He knew they were on the edge of a confession, that there would be no coming back from it—he would likely never forget her words, and she would likely see them on his face every time she looked at him.

"Swear to me," she said, barely turning her head, and her gaze was fierce and burning.

“I swear to you, my queen, upon my sacred vows, that I would never reveal your secret," he swore, shivering under the intensity of her eyes.

"You once asked if the king hurts me, do you remember what I replied?" she asked bluntly, turning to him and crossing her wrists at the top of her round belly.

"The king doesn't touch me," Gwayne recited coldly. 

The queen took a deep, steadying breath, facing her burden and the gaze of her sworn shield with a courage that inspired him.

"The full truth is, the king doesn't need to touch me in order to hurt me,” she said regretfully. "He makes me... perform acts, for his viewing pleasure," she whispered with the look of a frightened deer, gauging his reaction.

He held onto his composure, relief loosening his shoulders slightly. He could easily imagine how a noble woman could feel debased by this, but what she had just confessed didn't touch the more horrible images his mind had conveyed over the last few weeks when he had wondered about her sorrows.

"There is nothing shameful about an act that was performed under duress. The shame is his," Gwayne replied fervently—he knew well enough of his nephew’s proclivities, and regretted that his temper was so ill-matched with that of his queen.

"You do not understand, Ser Gwayne. It is worse than what you are imagining,” she whispered tearily, rushing to him in desperate steps and for a mad second he thought she would reach out, place her hands on his arms.

He lifted his hands from the pommel of his sword, and her gaze quickly flitted to them as though she was considering his touch, but refrained. They remained in heavy silence for a moment, her eyes peering into his with such an intensity, he despaired words could not be shared in this way. Her lower lip trembled and she looked at him with visible heartbreak, as though she was about to bid him a definitive farewell.

"The baby isn't his,” she whispered, quiet and pleading, as though uttering those words would have the gods strike her down before she could finish her breath. "When he came back from battle, before the sweat took over his body, he already could not perform anymore," she explained, a great flush of shame upon her graceful features.

"Then, who..." Gwayne swallowed, unsure how to reconcile this terrible truth with her earlier admission. "Is it Prince Aemond?"

"Gods, I wish it was," she replied with a mirthless smile, twin tears making their way down her cheeks. "But the prince is too honorable and would have slain his brother at the mere suggestion. He would never betray Princess Helaena."

Gwayne shifted his weight, considering his next words carefully in the face of her frailty, but she spoke again before he could find them.

"Aegon had Ser Arryk scout the streets of King's Landing, rounding up the illegitimate children of Prince Daemon or King Viserys. As you surely know there are many working the docks or the brothels," she explained. "He had them brought back to the Keep for a specific purpose, and brought to his chambers one by one."

"I understand," Gwayne assured, but it seemed that now that her terrible secret was out, all the words she had kept to herself and the gods were pouring out of her sweet lips.

"Every night until my moons stopped coming," she recounted, her gaze staring into a void he could not see, her frame trembling as though the pain was cursing through her body once more. "I thought that now that I was with child, he would stop, and for a while he did. However the Maester confirmed that the child is alive and strong, and that there is no reason for me not to perform my wifely duties."

"The night you begged me to bring you to the Sept in the middle of the night..." Gwayne closed his eyes in shame, dropping his chin. Bitterness coated the roof of his mouth as he recalled the two scalding tubs of water she had had delivered to her rooms, her urgency, the way she wailed in despair when he refused to escort her to the Sept.

"I pray to the gods every night... I do not know what to pray for. I pray that it is not a son and that the future of the realm is not compromised, that a second war is not about to erupt," she sobbed, her hands coming to shield her face from his gaze. "And I pray that it is not a girl, because he will not stop until I have given him a son."

Gwayne's face contorted with her agony, and he wished he could lift the burden from her shoulders, and give it to its perpetrator. He loved his nephew—he had loved him as a prince and had often indulged his proclivities, and he loved him as king, but such depravity was beyond what he was prepared to forgive.

"Now my shame is plain for you to see, good ser," she said, looking somehow more rested than she had in weeks, her shoulders dropping in relief. 

"The shame is not yours. It is his, and mine. His for betraying your honor, and decency itself, and mine for not having seen it," Gwayne replied fervently. 

He took a careful step forward, too close to what was deemed appropriate, and yet she allowed him with wide eyes and parted lips, caught in the pull of his devotion. She took a deep inhale when he picked her hand up, slowly brought it to his lips, and pressed a kiss to the back of her knuckles. "I will not fail you again," he vowed, and she sighed, her small fingers curving into his hold.

He swallowed, suddenly feeling the closeness of her skin like the sun at the highest point of summer, scorching his cheeks, and he could not help himself. He pressed a second kiss to the back of her hand, feeling himself falter—his head spun as he pictured himself kissing along the delicate bones of her wrist, up her arm until he reached the soft skin at the crook of her neck.

He let go of her hand suddenly, taking a sharp step back, and at that she looked bereft; but he was sworn to protect her, and he would not tempt her into sin, no matter his desires and his conviction that he could please her as she deserved.

He saw the moment her emotions burrowed under the surface again, and her features closed over them, her face smooth as marble once more. "Would you call my maid back in?" she said, her voice firm and flat, and somehow Gwayne felt more wretched from that simple question than his own shame.

The next few weeks passed in much a similar fashion than they had before her confession, except that this time Gwayne was much more attentive to her outward signs of distress. He had hoped that the queen's confession would relieve her of much of her burden, as shame was the most wretched companion, but it seemed to have had the opposite effect, and any warmth she had once shared with him was gone.

His mind seemed to clear from the fog of yearning he had found himself caught in before her revelation, and he clung to the mission he had assigned himself as a lifeline. He stood proud and unyielding as a servant came to fetch the queen night after night, refusing for her to be summoned, even when the young man was replaced by Ser Arryk. 

His devotion to the queen came in the form of his steadfastness, fueled by the ache in his chest now that he knew of her burden. It came in the form of his silent presence at the door when the time of labors came, and midwives rushed in and out of the rooms to fetch linens and water. 

The girl that was born to her was pale as the moon, and yet made her mother smile as bright as the sun. Gwayne looked down at the babe with delight and fondness as he was introduced to her, his second charge, and he instantly took it on with pride.

"She looks like you, your grace," he said quietly, and the slow nod the queen gave him in return was charged. They both knew this time was only a reprieve and that her nightmare would soon start again.

"How marvelous it is, that such a pure and perfect being shall be born of such darkness," she murmured, only for him to hear, pressing her bundle closer to him. 

Gwayne dipped his head until the line of propriety was crossed and he could smell the milk on both his charges. "As long as I am sworn to you, I vow that her purity will not be touched by this corrupted world."

The smile she bestowed on him at those words was as soft as a kiss, and he felt it on his face as though she had pressed it into his skin. 

With the beauty of that new life shining a light on the queen, came the shadow of what would follow. As she took to her chambers to rest and bond with her baby daughter, and he guarded the door more often than he effectively guarded her. Gwayne felt a tension mount in him, scalding and bitter. It colored his tongue in a way he usually controlled, but this time he could hardly contain himself. 

Words came bolting out like a wild horse one morning and he lost his grip on them and on his impulses, until he found himself waiting in the antechambers of the queen, his sheath in hand but his armor nowhere to be found. He felt unworthy of wearing it, his head down like a scolded child after the heated words the hand had spoken to him.

The heavy doors opened and he was summoned, stepping inside with his gaze tilted downward in the foolish hope of concealing his bruised cheekbone and split lip.

The rooms were bathed in the soft morning light and in the smoke from the night's candles. In the middle of those ribbons of white, the young woman sat. Upon seeing her, all shame vanished from Gwayne's chest and instead came a great conquering feeling, and he knew he would not be able to summon an honest apology for his actions.

"It was reported to me that you disrespected your lord commander," the queen said slowly, and Gwayne could only nod. There would be no use denying the truth of his deeds and his words, and he found he had no wish to conceal them from her.

"I confronted him. I asked him how he could allow the king to treat you in this way and never intervene," Gwayne said solemnly, a hint of defiance in his voice, and to his delight the queen huffed a sad laugh.

"You needn't defend my honor, ser," she said, lowering her eyes.

"Yes I do," he replied, widening his stance and looking up at her with the impertinence she knew he sometimes had. 

It was the righteous insolence of nobility, of not being a simple knight of the kingsguard, come from squiring for a noble lord, but the son of the Hand to three kings. She found beauty in the way he dared step over the line, and in the impudent way he was looking at her in that instant, showing pride in what he had done.

"You have hardly been able to look at me these last few days," she murmured, licking her lips.

"You misunderstood, I am ashamed, yes, but of myself!" he cried out, taking a step towards her once more, and heat bloomed in her stomach as she remembered the last time he had allowed himself to get close to her. "I was sworn to protect you and I failed to do so."

