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irenadel · 13 days

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And if the devil... 5/9

Smut: The Chapter, Aemond x Maid!Reader

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9

It isn’t the failing light of twilight that drives you both out of the sky, but a drizzle that turns into a storm. Vhagar herself does not care and leaves you both stranded inside a damp seaside cave, just so she can go hunting, with Aemond shouting after her in mock outrage, while you laugh so wildly and girlishly he thinks he’d rather stay here forever if you’ll just keep laughing like that.

You are better than him at gathering what little dry driftwood is to be found and he is better at setting it aflame. Neither of you are any good at fishing with bare hands so you content yourselves with drinking rain and trying to wring the water out of your clothes.

He turns his back to you the moment you pull off your drab servant’s dress and start undoing the ties of your shift. His heart is hammering in his ears and he feels the traitorous flushing return to his face and throat.

If you don’t want to shame yourself, his brother had warned him, not knowing that was all he was now, shame and longing.

You reach for the rapidly warming skin of his neck, through the soaked, beautiful strands of his silver hair, to turn him back to you.

It is his undoing.

The fear in your own face, clammy and white, cheeks starkly red. The way his hands move on their own, to the laces of your shift, taking over your clumsy, cold fingers. He has seen your naked calves before, dreamt of them locked around his waist as he plunged into you, thrown over his shoulders as he kisses the flushed red tips of your toes. He is unprepared for the gut-wrenching, dizzying strength of his arousal at the sight of your bare arms, the ribs he could count, your pert, pink nipples, the angry red scar below your collarbone and the bright purple bruises on your stomach that your nakedness can no longer hide from his hungry, avid eye. He will kill your uncle, string him from his feet and make a present of his useless hand to you. Later. Tonight, he is tearing your underskirts off, unheeding of the ripping sound some of them make, prick hard and ready because you help him, your hands are shaking, your own breath shivering, but still you offer up your long, powerful legs to him. You are white as a ghost all over, as a fresh sheet of vellum, and by all the gods he intends to leave his own mark on you.

He undoes your braid, as he has dreamt of doing incessantly for the past months, wishing to inhale the scent of your wet hair, bring it to his lips and kiss it at long last. Aemond can only hope he could offer you such a tenderness, but all he knows is the cruelty of his urgency for you.

He wraps your hair around his hand, panting madly, almost smiling, once, twice, enough to pull your head back so you will look at him. Enough to wrench a broken sound of pleasure from your throat, a sound that travels directly to the root of his cock.

“What did you say to Vhagar in Dothraki?”

“Davra nayat… good girl”

He doesn’t laugh now, not at the sheer nerve of you speaking to a dragon as if she were a nervous filly. Sees you again, on a saddle at the zenith of the world, face reaching for the wind, as he urged Vhagar higher and higher, to please a stupid, beautiful girl, born of nothing, who owned nothing… except the horizon… except himself.

He rips the ties of his doublet open, grabs your hand, grip so painful he fears he will crush your fingers in his, and places your palm on his heaving chest, his wildly beating heart. Sees you hiss in a breath and presses his face to the naked expanse of your exposed throat.

“Davrat nayat,” he says to you as he shows you how to undo his clothes.

When Aegon’s whore had undressed him, her hands had been soft as silk, her perfume so heady and potent his eye had watered because of it. When she stole kiss after kiss from his lips he had tasted the mint leaves she’d chewed before bedding him. She had called him beautiful and praised the whiteness of his Valyrian skin.

I’ve never been a prince’s first fuck, your grace.

He’d been too dazed to correct her address to him.

Your hands shake as you undo the clasps of his doublet and you curse when one of them resists you. There’s a red ammonia burn on one of your palms, right below your thumb, kitchen scrubbing no doubt. You chew on your lower lip as you peel each layer off him, toss his white linen shirt to one side. Your fingers find the slender, muscled expanse of his waist, brush his own pink nipples, unexpectedly sensitive and ready for touch. And Aemond finds the furious, shivering eagerness of your calloused hands on his chest and neck a hundred times more convincing than the whore’s honeyed words.

When you get to his breeches he pulls your chin up so you can face him. He knows he needs to look at you when you touch him, when you find the hard, eager evidence of how low you’ve brought him.