"Ser Gwayne, you forget yourself!" she admonished, but in truth she wished to reprimand herself for the way her thoughts strayed. 

Her hands came to rest on her belly and she closed her eyes, looking for composure. "I did not mean to offend you, or bring you shame," he said, quieter, his temper settling. He knew aches and pains came to her more often now that her term was near, and for all his pride at having struck his commander, he did not wish to distress her.

"You did not. My disdain for Cole is known, if anything I am grateful you spoke your truth to him," she conceded, then licked her lips over a smile that threatened to appear on her face. "I heard you bruised his face."

"I did," he replied, lifting his chin and unfurling his shoulders.

"A shame that he bruised yours," she said, rising from where she was sitting. She fumbled for a moment, troubled, but found steadiness as she dipped a handkerchief into the small basin of fresh water her maid had left on a table. 

Without another thought, she came to him in quick steps and reached up, pressing the wet cotton to the split side of his lip. "Your father and nephew won't have you dismissed. We need good soldiers at this delicate time," she soothed although it was unnecessary.

She watched as Gwayne's lashes fluttered, casting shadows on his freckled face, and her chest swelled in yearning. He looked so young in that instant, without the bulky armor that kept his lean frame hidden, and she flushed as she realized she had never seen him so uncovered. Her treacherous gaze flitted downward, along the planes of his chest and stomach under the simple cotton shirt he wore, to the cream-colored trousers where a tantalizing line of buttons rested over a slight bulge.

She averted her eyes but the silent sin had been committed, and when she met Gwayne's face again, he was watching her raptly. He reached up to hold her hand against his face, leaning into her until his nose and lips were nestled in the crook of it.

"Gwayne," she murmured, forgoing his title and all propriety along with it. 

His piercing eyes remained on her as his lips followed the line of her veins from her palm to the inside of her wrist and arm, uncovered from her large sleeve pooling at her elbow. They both sighed as she gently threaded her fingers through his copper mane, and a lick of heat went through her as his parted lips revealed his tongue.

She retracted her hand as though his fiery hair had burned her, tears coming to her eyes. “I was soiled, ser. Do not debase yourself," she murmured regretfully as his hand caught her elbow, keeping her close.

"You were not. You are made holier and purer to me because of the suffering you have been put through," he pressed, fervent as ever, and she desperately wanted to believe him, to cling to the reverent way with which he looked at her and hold on to whatever scraps of honor she still had.

"Please," she said, taking a few steps back and he let her go, her arm slipping out of his grasp until her fingers were falling from his, their fingertips grazing. 

The cut on his lip was stinging more fiercely now, and he nodded a few times as he pressed his tongue against it subtly—he bent down and picked up the kerchief she had dropped, white tainted with a few spots of his blood, and slipped it into his pocket.

He watched feebly as she closed her eyes against hot tears, taking deep, steadying breaths until he saw her surrender spread across her face. 

"The maester has informed me that my afterbirth confinement is to end, and that I may return to the King's bed," she said before she opened her eyes again, and Gwayne swallowed heavily under the implication.

“It may be over soon, my nephew won’t live to be an old king", the words fell from his lips before he could think them through.

“Hush, you must never be caught uttering those words!" she cried out, rushing to him again and pressing her hand to his mouth. "Mind your tongue, even here with me.”

Fear coursed through him and it must have shown on his face—for a second he wondered if he had willfully ignored affection she bore to the king despite his transgressions. However she shook her head, the pressure of her hand lessening until her fingertips were barely grazing his lips.

“I simply meant…" she softened. "You are safe with me and I shall keep your confidence, but I could not stand you being disgraced, or worse, if you were heard.”

The pads of her fingers lingered on his lips, and he could not help but lean into them, seeking her warmth. She gasped as the tip of his tongue came to taste the salt of her skin but did not retract her hand.

They were both breathing heavily, caught in that suspended moment, and he wondered if she would suddenly push him away as she had in the past.

"I will endeavor to remain by your side, always, my queen," he said reverently, dipping his face until his mouth was hovering over hers; such sweet lips deserved to be kissed, to be worshiped. Her fingers dropped from his face but his mouth grazed her cheek as she turned.

"Ser Gwayne, you forget your vows," she whispered.

"What are the meaning of those vows if I cannot protect you and serve you as you deserve? I am sworn to you," he pressed, his breath hot on her face, his eyes full of adoration. "I am yours. In every way you might require."

He tilted his head, seeking her mouth again, and this time she allowed him. Her fingers curled in his shirt as his mouth pressed to her gently, firm but chaste, his lips molding perfectly against hers. He waited with batted breath as she pressed back, letting her guide him, sighing quietly as she pulled back only to push herself up on her toes and kiss him again.

Ever mindful of how delicate she was, he wrapped an arm around her waist softly, enjoying the delighted sigh that came from her parted lips, and the way she melted against him as his tongue prodded hers. Her hand was back in his hair, carding through the thin strands and making the back of his neck prickle, while she tasted his passion and explored his lips with hers.

He was gentle and slow, yielding to her instead of taking, but she could feel the tremble of his body as he restrained his desires.

The healing touch of her sworn protector turned firmer as her hands pressed into the muscle of his chest, and she felt him quiver as she followed the plane of his flat stomach until she reached his waist. His belt was somewhere else with the rest of his armor and she delighted in the softness of his clothes, the ease with which she could reach his skin. 

He pressed his moan into her mouth, his tongue curling against hers as her fingers fell to the buttons of his breeches. He buried his face in her neck as she boldly curled her hand over him; he encouraged her, his own hand coming to rest at her bottom.

She rubbed him through the linen, feeling the weight of his stones and the length of his shaft; she relished in how it hardened in her palm. For once she had a choice, and in her arms was leaning a man that desired her, adored her beyond the shadow of a doubt. In his arms, she felt free, cherished—she soared as he moaned aloud when the heel of her hand pressed harder against his tip.

He widened his stance and heat washed over her as he did so.

"Your grace," he murmured in her neck, his voice edging on a whine, pleading and reverent.

"Not here," she whispered in his ear, breathing in the scent of his hair, sweat and soap. "I'm not your queen here. Please."

"You're always my queen..." he replied, his mouth pressing hot, wet kisses along the column of her throat, down into the collar of the gown she was wearing. "My lady of light."

His eyes were clear and piercing as he looked up, his fingers following the path of the tight laces until they found the knot at the base of her neck and pulled. She held his head to her chest, then to her abdomen as he removed the laces expertly, taking her dress and shift down as he went. She shivered as his hair grazed her breasts, his mouth following an invisible line from her collarbones to her navel.

Finally, as his knees hit the floorboards and two rings of fabric laid at her feet, did he look up again. His eyes were dark, blown wide, his cheeks flushed a dark pink and his lips parted on a sigh that could have been her name.

"Gwayne," she called, and he went swiftly, rising gracefully and picking her up, her legs around his waist. Her silk slippers fell to the floor as he brought her to the bed, his breath in her mouth and her core flush with his abdomen.

He laid her down on the edge of the bed with a care that brought tears to her eyes and kneeled in front of her once more. He picked up her feet one by one, and after removing her stockings, kissed one of her ankles, his lashes fluttering.

"Look at me," he said, his gentle tone bordering on commanding and it made her shiver. 

She was so used to having him at her call, obeying her every whim, and it felt good to lay back and allow him to take the reins. This control she was giving him didn't make her feel afraid, in fact she relished in it, and in the trust she had in him.

He kissed her ankle, then her knee, pushing her leg up until it came to rest over his shoulder, and finally, he reached the place she so desperately wanted him to kiss. 

She braced despite herself, but gasped when the press of his lips was merely a graze, the gentlest of kisses. It made her shudder, a blazing path running from her core up her spine, and she found herself rocking up against him, seeking more friction.

"Oh gods, Gwayne," she sighed as he kissed her pearl firmly, the very place she touched when the night was thick and she was alone, closing her eyes to visions of piercing green eyes and fiery hair.

She watched him as he savored her, his tongue coming to lick a careful strip up her folds, then prodded past the soft flesh to find her most sensitive spots. Soon she couldn't hold herself upright and fell to the sheets, her hands tangling in his luscious hair as her legs curled over his shoulders.

The cut on his lip stung but he ignored it, if anything the low burn incensed him, as though it was a mark of his devotion. She arched her back as he flattened his tongue on her core, and he felt her legs shake over his shoulders, her heels digging into his upper back.

"Gwayne," she whined, her grip tightening on his hair.

"Let go," he pleaded, desperate to feel her peak under his mouth. 

Curling his hands around her thighs, caged between her knees, he savored the ache in his jaw as she rocked back against him, gently then more pressing. He felt a tension mount in him as she grew stiffer under his grip, frantic, her body tight like the rope of a bow until it snapped.

She cried out as Gwayne's tongue pulled shudder after shudder of pure ecstasy from her pearl, irradiating her entire body. Heat spread in her core, her most intimate place pulsing with molten waves, curling her toes and arching her back. 

As she regained her breath, Gwayne was kissing the inside of her thigh, one of his hands stroking her soothingly while his other was busy between his legs, no doubt working the buttons of his breeches.

"Allow me," she panted, and he obeyed without hesitation; he climbed after her on the bed, his hips on either side of her and she reached up. Her trembling fingers fumbled with the tight buttons for a moment, and by the sight of her knight holding himself over her, his head hanging between his shaking shoulders.

He climbed off the bed as soon as the buttons were undone, pulling his shirt over his head and messing his copper strands even more. She found herself mesmerized by them, wanting to card her fingers through them again as he took his pleasure this time. She traced the curves and planes of his upper body with her eyes—from his defined shoulders to the swell of his pectoral and the carved lines of his abdomen.

Time slowed as they both looked at one another, her gaze caught by the open lapels of his breeches, showing the tented line of his small clothes, while his own gaze was running appreciatively over her curves. Pleasure had left a sheen over her skin, her breasts were peaked, and the long lines of her legs led him to the apex of her thighs where he now dreamed to bury more than his mouth.

Gwayne hesitated—serving and pleasuring her on his knees was one thing, but laying atop her, breaching her and seeking his own peak was another. "Are you certain?" he asked, and he saw hesitation spread over her face in turn, her cheeks flushing in shame.

He licked his lips. "I've broken my vows before, I am not proud of it, but..."

"I've thought of you," she confessed. "To make my nightmares endurable, to make my solitude bearable..." she trailed, then lowered herself to her elbows once more, bringing her knees up to part them. 

Without a second thought he pulled his boots off, and soon a pile of rough cloth and linen was joining it, and he stood fully bare in front of his queen.

"Wait," she said timidly as he stepped forward, ready to join her again, and he shivered as he realized she meant to look upon him a moment more.

He flattened one of his hands on his stomach, hoping to soothe the throbbing of his cock. It stood hard and leaking, pink at the tip, his stones heavy under the shaft. He bit his lip as she watched, her eyes blown wide in obvious pleasure as he succumbed to temptation and gave himself a slow pull, but instead of soothing the ache, it made his skin stretch tighter over his hardness.

"Do you ever think of me?" she asked, more brazen than she was a second ago, and her newfound confidence excited him.

He shook his head. "I faltered a few times but I never allowed myself. Not fully," he confessed.

"Would you do it now?" she asked, and he knew there was more to it than simply a woman asking to watch a man—it was a wounded girl taking back her power, taking her place as the one in charge for once, and he felt more honored than when he had taken his vows that she felt safe enough to ask it of him.

"You can refuse," she added, and her care broke his heart. He shook his head again. 

"I wouldn't refuse you that," he said, starting a slow rhythm, his skin prickling with excitement as she watched him take pleasure by his own hand. He felt his face and chest flush and he widened his stance slightly, only for the satisfaction of seeing her press her knees together at the gesture.

"Gwayne," she called again, and he knew he would never tire of her saying his name in this way, breathless and adoring.

"One time in the Sept, you caught me watching you, praying on your knees," he reminded her.

"You blushed, I had never seen you so flustered," she chuckled, then bit her lip as his hand sped up.

"I thought of it that night, and I could hardly help myself," he recounted. "I asked a brother to take his place at the watch, else I'd have sinned against you."

"It's not a sin to desire me," she said, then pushed herself further back onto the bed, and he followed her silent call. 

He crawled after her, coming to kneel on the sheets, his hand still lazily stroking his length. She wrapped her arms around his neck as he bent forward, and he captured her mouth in a passionate kiss. 

She let him press her into the sheets, and they shared a moan when her knees came up to his hips, her thighs resting against his. He let go of his cock to steady himself, his arms caging her in. Soon her hands were roaming his back, his flanks, mapping the shape of his buttocks, pressing him forward until he was flush against her core.

He gasped then, rocking down against her, quivering in her grasp when one of her hands slid between their bodies and guided him to her entrance. His face tucked against hers, breathing into each other's cheek, savoring the first slow press of his cock into her.

He let her guide him, first as the tip breached past the dip that led into her body, then as the stretch made her gasp. He bit his lip as her walls molded perfectly around his length and she clenched, taking him in slowly. He audibly gasped as he bottomed out and she kissed it from his lips with a smile.

They both looked down between their bodies as they rocked cautiously together, but soon her gaze was caught on his face, alive with pleasure. His eyes were closed, his brow smoothed over in delight, his pink lips parted over sweet sighs that he could barely restrain.

Soon she couldn't keep her own eyes open, so taken with his warmth as she was—she fell against the sheets, arching her back against the delicious weight of him. The gentle way with which he was thrusting into her was easing her into it, a slow build of heat at her core.

He dipped his head into her neck, and his lovely moans in her ear only spurred her on. He pressed soft kisses into her skin, seeking the soft spot behind her jaw that made her mewl and grip his back harder.

"My love," the confession slipped from his lips and she gasped, tightening her hold on him, her legs coming to wrap around his waist.

Incensed by her reaction, he murmured it again in her ear and one of her hands slithered back into his hair, pulling him in for another wet kiss that left him breathless. They swallowed each other's names, their tongues curling in time with the rocking of their hips, and their rhythm gradually sped up.

Gwayne could feel a tension building at the base of his spine and he bit his lip, trying to keep it at bay until she was herself in the throes of it, or perhaps even on the edge. He reached down to one of her thighs, propping her leg up until it was almost curled at his shoulder, the back of her knee kept in the crook of his elbow.

The new angle made her nub catch against his abdomen, and he held steady as she ground up against him, chasing the dual sensation. Between the stretch of his cock inside of her, sending sparks up her spine, and the pressure at her pearl, setting her whole core ablaze, she could only surrender and allow the current to take her.

"Gwayne," she whined as she felt herself fall, the edge ever so close.

"I love you," he replied, his own peak approaching and loosening his tongue. 

She sobbed and he licked it from her mouth, the grinding of her hips turning frantic as she grew wetter around him. He wanted to laugh, victorious that she would accept his love and have such a deep, carnal reaction to it. Her mouth fell open on a silent cry, her back arching as she threw her head back onto the sheets, her core pulsing around his cock.

He held on, groaning through gritted teeth as his peak threatened to crash over him but he held on until the frantic rocking of her hips slowed to a stop and she grew loose and pliant. He pulled away and she clenched around the sudden loss, whining as the last waves of her pleasure still made her shudder.

She watched as he spent across her belly with a few moans and whimpers, his hair falling into his eyes as his hips stuttered into his own hand. 

She mewled as he fell forward, pressing grateful kisses into her chest as her own hands mapped his shoulders, eager to share a few more moments of bliss. She pulled him in by the back of the neck and he kissed her again, sweet and slow. 

"Allow me," he said as he pulled away again, this time climbing off the bed in search of a cloth and water to clean her skin.

She sat up, taking stock of the cooling seed on her stomach, and risking a glance to his lean back and buttocks as he turned. He was littered with freckles as stars on the night sky, and she wanted to tell him, but suddenly her words were caught in her throat.

"Are you sore?" he asked almost timidly as he returned with a wet cloth and wiped her skin clean, then folded it and gave her a gentle pat between her legs.

"No," she replied, looking up at him with something akin to adoration.

She sighed pleasantly as he pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead, his thumb coming to stroke the side of her face, the edge of her smile—she reached up to do the same, grazing the cut that had brought him to her in the first place.

"Do not ever let anyone touch you in this way," she murmured, and he huffed an endeared laugh.

"I swore to ward you and give my blood for you," he replied.

"Cole doesn't deserve to breathe the same air as you," she pressed, her brow furrowing in earnestness.

Gwayne grew serious again, but didn't pull away until he had kissed her temple and murmured his love once more. She watched as he dressed again, their silence rather contemplative, until a knock at the door interrupted it.

He turned to her, a slight panic to his gaze and she slid from the bed quickly, picking up a robe from the back of a chair. "Hold!" she shouted. "Merely a moment!"

Yet the knock started again, more frantic this time, and she threw a look to Gwayne, gesturing from him to remain behind the screen that shielded her bed from the entrance of her chambers.

"Who is it?" she called. "I am in no condition to receive visitors."

At that the door opened and a sliver of a pale face and dark head of hair appeared—the young queen ushered the maid in quickly, and from his hiding spot behind the screen, Gwayne could only hear hushed voices. 

A heavy silence settled before the door opened again and quiet footsteps hurried out. The wood creaked loudly as it was closed, the silence broken by a wavering sigh from the queen.

Gwayne took a few tentative steps further into the room, squaring his shoulders and bracing for a terrible announcement, but when she turned to him, her face was one of utter relief.