Your eyes close, brows together as if in pain, when your fingers wrap around his cock and he feels adrift suddenly, by how you fall into his body, into his need, his hips wonderfully, deliriously ready to chase your hand pulling at him.

He grips your chin hard enough to keep his own hand from shaking, bares his teeth in a snarl to keep a strangled moan in and whispers into your ear, as he steps out of his breeches.

“You don’t fight me anymore.”

You don’t answer immediately, and for a few minutes it’s just your panting breath and the slapping, wet sound of Aemond coming apart in your hand, one pull of his cock at the time.

He feels like he is going to lose his fucking mind.

“I decided to stop fighting myself.”

He does not know how to manage for himself. When you tear another kiss from his lips and go on all fours, he does not know how not to strangle one more hungry growl from his throat. When he catches the sight of your pale, pink cunt soaked and ready for him, he does not know how to stop himself from grabbing for your hips, leaving bruises of his own, or how to stop from warring within his breast the twin desires of fucking you like this, with your cunt on display for him or flipping you around so he can watch your face as you fall apart on his cock.

And it strikes him deliciously and unexpectedly that he need not decide, as he flips you on your back, drunk on the resistance of your kicking legs and the capitulation of your arms around him. He can do this as much as he wants for the rest of his life, in as many positions as he can think of.

He near sobs when he finally pushes inside you. No resistance in his way, just the warm, wet, grasping embrace of your cunt around him, clenching, milking him and he can’t stop. His face buried in your neck, your mouth kissing his temples, your breasts pressed against his chest. There’s so many things he wants to do to you. But he can’t stop pushing inside you, grinding into you, snapping his hips against yours. He can’t talk, can do nothing but clench his teeth against the mess of words and sounds that threatens to consume him.

It’s why he hears you, through the slap of skin against skin.

“My prince.”

He’s dreamed of it so often. Desired it so much. Craved it so ardently… that he can’t help but come at your strangled words. The noise he makes against your neck is shameful. He would have torn himself from your arms if his body hadn’t still been burning. He would have cursed himself for a fool if he still had breath in his lungs. But you are not deceived by his stillness.

“Aemond, are you—“

And he turns from you so quickly you are left more than confused, as dazed and humiliated as he. Both of you, naked in the chill of the evening while Aemond tries very hard not to think of a woman comforting him, the smell of mint leaves, and his brother’s scornful laughter.

“Touch me and I’ll take your fucking hand off,” he snaps back at you, unable to remember why his name on your tongue should be so odious to him, unable to think clearly except that you know so much of him, you should have known better. You have tasted him so thoroughly that he cannot think how to face you after this. No one should know him so well but Vhagar.

You stand up, despite how suddenly cold you are, with your thighs smeared in royal seed, a horribly familiar dread in your stomach as you are once more confronted with a prince who will not to look at you. You had not thought it could have been worse than humiliation, but shame and heartbreak together are too much of a burden to bear. You almost give in again, dismissed again. You almost leave and Aemond almost lets you.

And you will never know who turned around first, but you know your mouth is on his again, kiss so cruel and hungry your teeth draw blood from his dry lips. You know he fights you for control for a moment before you have him on the floor, powerful legs straddling his waist, your dull nails scraping against his nipples so that he chokes back a whine and you bite it off his lips with an angry sound of your own.

“That belongs to me,” you say, as this time, you pinch one of the tender buds on his chest, looking directly into his face, into amethyst and sapphire, before you make him cry out again. “I will not be robbed, little khal.”

He should have chastised you for your presumption, for your nails digging into his chest and your teeth closing around the sharp edges of his jaw. And he would. In time.

It isn’t over until it’s over, Ser Criston had said to him, when he was tired of Aegon’s taller frame and stronger reach giving him the advantage. It isn’t over until you decide it’s over.

And Aemond had decided, ages ago it seemed, that this would never be over.

His hand in your hand and you guiding him between your legs, until he remembers all the things he knows how to make your body do. That you do them on top of him, your hips swaying over his hand, only makes it sweeter.