She breathed a wet laugh, holding her hands to her chest as her eyes brimmed with tears. Gwayne felt breathless, hope and joy bursting in his chest as she spoke.

"You shall need your armor again, Ser Gwayne. The Prince Regent is calling an assembly in the Throne Room," she announced, and he couldn't have been less surprised. "It is all but a coup, my good ser."

"Long live King Aemond," he murmured as she picked up his sheathed sword and handed it to him, their fingers tangling over the engraved pommel.

Dividers by @/saradika

Beta read by the wonderful @arcielee, thank you so much ♡♡

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Gwayne Taglist: @legitalicat @zaldritzosrose @multyfangirl @purple-1995 @tumblin-theworldaway

@caterina-caterina @oldtowrs @targaryenswhxre @tabiitha @lothiriel9

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mattheo listening to f!reader as she tries to stop him from beating up mclaggen for catcalling/staring at her

"love, he looked at you."

"i know matty, but it's fine. i don't want you to get into more fights..."

*not listening*

"but you're mine...and he looked at you. "

The Cannibal Prince

Pairing: Vampire!Aemond Targaryen x fem!Reader

Includes: nipple play, kissing, non-consensual vampire turning (Including a kiss), biting, side character death

Word count: 2.3k

Summary: You marry Prince Aemond, and he reveals another Targaryen wedding tradition that many aren't privy to.

It was fortunately windy at Dragonstone — a delightful contrast to that of King’s Landing.

You wore one of your Dornish gowns, showing off quite a bit of your skin. You hadn’t really gotten into the fashion at King’s Landing. It was so terribly hot there and your gowns from back home gave you a delightful reprieve.

You stood outside. You had first come out to watch the waves lick at the big rocks, but your thoughts soon drifted off to Aemond Targaryen — Your betrothed.

You had brief interactions with the man. Once, when you first arrived at King’s Landing. You had eaten dinner with Prince Aemond, along with the rest of his family. It had been a tense first meeting for you. Queen Alicent was the one carrying the conversation, with Otto asking questions about Dorne here and there.

Though you were not Dornish royalty like the Martell’s, your house is a great one.

You had noticed Queen Alicent lowering her gaze to your dress a few times over dinner before looking back at you with a fake smile. You think she didn’t like your dress.

Aegon, though, scared you. He would not take his eyes off of you during the feast and would speak of how you were too pretty for his cripple brother. You noticed that Prince Aemond had tensed at that, his fingers tightening around his cutlery. You hadn’t spoken out in defense of Aemond — just gave Aegon a faux smile, hoping he didn’t notice how uncomfortable you were. You think he did.

You had heard rumors about the Targaryens. Of how their serving girls were disappearing at an alarming rate, about Prince Aegon’s sexual debauchery, that your betrothed was not missing an eye at all, and that when he had his eye cut out, it had come back! That you did not believe, it simply wasn’t possible.

You shivered from the cold Dragonstone air, and like he knew you were thinking of him, a voice spoke out from behind you. “Cold, My Lady?”

You turned around, your golden dress moving with you. There stood Aemond Targaryen, a few feet away from you. His hands were clasped behind his back and his long white hair looked slightly unkempt because of the winds.

You bowed, before looking back up at him. “Nothing I can’t handle, My Prince.”

You were proven wrong as the wind beat at you, forcing you to squint.

Aemond wrinkled his nose, like he had smelt something he didn’t like before getting his expression under control and clenching his jaw.

“It is getting quite late, betrothed. Would you allow me the honor of walking you back to your chambers?” Aemond asked.

Your eyes widen slightly at the request, but you nod anyway. “Of course, My Prince.”

You both walked back into the Castle, a quiet overtaking you both. You had hoped Aemond would have offered you his arm, but he hadn’t, and this was the longest time you two had spent together, so you contented yourself with that.

Your eyes gazed at all the dragon furniture and you were reminded of Princess Rhaenyra.

You had been surprised when you found out that you’d be marrying Aemond here, as you had heard that Rhaenyra had left for Dragonstone because she couldn’t stand the Hightowers and their children anymore. Perhaps she had a change of mind.

You and Aemond reached your chamber door. There were dragons carved into the wood, their long, lithe bodies stretched out on it.

You opened the door and stepped in, turning to look at Aemond. “Would you like to come in, My Prince?” It was a courtesy, of course. If you and your betrothed were both caught alone together, it would be quite the scandal.

Aemond looked at you, scrutinizing your body as his eyes traveled down the length of your body. He stared at the exposed area of your neck before forcing himself to look back at you, his jaw ticking.

“Perhaps after our marriage ceremony.” With that, Aemond gave a curt bow, mumbling “My Lady,” before turning around and leaving — presumably to his own chambers.

You felt your cheeks heat up at his words and shut the door. You hadn’t expected Aemond to say such a thing — maybe his brother, but not him!

Your handmaidens helped you get dressed for bed and you couldn’t help but feel a strange warmth in your stomach.

As you lay in bed, listening to the sound of the sea — you had insisted to keep the shutters of the window nearest your bed open and one of your handmaidens reluctantly did so, lecturing you about how it would be a terrible thing if you got sick the night before your wedding — your thoughts drifted back to Aemond. You wish he had come into your chambers.

The next morning, you had awoken to terrible news. One of your handmaidens — Aimya — was dead. Her corpse was found in one of the halls. Your handmaidens said that Otto Hightower claimed that given the girl’s pale skin, she must have picked up a sickness. They weren’t allowed to see the body and had no confirmation that this was true.

You had hoped the marriage ceremony would be canceled because of this, but of course, nobody cared for the death of a random dornish girl. Nobody except for you and the other handmaidens.

Over the years, you had all become very close to each other, and her death was like a ship wrecking when it was close to land. The night before your wedding! If you didn’t know any better, you would have taken her death as a warning.

Your handmaiden — Brise, a woman a few years older than you with a sharp face — leads you to your vanity and has you strip out of your nightgown. Your other handmaiden — Miana, a young girl with rosy cheeks — untangling your hair with a shaky hand as you sat atop your vanity stool, naked and shivering.

Brise shut the window before grabbing your wedding robes. After Miana was done, you stood up, facing the older woman. She held the traditional Targaryen wedding robes.

How disappointing. You had always thought your wedding would be an extravagant thing, but it seems not.

“Aimya seemed fine. I-I didn’t think…” Miana broke out into a sob.

Brise shook her head as she helped you into your clothing. “I don’t trust these Targaryens,” she said the name with such disdain that you couldn’t help but look at her surprised.

“That is my betrothed’s family you are speaking about,” you say as Brise finishes tying the front of the robe.

Miana grabbed the headpiece, but was shaking so much that Brise grabbed it out of the young girl's hands and placed it atop your head instead.

“My apologies, My Lady.” But you knew Brise, and you knew she wasn’t sorry at all. You decide not to dwell on it and begin your trip out of the castle.

You stand face to face with Aemond, your expression one of pain as he cuts into your palm. You bite into your covered bottom lip to silence any sound of pain that would try to leave you.

Aemond’s own hand is bloody, as you had cut into it first and you can feel it on your palm as you press it against his. The blood doesn’t do much to hide the lack of warmth in his body, but you brush it off to it just being a reaction to the cold of the Island that is Dragonstone.

An older man wraps a cloth around your hands and you watch as your blood — now mixed with Aemond’s — drips into the cup. You hear the man say some words in Valyrian, but you don’t understand any of it.

Soon, you are drinking out of the chalice. You take a small sip, the heavy taste of copper now on your tongue. You hand it over to Aemond, and he holds your gaze as he drinks the rest of your shared blood.

Then, you both kiss. It’s a quick thing, and you are aware of the eyes of Aemond’s family watching you.

Hours later, you are in Aemond’s chambers. You suppose you’ll be returning to King's Landing very soon.

You sit on the edge of his bed, anxiously fiddling with your fingers as Aemond walks over to you.

Gently, he takes off your headpiece and places it on the side table. Using one cold finger, Aemond places it under your chin, forcing you to look into his purple eye.

You’re captivated. You are sure you will never in your lifetime see anyone that looks like Aemond. Sure, they others have purple eyes, and white hair. But Aemond is unique, with his sharp features, and one eye.

“There is no need to be nervous,” Aemond reassured you. His fingers trail down your neck, to your pulse, gently pressing them there. “Wife.”

You watch as Aemond takes in a sharp breath at the feeling of you, and he quickly pulls his hand away.

Your husband sits down on the bed next to you.

“We need not do this tonight if you don’t wish for it,” he says, surprising you.

You shake your head, feeling your cheeks heat up in embarrassment as you speak, “No.. I want to, Husband.”

Aemond lets out a harsh breath out of his nose and nods. “Very well.”

Gently, Aemond reached out, cupping your cheek and forcing you to look at him. He presses his lips to yours, and for some reason he still tastes of copper.

His hands find their way to the ties of your robe and undo them. He pulls away from your lips and pushes down your clothing, leaving it on the floor.

Aemond looks down at you, and you feel your nipples harden very quickly.

Gently, Aemond pushes you down on the bed, so that you are laying with your back flat against it, your head resting on one of the soft pillows.

He rests one of his hands on your hips, and the other — the scarred one — trails down to your breasts. Aemond presses his palm atop the left side of your chest, almost like he’s trying to feel your heartbeat. When he’s satisfied, Aemond brings his fingers to your nipples. He tugs on your nub and you let out a soft gasp.

His attention is instantly brought back to your mouth and he presses his lips to yours. It’s very different from your first kiss when you were getting married. This one is rough, like he’s trying to consume you.

His fingers dig into your breast — so much so that it’s starting to hurt. You let out a small mewl, and Aemond instantly lets go of your lips and breast.

Slowly, Aemond kisses down your chest, and stomach, until he is at your hips.

Aemond undos the ties of his own robes, and drops the garment onto the floor.

He spreads your legs and presses a small kiss to your inner thigh, “So pretty.”

You let out a small, pleased, sigh. “Husband..”

Aemond brings his lips back to your thighs, and brushes his lips against them. Using his cold hands, Aemond holds onto your hips, pressing them down to the mattress. You shiver at his touch, and when he licks at your thigh, you feel small tingles spread through your body.

Your eyes flutter shut, and that’s when you feel it. Something sharp presses into you and your eyes shoot open. You wriggle in Aemond’s grip, but feel his pale hands pin you down. All you can see is the white of his head as you look down at him.

You let out a small cry, confused. “A-Aemond.. What are you…!”

Aemond’s lips finally release the hold they had on your thigh, and when he looks up at you, your eyes land on his bloody mouth.

Before you can even do anything, Aemond lets go of your hips and instead crawls over you, his lithe frame atop of you. Using one hand, Aemond grabs ahold of your wrists and pins them over your head. His other hand grabs your jaw and pushes it to the side, revealing your neck.

Aemond presses his nose to your neck, taking in your scent. His eyes flutter shut and you hiss in pain as he bites into your flesh.

Your legs kick at Aemond, but it doesn’t deter him.

Soon enough, you run out of energy and cease your struggling. You quiver under Aemond, and tears run down your cheeks.

Just when you’re on the brink of death, Aemond pulls away, pressing a wet kiss to the area he just bit.

Aemond lets go of your wrists, but still holds onto your jaw, though his grip has loosened.

Your eyes flutter open, your vision blurry.

Aemond bites into his own wrist, sucking up a considerable amount of blood, before pulling away.

Aemond presses his lips to yours, and forces you to drink in the mix of your’s and Aemond’s blood. Some blood escapes you and Aemond’s mouth and trickles down your cheeks.

Aemond pulls away after what feels like an eternity. You take in big gulps of air, your lungs burning.

A warmth runs through your body before being replaced with a coldness. It feels like you're freezing. Aemond kisses at your tears before pressing his lips to your bloody cheeks. He coos against them, feeling their warmth turn cool, “I know this is now what you were expecting, wife, but that was not the end. Perhaps…” he trails off.  Aemond pulls away, letting go of your wrists. His eye looks down at your naked body, and despite it all, you feel a heat spreading through you. “After our marriage ceremony.”

a/n: Wrote this in celebration for season 2 of hotd, though this was written a few days before it came out! divider creds: @saradika

My kid Kinan trying to stop me from going out because there’s bombing | Gaza [@/ MuhammadSmiry on X. 01/08/24.]

This baby is still learning to talk but he says "قصف"= "bombing" loud and clear. He lost his childhood before it even started. [@/ RudaynaIbrahim on X.]

The IOF continues to steal the childhoods of countless Palestinian children. I've seen so many videos of very blatant symptoms of PTSD -seeing emotional and psychological responses to triggers from sudden sounds and movements. You can see stress and anxiousness and fear in their eyes -even when we see videos of them smiling/being hugged and comforted by journalists, doctors, and neighbors/relatives in their communities -they have been robbed -so many of them for decades now and continuously of just being able to be children -to be free from violence and oppression.

I have also seen videos of their entire lives being changed instantaneously with a debilitating injury or amputation due to their communities/hospitals/homes being air-striked, to losing their entire families and being orphaned. I've seen videos of them lifeless in their parents arms -something no parent SHOULD EVER have to record and share to get the world to fucking pay attention.

These are 'experiences,' and circumstances NO child should EVER have to face in their life. I'd say where the hell has UNICEF been -because aren't you supposed to be protecting children's rights ALL around the world? Are Palestinian children not worthy of protection? Over 10,000 of them have been MURDERED by the IOF.

Children shouldn't have to be worried about hearing BOMBS -they should be talking about their school lives, their friends, how excited they are to go to the beach, to try new foods at a restaurant they want to go to, to travel -to do so many wonderful things but THIS is what they have to live with right now even with glimpses of light and hope...

I will say this time and again -the United Nations is disgraceful.

PURE AS THE DRIVEN SNOW.

+ . jacaerys velaryon x f!reader

synopsis. a spoil of war and unhappy bride to the lord commander of the kingsguard - aemond "one-eyed" targaryen - your loving and fair husband offers you a deal six months before the coronation of the heir to the iron throne. give him the death and or ruin of the bastard jacaerys velaryon before he can sit upon the throne, and he will give you your freedom and much more.

3 + . contents. no use of y/n or any variation. canon-divergent. there was no dance of dragons!au. blood mention. abusive relationship. mentions of past character death. slavery. enslavement. 4.3k words.

notes. this is going to be a series, cross-posted on ao3 here. if you wish to be part of a taglist please comment down below!

The morning begins as it always does.

You awaken in your chambers alone, the space on the bed beside you has grown cold with the lack of body shaped into it and the room is empty with the exception of your ladies maids. Despite sleeping a full night, you still feel exhaustion pulling at your insides and threatening to click your eyes shut forever. A gentle sigh escaping your lips when you crawl out of bed in your nightgown and stretch limbs. Popping and cracking filling the air of the room you’ve memorized every single speck of as the familiar and routine noise of servants fixing and preparing your bath joins the noise of your limbs being stretched out.

Then you’re guided over to the tub, offering gentle greetings and kind inquiries of wellbeing to the ladies who smile at you fondly and return responses and inquiries of their own. Truth be told, being around them is one of the little highlights of your days in the beautiful and expansive Red Keep of King’s Landing. Talking with them of various things they’ve kept their ears on within the walls and corridors as they bathe you with gentleness and care. You’re grateful for them, one of the few lights of the Keep usually so dark and dreary for your soul and body.

Unfortunately, all good things come to an end.

And soon, you’re being dressed in silence when a handmaiden specifically plucked by your dear and darling husband enters to oversee your day as always. The fabric put onto you feel stuffy, the fabrics expensive and of gorgeous materials but nothing you enjoy – not a fucking thing. As if the color didn’t bring bitterness across your tongue just the same. Dark blacks with pretty lace and eyelets. To say it wasn’t beautiful, to say the gown you adorn and rubies you’re bathed in, aren’t beautiful would be untrue, yes…but they’re all of Aemond’s choosing. Down to the style in which your hair is done. You always refuse to look in the mirror when all is done.

Then the morning continues with your meal in your marital chambers. Breaking your fast on your lonesome without the loving and gentle handmaidens chosen by Queen Rhaenyra for those within the Keep but chosen by your husband to keep an eye on you when he is away. As always, you’re uncomfortable as you eat while reading a book you’ve earned the privilege to read by no longer being yourself entirely. At least the “worst” parts of you. Eating the food is uncomfortable, you eat so quickly that your stomach will ache later and you know it but you want it to be over with.

Already three years of marriage and you thought you’d be used to all of this by now, accustomed to circumstances beyond your womanly hands. Unfortunately, you’ve not grown used to this part of a loving wife to a young prince and Lord Commander because you know that if given the chance you’d slit his throat and escape in the night. If only there wasn’t concern of your neck lying upon a slab of stone the next day.

Walking down the corridor with perfect posture and chin high, your hands folding down against your navel, handmaiden close behind, your eyes looking along corridors and walls you wish to never see again. Your heart thumps softly and gently, a lullaby in your head to keep you calm in such an atmosphere and life you’ve found yourself in. Though, it’s difficult when you pass open corridors and catch the forever gloomy weather of King’s Landing. Every cold breeze and scent of rain, it’s a reminder that you’re forced to swallow and stomach.

Every day is the same. Every morning is the same. Every afternoon. Every night. Every week. Every month. Every year. Every fucking second.