He gives you the moan that belongs to you the moment his fingers find their way inside you, ripping a hungry noise from your own lips. One, two, three digits inside you until you can take no more and he is hard again, surprisingly, painfully hard. It is the sight of your beautiful, pale hair barely hiding your grimace of pleasure, your body moving of its own accord, fucking yourself on his hand, until he can take it no more, grabbing a handful of yellow hair and hissing recklessly, thoughtlessly against your bruised lips, “Ride my hand, come on my fingers. I’ll get you a dragon to ride if you do this well.”

He does not know where these promises come from. All he knows is the way your insides clench on his fingers, the way you throw your head back and he can feel you coming all over his palm, as his thumb abuses your hard, eager pearl. He can feel his cock twitch both at the thought of being inside you again and you, pale hair in the wind driving him to distraction, on dragonback.

But it is when you grab ahold of his face, looking straight into his soul, ruby-red eyes still half-lidded from your peak, that he cannot hold back any longer. Because you say it through a half-choked moan and he will make you say it again and again, as many times as he wants, in any position that he so desires, “I’ve got a dragon to ride already, my prince.”

He’s inside you again in seconds, giving you no quarter or preamble, your sex over-sensitive from your recent climax, but Aemond One-Eye is as cruel as any kitchen gossip ever named him to be. He is inside you, bigger than his slender fingers, deeper than any man had any right to be, reaching places you had never even dreamed existed, whispering delicious filth in your ear. Every wonderful, shameful thing you had ever desired from the men who had used you and so easily discarded you.

But not him. Not your prince.

“You are mine,” he says to you, too sharp and too guttural to be entirely Westerosi, with the taste of Old Valyria still on his tongue, drunk on his own blood and the one he takes by nipping at your greedy, eager lips. “To fuck you and use you as I want. Mine and no one else’s, issa jorrāelagon. My sweet, stupid girl. I’ll be the death of you. Come for me, come for your prince.”

And you do. Chasing pleasure, fucking yourself on this beautiful, idiot man’s cock. Knowing he is right about everything and you are lost to him, to the taste of his tongue and his anger and his scorn. And he is coming after you, in wonderful, warm spurts inside you, still hard as you chase your peak, long and drawn, seeming to last forever, with Aemond’s hands tangled in your hair again, urging you on with a rhythmic yes, yes, yes, still hard, still hungry for you.

Still willing after that second peak of his, to put you on your hands and knees, hair undone and more beautiful and perfect than any man you have ever seen before. Eye wild, sapphire glinting in the light of the dying fire, mouth curling in his cruel, hunting-cat smile, that you will never again be able to live without. All of it as he brings your sweet, pink cunt to his lips, dizzy from the smell of your combined lovemaking, dizzy from the knowledge of how that marks you as his and only his. And Aemond, Prince Aemond of the House Targaryen cannot know what it is to you when he runs the first, long, languorous lick against your cunt, smirking at your ragged moan of pleasure. He cannot know that every time you have been on your hands and knees for a man you had known it to be no more than a sham. A sordid, sorry fraud of a union. As if your body had known from the start that no cock and no hands and no tongue could ever serve but Prince Aemond’s. As if you had been waiting all your small, dreary life for his mouth against your cunt, ruthlessly tearing more pleasure out of your exhausted body.

He fucks you like this. The Dothraki way. Remaking the world for you with his claim on this position. Near laughing through the delicious, lingering burn at the pit of his stomach. His thighs straining and tingling because he’s come twice and is looking for a third and the sound of his legs slapping against your ass could've been enough to make him lose it. Except he knows now. That he gets to watch his cock pull in and out of you forever. Any time he wants. Gets to feel you arching against him, deliciously wanton, as desperate for his flesh as he was for yours, as many times as he so desires. And it is perfect, as he pulls your hair, one more time, one last time to prove he can, to drag you back up against him and lick a hot, wet brand up the skin of your neck, until he can whisper in your ear.

“Davrat nayat.”

And when he feels the merciless clench of your cunt he shouts against your fragrant hair, panting, kissing it, as Vhagar lights the night sky, somewhere over the sea, in a torrent of joyous flame.

#aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd smut #hotd fanfiction #maid reader #dothraki reader #dothraki #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #rbing because i can

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irenadel · 13 days

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irenadel · 13 days

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this is going to have me on my hands and knees dry heaving

#gilgamesh

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irenadel · 13 days

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There’s also some interesting failed parallels on how Renaissance and Medieval people conceived suffering vs how someone like HL conceives of suffering (steeped in Protestantism)

Reformation took away the prestige of suffering because it became a mark of moral failure which HL certainly believes with how Mirrorlander talks to him.

And there’s another interesting failed parallel in that suffering used to be considered prestigious in Medieval times because it taught us COMPASSION… which HL fails so spectacularly to learn. AND compassion was thought to be a perfectly logical path to LOVE. Like in Sir Philip Sydney’s sonnet:

That the dear She might take some pleasure of my pain,

Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,

Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain,

There was a whole period during the 18th and 19th century where the public lost interest in King Lear precisely because Protestantism had made suffering so morally uncomfortable… and a play all about madness and loss was too much for them. Then the two world wars recovered our taste for suffering and we began absorbing King Lear as if it was a play about the randomness and meaninglessness of suffering.

But it isn’t. Or more like it wasn’t (it can be about whatever we find in the text) it was a play about the audience AND the King learning compassion through suffering.

>_> and I’ll shut up just about now….

I’ve been reading King Lear the play by Shakespeare and King Lear is lowkey so Homelander coded.

Lear makes his daughters talk about how much they love him for them to get their parts of his land and when his youngest daughter (his favorite daughter) is essentially like “I’m not doing that and they’re fake for doing that” King Lear gets offended and cuts her off because he only sees that she wouldn’t say how much she loves him and not that she’s trying to help.

Also Lear has like a “fool” or jester that he gets mad at a lot but still keeps around and he kind of panics when the fool isn’t around. Another part of his stipulations for his daughters are that he is still called “king” but without the responsibility.

I feel like those are all Homelander moves, I may just be making unrealistic connections tho😭

no way i totally see your vision here!!! Homelander is surrounded by people that he terrorizes and bribes into endless sycophantry in order to vie for his approval and the privileges he can offer them. Ashley is very much his jester, someone he keeps around to torment but also who regulate his affairs. he, too, wishes to be king without the actual weight of the crown.

i think you could also argue some parallels with Starlight and Cordelia, with both of them refusing to partake in corruption/insincere worship, which is the only kind of love Homelander has ever known.

but ultimately i think that role is gonna go to Ryan, which has a lot of potential in season 4! hopefully not entirely, given Cordelia's fate... but i can see Ryan as being someone Homelander similarly seeks to have love him entirely, but like Cordelia, Ryan knows that kind of love is empty/unrealistic. Ryan, who did know the true love of his mother. You have begot me, bred me, loved me. I return those duties back as are right fit: Obey you, love you, and most honor you. Why have my sisters husbands if they say They love you all? Haply, when I shall wed, That lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry Half my love with him, half my care and duty. Sure I shall never marry like my sisters, ⟨To love my father all.⟩

the themes of betrayal and the exploration of love in all its forms suit what we see in Homelander's story, which i fear will also inevitably end in tragedy. while i don't see him ever casting Ryan out, i do think there will be major contention in their relationship when it becomes clear that Ryan will not play the role of Homelander's perfectly doting surrogate self/son.

#homelander meta #king lear

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irenadel · 14 days

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And if the devil... 5/9

Smut: The Chapter, Aemond x Maid!Reader

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9

If you don’t want to shame yourself, his brother had warned him, not knowing that was all he was now, shame and longing.

You reach for the rapidly warming skin of his neck, through the soaked, beautiful strands of his silver hair, to turn him back to you.

It is his undoing.

“What did you say to Vhagar in Dothraki?”

“Davra nayat… good girl”

“Davrat nayat,” he says to you as he shows you how to undo his clothes.

I’ve never been a prince’s first fuck, your grace.

He’d been too dazed to correct her address to him.

When you get to his breeches he pulls your chin up so you can face him. He knows he needs to look at you when you touch him, when you find the hard, eager evidence of how low you’ve brought him.

He grips your chin hard enough to keep his own hand from shaking, bares his teeth in a snarl to keep a strangled moan in and whispers into your ear, as he steps out of his breeches.