There are some good moments, some breaths taken by you. And as you nod to the guards with a soft smile, you enter into one moment of fresh air. Your eyes immediately fall to the white-haired children playing with toys as their mother sits on a beautiful seat of golden stitching against green fabric. “Good morrow, Helaena.”,you greet the white-haired oddity who embroiders with steady and gentle hands. Her round lilac eyes flicker up and she smiles upon seeing you, you walk over, handmaiden waiting near the door. And you breathe in softly as you sit down beside her.

“Good morrow.”,Helaena greets you, smiling softly as she looks along your features,”Did you sleep better with the tea?”,the sweet butterfly of the Keep asks with a gentle tilt of her head. Her voice is so soft and gentle, quiet.

Your eyes look at the children who giggle and babble, playing with one another with wooden and metal figurines. A bit guilty to shake your head, you do so and then turn from the adorable little children to look at Helaena who’s smile falters a bit. “I regret saying no. I slept just as restlessly, sister.”,you speak softer and easier than you do around others with her. Helaena sighs softly, her expression melding into one of sympathy as the handmaiden’s of her chambers bring you your unfinished embroidery. “Thank you.”,you tell them before turning to Helaena and shaking your head, eyes casting down to the uncolored butterfly embroidery on a baby blanket. “But it is no matter, what do I need slumber for?”

Helaena hums softly, she nods before she looks away from you. And as routinely for this day, you and Helaena embroider in silence with the occasional look to the children and the occasional word of small talk between you and her. Though none of it is awkward or tense, in fact – you cherish these moments of silence with Helaena because you know this will be your only moment of entire comfortability and relaxation until you see her in two days again. Because even during your bath, you’re in the room you despise wholly.

Soon, you stand and hand your things to the handmaidens of Helaena’s. Ready to simply leave Helaena in silence as you always do, you pause when you hear her call you. Only three steps away, you turn and look at her with a gentle tilt of your head and gentle smile. Her big doe eyes flicker along your face, needle with embroidery thread between her pointer finger, middle finger, and thumb while her other hand holds the hoop itself. Helaena seems to hesitate, or rather pluck her words, before she speaks and she nods gently.

“I…will miss you if you go left.”,Helaena says, her eyes flickering between yours and fingers fiddling with the needle.

Your brows twitch, you blink softly at the odd words. “I…will be back, Helaena.”,you try to reassure her with a soft smile, nodding gently. Helaena shakes her head, parting her lips to speak before she shuts her mouth. Then she slowly but subtly nods, slowly sitting herself down. Some concern and worry dip into you, your eyes flickering to her handmaidens who look just as puzzled. You’re unable to do as you wish, to comfort her or pry more when your handmaid calls your title to attend the next duty of yours. Glancing at the old woman, you look at Helaena and smile. “I will see you soon, sister.”

Then you leave.

Walking down the corridor, you already begin to discuss in your head what you’ll be reviewing in the study of High Valyrian you find oddly fascinating and maybe even fun to learn. If not for the expectations bestowed upon you, your fluency is never quite enough for that of your husband that looks forward to teaching his children the language beneath two parents of the languages fluency. Gods bless those children.

“Oh!”

Round a corner you turn, you exclaim softly when you slam shoulder first into something a bit soft yet firm. The smell of grass and the slight sour of the salty sea wafts into your senses, strong hands grab your biceps to give you purchase and balance where your hands grasp broad shoulders. Slowly, you lean back and your eyes meet the brown almond ones of none other than the heir to the Iron Throne himself. Jacaerys Velaryon, his expression one of surprise as she gently eases you from his chest with a tilt of his head down to you.

“Forgive me…” And Jacaerys trails off as his eyes seem to absorb your features. Perhaps recognizing an unfamiliar face he’s surely only ever seen in passing and during one very brief greeting during your wedding to Aemond. You blink softly, looking along the prince adorned in the garment that suits that of a man training with the sword. Armor half gone, lightly freckled skin sweaty, and dark curls tousled and messy. A splash of pink taints his cheeks and a nasty swelling forms around a cut through the apple of his cheek. No longer than a pinky but drawing blood still. “F-Forgive me, my lady.”,he smiles as he apologizes, clearing his throat and slowly settling you from the close proximity.

With a soft smile for the prince you’ve heard both good and bad of, you nod gently in a half-bow of your head. “No, forgive me, your grace. I was lost in my thoughts.” Pulling from Jacaerys who fixes his loose fitting deep red shift darkened just a bit with sweat, your eyes flicker along his face. The cut through his cheek draws concern, your brows sewing up ever so slightly. “That is quite the scratch, are you to see the maester?”,you ask, fixing your gown and looking along his features before settling on those warm brown eyes.

Half-smiling, Jacaerys shakes his head. “I’m simply to take a bath and ready for a meeting with her grace. It’s only a scratch, nothing to bother them with.”,he reassures you with his voice as deep and smooth as always.

You exhale softly and shake your head, hesitating before you look at the bit of dirt. “Allow me to assist you, your grace?”,you request. Jacaerys blinks softly, his lips part only to shut and offer response in a small smile and gentle nod. Nodding yourself, you turn to look at your handmaiden. Always so stone-faced and monotonous. “I will tend to my duties after I assist the Prince, take your leave and I will see you when I am finished.” The handmaid bows then walks away. You know Aemond will hear of this and not be too happy but you don’t necessarily care.

In fact, you feel it’s perhaps why you’re even offering.

Walking with Jacaerys to your quarters, the prince you hear of being capable of great conversation is oddly silent. He walks beside you, still slightly out of breath from his training and continuously runs a hand through or over his dark curls. You walk beside him in the same silence. With all you’ve heard of the prince, the only negativity to spill from lips have been those of Aemond and Aegon. A drunk and a cold man child. Everything else of Jacaerys has only been glowing, Helaena herself speaks fondly of the alleged bastard. Such a negative word and yet you’ve never quite understood the depth of it.

Silence continues until Jacaerys is sitting down across the unlit fireplace and you sit beside him with the necessary supplies set onto the expensive and heavy table. You break it as you grab a cloth and gently pour a clear fluid onto the soft round.

“How did you come upon such an injury? Is Ser Criston so rough with princelings?”,you ask with a bit of a playful tone, a slight smile on your lips as you gently begin to clean around the cut itself.

Jacaerys seems a bit tense. But you presume it to be the injury and your care of it, even if you are gentle it surely must sting. He chuckles a bit in the face of your remark at least, it’s welcoming to your ears and eyes. Such a light smile and expression of ease. “He can be – especially with the likes of I, but I’m afraid the reasoning is far more embarrassing.”,he confesses, muttering softly as you set aside the cloth to dampen another. You smile at him, tilting your head with brows in your hairline. Silently imploring him to continue and the prince is gracious enough to do so with a soft exhale. “I…ran into the door on my way back into the Keep.”

And you’re unable to stifle your moment of laughter, Jacaerys joining in his gentle chuckling as you clean the cut itself. “Goodness.”,you hum with amusement and humor in your chest, a smile spread across your lips as your eyes focus on the cut. His brown eyes flickering between yours. “Well, I suppose it is not prince’s that are known for their grace, yes?”

He laughs, a laugh that shakes his broad shoulders, hands going up in a defensive manner on either side of his head. “Precisely. I’m meant to possess strength like a boar not grace like a swan.”,says Jacaerys as you set aside the cloth and you hum softly with an amused smile. When your hand gently cups his jaw to inspect the cut closer, he inhales a bit sharply. But he then speaks so quickly, you wonder if you imagined it. “How did you come to possess what the maester’s do and know how to use such?”,he asks. You shift your hand away and turn, gently folding objects back where they must be in a small woven basket.

“I’ve known longer than I’ve resided in the Keep. I know it is unbecoming of a lady, of a now Princess, to be informed of such matters but my husband saw it useful. For moments he does not wish to let the Keep see his business.”,you explain. Voice fond before it dips into something a bit more exasperated.

Listening attentively, Jacaerys nods and he smiles lightly. “I think it’s quite impressive, whether people think it unbecoming or not.” You hum softly, looking at him when he nods gently and pats the piece of cloth over the cut. “Thank you, princess.”,he says with a soft sincerity. And you nod, smiling at him.

“Of course, your grace.”

The doors to your marital chambers part and you turn to the guard holding open the doors. When your eyes catch the beautiful vision of white in black, your jaw tightens and eyes narrow. Slowly standing, you bow and Jacaerys stands with a gentle nod of his head to Aemond. The One-Eyed Commander looking from you to Jacaerys, then to the little patch work on his face. “Forgive me, I did not realize I was intruding. I could not find you in your studies.”,Aemond apologizes, stepping down the steps with that stoic expression and hand firmly grasping the hilt of his sword.

“There is no need for apologies, I was simply assisting Jacaerys.”,you explain with a bit of sourness in your words, then you turn to the prince and smile,”Have a pleasant bath and meeting, your grace. Do take off the cloth when you get into the water.”

Jacaerys smiles at you and bows. “Thank you, princess.” And he rounds the couch, walking past Aemond once he nods in acknowledgement.

When those doors shut behind Aemond boring his lilac eye into you, your smile falls and your eyes narrow at Aemond. Turning away, you grab the woven basket and walk along the floor of stone. “You surely did not leave your duties to scold me for missing my High Valyrian lesson, did you, husband?”,you speak sharper in his presence, walking over to an armoire and setting the basket within. Aemond hums in acknowledgement and you turn around once the wooden doors shut.

“Normally, I would wait until we were reconvened to “scold” you but I was told the reason you did not attend your duty and found interest.”,your husband speaks smoothly. Each word from his lips is that of calculation and purpose. Never does he speak without something to be traced in his words.

You look along his handsome face and raise your brows, he’s silent. He’s doing what he often does, what used to intimidate you, being silent. But it only irritates you and tires you now, you slowly walk towards him. “Does it bother you so that I attended to one you hate?”,you ask, tilting your head while meeting his lilac eye. You notice his eyepatch seems a bit out of place and his long silvery locks slightly mussed. He must have rushed.

But…oddly – very oddly, Aemond doesn’t seem to be angry. Not like the time you gently cradled Lucerys when he took a hit to the head while training with Ser Criston. No, right now, as you approach him he looks like Vhagar. In his lilac eye there seems to be something purposeful and in his smile he seems to look as if he’s gotten something he wants. You reach out and gently smooth his soft locks, fixing the leather patch as he stands with his hands folded behind his back. Something bad sinks into your stomach when he grabs your wrists and pulls you to the furthest corner of the room. Gentle, but firm and quick. You try to remain cool and composed.

Even if it feels like bile is tickling your throat.

“Do you recall when I called you useless?”,Aemond hums, releasing your wrists once he has you between him and the corner of the chambers. You exhale sharply and nod, brows furrowing in irritation and eyes flickering along his face. “It seems all has just changed…and–”,Aemond offers that cat-like grin as his lilac eye narrows,”...you don’t even realize it.”

“What are you on about? Why are you whispering?”,you question with confusion and that sickening feeling only worsening. Aemond hums, you hate it when he does that. It always feels like a bell in your head. An automatic reaction to tense up.

“I believe you should like to spend more time with my nephew.”,he replies, voice low and quiet as he flickers his lilac eye between yours. Your lips part in surprise and your brows slowly furrow in tighter confusion. That sickening feeling in your stomach worsens, you swallow hard. Aemond continues. “Jacaerys has been slipping in his duties since her death, the first two weeks you heard of how he did not leave his apartments, as of late he’s missed council meetings and spends more time than not being a dummy for Ser Criston Cole. Perhaps he’s punishing himself–”

“What–is your point, Aemond?”,you interrupt him sharply, hotly with glaring eyes. Exposing your cards to him that his thinking aloud and quick but fluid purposeful words are burning into you.

Aemond nods. “Yet, he smiled so sincerely at you and let you tend to him.” Then Aemond nods again. “I wish for you to see him, spend time with him. Perhaps entertain him with those borish stories of your homeland or play the damsel in distress. I do not care, just seep beneath his flesh.”

The implications of what Aemond is asking of you is as clear as day in your head. Disgust curls at your features, eyes glaring hotter up at him as you shake your head. For as long as you’ve been Aemond’s, he’s sought for that damn throne. Despising Jacaerys as the heir, for his bastard status, and despising the Queen for her “whore” nature. Aemond speaks so openly of it with you, he speaks so freely of it with you because of what he harbors against you with that sword and Vhagar just outside of the city. Were it your own life, you would have happily shouted through the corridors of the treacherous cunt that Aemond “One-Eyed” Targaryen truly was. But it isn’t just your life. It hasn’t been for three years.

But this. To use a grieving widow’s weakness and softness he believes he sees in Jacaerys towards you, it makes you feel sick.

Immediately, you scoff and shove past Aemond. “No.”,you sharply state, turning and facing him with a furious expression,”I will not be involved in this petty rivalry of the crown because you believe what defines a king is his blood and not his person. Whatever plan you believe you may have stumbled upon like a gold, I will not partake.”,you speak sharply, in a soft and hushed manner with fists clenching at your sides so tightly your hands tremble. “I am not a whore that would so easily ruin such a man because you order it s–”

“I will free you.”

The moment those words leave Aemond’s lips, your face falls. Your eyes widen and your eyes flicker along his features, smug and cat-like grinning. Slowly, Aemond steps towards you while your head tries to figure out if you’ve truly grasped the words you never thought to hear from him. Ever.

“You…find a way to ruin Jacaerys…find a way to bring him to his death or a ruin so tragic he will have no place upon the throne and I will free you.”,Aemond speaks lowly, softly. One of his hands comes up, when he’s close enough, to gently hold your chin between his thumb and curled pointer finger. Your skin crawls and your blood feels cold, a shuddery breath leaving your lips as you look along his features in shock and appall. “Should you succeed in ruining my nephew or bringing about his corpse, not only will I free you but I will take you home and you have my oath…you will never see me again. Not me, not any man to trade flesh.”

“A-Aemond–”,you choke out softly with wide eyes growing glassy. It feels as if your entire body is numb, your face screws. “I…I could not kill–”

“You have and you could again.”,he hums with a tilt of his head. You swallow bile at the horrid memory. His hand slides to cup your cheek,”But here I am being fair. Giving you the option between madness or death, he is close already with the death of Baela – he merely needs a push or a pull.”

“How…c-can you even know it would be you to take the throne?”,you whisper softly, your brows furrowing tightly.

Aemond nods. “I’ve done good to appeal to my half-sister and mine own uncle…with no other heir but Lucerys sworn to the Tides already and three babes long dead – well…”,he trails off, then he gently shrugs,”Should I need to use force I will but we have six months, I do not wish for war, I wish for what I know must go to Targaryen blood.” And Aemond gently wipes your tears. When did you start crying? “Will you be a dutiful wife and give me what I feel you capable of? Or will you be confined to the Keep for the remainder of your days? Your people being traded and taken from–”

His words meld into nothing. Your head circles and shakes with the offer presented to you on a silver platter. Routine has been shattered and now you’re being offered the chance of what you’ve always desired and what your people have desired for so long. So long you’ve yearned to hear the wind of the palm trees, feel the warmth on your skin from a sun forever present in the sky, and to see the depths and colors of the butterflies that coast along the salty sea. No routines for survival, no fear of a child never seeing their mother again when a ship pulls to harbor…you would finally be home and it would only be that.

Home.

At the cost of a man Aemond believes you – of all people – capable of bringing to his knees based off of a singular moment Aemond was not even present for. Jacaerys Velaryon, a man still mourning that of his betrothed and cousin who died not three months ago. Six months. Twice of time – that is what you are given to somehow ruin or…Gods forbid kill a man that Aemond despises merely because of the blood he had no control over when the Gods created him. The cost of one for the cost of you and your family. Could you even do it? Could you even manage – would Jacaerys truly be so weak? Is he so out of his self and identity that you could find a crack in his skin to crawl beneath?

Does any of it matter when you can almost feel the warm tropical breeze on your skin and feel your mother’s embrace again – if she is even still there. If any of your family is. The longer you stay here the least likely you will ever see them again, right?

“Writing.”,you interrupt him sharply, his mouth undeserving to utter your beautiful and warm homeland. Aemond’s brows slowly raise and you pull from his touch with a shuddery exhale. “I must see it in writing, signed and approved by that of a higher power. You swear to take me home, to ban the trade of flesh there…I–will do it. I swear it.”

The white-haired Lord Commander nods, he leans down and cradles the back of your head with a smile of pure happiness you’ve never seen before. He plants a kiss to your forehead before he brushes past you.

But you stop him, turning with a shake of your head.

“He is a good man.”,you try. Perhaps you’re saying it to yourself. Not to him. Trying to salvage an innocent despite the many you once knew. Speaking to your heart that’s been freezing steadily with Aemond’s hold.

Aemond hums. “He is a bastard.”

Then he leaves and you exhale deeply, placing a hand on your forehead and one over your stomach.

How will the Gods punish you for this?

Anakin Skywalker is clingy.

As soon as he comes back to you after a mission, he's on you. Grabbing at whatever skin he could, pressing kisses to your lips, neck, and shoulders, while somehow being gentle the whole time.

He'll have you pushed up against a wall in in the darkest corner of the room you're in and whisper about how much he missed you while he was away on whatever mission the jedi council sent him on. About the things he's been thinking about you while he was away.

Or when you both are in bed, ready to sleep. He'll pull you over, so that your head lays on top of his bare chest and one of his arms wraps around your waist. He'll press his nose against your head so that he can smell your hair. And maybe so that it'll be easier to dream of you.

Sleep, Beauty

Tom Riddle x Wife!Reader

Warnings: smut, p in v, oral (fem receiving), nipple play, fem reader, manipulation?

Word count: 1.3k

Summary: You had awoken to a bed without your husband, and went back to sleep with him beside you.

When you awoke, you found that the space on the bed next to you—where your husband’s sleeping body should be—empty. It wasn’t surprising, as Tom would often get up earlier than you to immerse himself in his personal studies of the Dark Arts.

He told you that he would like to be a Professor at Hogwarts, teaching about the subject, and you thought he was already more than capable enough of taking up the job. Tom has of course taught you a bit about the dark arts himself.

You squint, looking over at the small clock resting atop the bedside table. It was four in the morning. That was rather early.

Though you were tired, a curious spark lit up within you. What was your husband up to?

You shifted off of the bed, and quietly opened the door to leave your shared bedroom.

Voices from downstairs made their way to your ears. They were all male —perhaps two other men, not including Tom— and their voices sounded familiar.

What would anyone be doing here at such an hour, you wondered. Perhaps it was something important, an emergency. There was no other good reason!

You went back into your room, put on your robe, and then quietly made your way downstairs.

But, it was strange. Strange because when you made your way to the kitchen, there was only Tom, using his wand to clean some glass cups. (Tom has been teaching himself wandless magic, and has made a small habit of using it to do household chores. It at times has resulted in some broken glasses— though those are easily repairable with a flick of a wand. He must have been using his wand because he hadn’t wanted to accidentally break something, and wake you up from the sounds of glass breaking).

“Tom?” Your voice sounds deeper than usual, a result of just using your voice after sleeping.

He looked over at you, surprised. “You should be sleeping. Go back to bed,” Tom demanded, though his voice was as calm as a lullaby. “I’ll join you after I’m done cleaning up.”

You grabbed a cup that Tom just cleaned, filled it up with water, and gulped it all down in one fell swoop. After you finished, you placed the cup in the sink, so that Tom could clean it up again.

“I heard voices,” you said, watching him clean the last dish and place it in a cupboard.

Tom let out a small hum of approval. “Ah, yes. Malfoy, and Lestrange had come by to speak to me.” He took a step towards you. “Had we awoken you? If so, I’m sorry.”

“What were they here about?”

Tom grabbed your hand and pressed a small kiss to your palm. “Bed, Love. We’ll speak about this in the morning.”

“But it is morning time!” you whined, looking up at Tom.

He raised a dark brow. You were correct.

“You know what I mean.”

Tom pressed his body against yours, pinning you to the sink. He leaned down, and pressed a small kiss to the area where your shoulder and neck connect. He kissed up your neck until he made it to your jaw. Only then did he kiss your lips. He tasted bitter, though sweet as well, like a tart. Tom and his friends must have sipped on some wine while speaking about whatever Tom refused to tell you about at the moment.

The curiosity within you was slowly waning as one of your husband’s hands made their way to your waist, and the kiss got more intimate.

You pressed your head towards him, deepening the kiss, but he pulled away.

“I will not have you in the kitchen, if that's what you’re thinking,” Tom said, amused.

A scoff passed through your lips. “I was not.”

He grabbed one of your hands, encasing yours in his, and led you up the dark swirl of a staircase. A small feeling of excitement ran through your body at what was to come.

You entered the bedroom and Tom shut the door behind him, though only the pair of you lived in this house.

You crawled up the bed, and sat upright against the pillows, waiting for Tom to join you. As it was dark, you knew he had joined you once you felt a small dip on Tom’s side of the bed.

His hands tugged your robe off of you, and your nightgown was the next to go.

Tom gently pushed you, so that you were laying on your back.

He pressed a small kiss to your lips, though the hunger he had for you was radiating off of him.

“Be good for me.” A command that you’d always obey.

Tom made his way down your body, pressing kisses atop your body as he made his way lower.

Once he got to your breasts, he blew on one of the nipples, trying to harden it. Once it did, he took it into his warm mouth, gently sucking on the nub. Tom stimulated your other breast with his fingers.

Your back arched in response, and legs spread a little more, welcoming him in.

One of your hands clutched at his shoulder while the other grasped at the pale bedsheets.

Once Tom was satisfied, he gently bit at your nipple, before continuing to move downwards. He kissed down your stomach until he was finally faced with your vagina.

Like Tom did with your breast, he gently blew against your genitals. Your eyes fluttered, and your lower half pushed forwards against Tom’s face.

“Touch me. Please Tom,” You pleaded. Already, the mysteries of what Tom was planning with his friends had slipped out of our mind. Now, you could only focus on the pleasure he could give you. The pleasure you knew he would give you.

Tom kissed at your thighs, teasing you, but when he finally licked a stripe up your cunt, you wanted more.

Hands held down your hips to stop them from wiggling forwards. He dragged his tongue up and down your pussy, drinking in the fluid you produced—a show of your arousal.

You let out small moans, though they were replaced by a whine once he pulled his face away from you.

Instead, Tom used his finger to spread your slick across your vagina, before slowly inserting a finger into you.

Your eyes squinted shut, focusing on the feeling of his finger moving in and out of you.

Soon, another finger joined the first. He scissored his fingers, stretching you out to fit his cock in you.

His other hand focused on rubbing your clit, and before you knew it, you came. It was like a quiet storm. Your legs shook, and a thin sheen of sweat covered your body. Small, breathless moans escaped your mouth and were let out for Tom and yourself to hear.

Tom’s frame covered yours as he positioned his body over you.

“Do you think you can take one more?” Tom peppered kisses atop your shoulder.

You nodded. “Please. Yes.”

He smirked—though you could not see it— amused.

Tom was quick to rid himself of his clothing. He then grabbed his hard cock, and pressed it to your slit. Tom rubbed his hard cock against you, before inserting it in.

Your head fell back against the pillows, taking in the stretch. You lazily wrapped your legs around Tom’s waist.

Tom pulled out of you just to push right back in. He set a slow pace that he followed almost robotically.

Your eyes fell shut, focusing on how his cock filled you up perfectly. You were still sensitive from your last climax, though you could feel the next overcoming you.

Tom used one of his hands to stimulate your clit, and that’s when you break. White hot flashed through you, electric. You grasped at Tom’s shoulders, bringing him closer to you.

A small grunt escaped Tom’s mouth as he finished. His hips moved against yours a few more times before he was finally satisfied.

Tom quietly moved off of you, and tugged you towards him, so that your head lay on his chest.

“Go to sleep. I’ll clean you up.” He pressed a small kiss to your forehead, and did as Tom told you.

a/n: haven't written anything in a while😭 but decided to come back to a one-shot idea that I've had for a while now. I used this to also practice my smut writing skills as well😭 Comments are greatly appreciated and so are reblogs! Hope you enjoyed!

Tom Riddle Masterlist

Blessing

Pairing: Aegon Targaryen x Fem!Reader

Includes: mentions of past rape, toxic relationship, denial, thoughts of murder

Summary: You visit an unconscious Aegon.

You take in a deep breath before entering Aegon's chambers.

The pit in your stomach grows heavier as your eyes land on him. He lays atop what used to be your shared bed — you've moved into one of the guest chambers unable to be around him for more than a few moments. One of his legs is propped up and bandages cover his entire body.

It isn't until you stand next to his bed that you can see all of his injuries. Whatever burns that aren't covered, horrify you and you must shut your eyes before looking back at your husband.

Your eyes wander up to Aegon's scarred face. He looks strangely peaceful for what has happened to him.

He could die, you realize. The thought doesn't seem real and you aren't sure what to make of it.

If Aegon died... he wouldn't be able to hurt you anymore. He couldn't hold you down during the middle of the night, the taste of wine on his tongue as he forced it past your lips.

But you didn't want Aegon dead! Of course not... He was your husband and King. And at times, he was nice to you.

You take a seat on the chair next to Aegon's bed.

Has anyone else visited Aegon? Not many people liked him, but surely his mother and siblings had.

You stare at Aegon. You think again of how peaceful he looks. These days when Aegon is awake, he's either tired or stressed or both. Perhaps this was a good thing. He can finally rest.

His silver hair is splayed out over his pillow and it would be so easy to just grab it and smother him.

You scoot closer to the bed and gently push a few tiny hairs away from his face, before moving it away and gripping the pillow that rests under him. Your other hand tenderly holds onto his bandage covered arm.

There's nobody else in the room. There are a few guards posted outside of Aegon's chambers, but they'd never know. Nobody would think it was you who did it. Everyone would just think he succumbed to his injuries.

You don't notice when Aegon's lips part just the tiniest bit, until he lets out a whisper of your name.

Marvel Masterlist:

Peter Parker (Tom Holland's):

none yet...

Peter Parker (Andrew Garfield):

Dating Peter Parker Headcanons

Multiple:

Marvel characters x oblivious!reader