“You don’t fight me anymore.”

You don’t answer immediately, and for a few minutes it’s just your panting breath and the slapping, wet sound of Aemond coming apart in your hand, one pull of his cock at the time.

He feels like he is going to lose his fucking mind.

“I decided to stop fighting myself.”

It’s why he hears you, through the slap of skin against skin.

“My prince.”

“Aemond, are you—“

He should have chastised you for your presumption, for your nails digging into his chest and your teeth closing around the sharp edges of his jaw. And he would. In time.

It isn’t over until it’s over, Ser Criston had said to him, when he was tired of Aegon’s taller frame and stronger reach giving him the advantage. It isn’t over until you decide it’s over.

And Aemond had decided, ages ago it seemed, that this would never be over.

But not him. Not your prince.

“Davrat nayat.”

And when he feels the merciless clench of your cunt he shouts against your fragrant hair, panting, kissing it, as Vhagar lights the night sky, somewhere over the sea, in a torrent of joyous flame.

#aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd fanfiction #hotd fanfic #maid reader #dothraki reader #iresmut #my writing #and if the devil...

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irenadel · 15 days

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New idea: instead of writing the fic, you come over to my house and I tell you the entire plot while I pace my tiny kitchen. There’s a cup of tea, warm in your hands. The words don’t stop and the affection never leaves your expression.

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irenadel · 15 days

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"Stop saying 15 year olds with weird interests are cringe, they're 15" this is true however you should also stop saying adults with weird interests are cringe because who gives a shit

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irenadel · 16 days

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why do we have butt cheeks i dont understand why did we evolve this way

what use do butt cheeks have

#science!

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irenadel · 17 days

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And if the devil... 4/9

Smut in previous and following chapters, Aemond x Maid!Reader

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9

You’ve always known when to back away from a fight. When boys are bigger and dumber than you. When someone might be carrying a knife or a club. When it is a prince of the realm and you risk losing the fist you’ve used to knock his teeth out or the tongue you use to tell him to keep his bleedin’ hands off you.

You’ve always known the danger of your temper, that sometimes the risk is not in the damage you receive but the one you deal.

But it wasn’t you this time. You find yourself swinging and falling face first into your hopes and expectations because he is not there to catch the blow.

Aemond won’t talk to you.

Prince Aemond seems to have better things to do.

And you don’t know how to back away from this momentum. How to keep it from throwing you off. You don’t know how to go back to being the girl you were. How to stop looking at him and fix your eyes back on the floor. Even the princess notices.

Her lord husband has just had a tantrum in her vicinity and you are helping her pick up the shards of glass left from one of her framed vermin. You wreck your head to find words to comfort her, but when you cut your hand it is she who brings it into her own for once, holding it tenderly against her breast.

“It’s the blood,” she says tiredly but not unkindly. “Blood is still his currency. His, hers, yours. The realm’s. We’ll be drowning in coin soon. Maybe it’s better like this.”

You never really know what the princess speaks of. Or rather, you try very hard to stop the words from making sense, for they seldom seem to bode well for anyone. People say it’s all nonsense, but all you see in Princess Helaena is an earnest, urgent desire to convey. Disquieting but also compelling in its own way. You try not to speak to her of shared fears and nightmares, because it is enough for both of you in the waking world. Today, you know exactly who she means and it is not her lord husband.

“He does love you, you know?” You speak up immediately, ashamed at how quickly your tongue goes into the defense of someone who seems to give not a shite about you. Still, you persist. “Your brother does.”

“I know,” Princess Helaena answers heavily, like the burden of that love has bent her down under it. “But he loves his fear more.”

The day you tell Aemond about your uncle is the day he takes you to meet Vhagar.

The queen is away. It happens seldom but the Hand required her and they are both nowhere near when the maester asks Princess Helaena (Aegon being missing is much more common and expected, they almost do not look for him at all) to help pick her father up and turn him around.

It isn’t widely known in the Red Keep how badly the king is doing, attended as he always is by his close confidants and the queen. It was the maester’s own attendants who used to help him lift the king’s ailing body before, but royal dignity has become such a concern that the queen allows only herself and Ser Criston to help. Helaena certainly doesn’t know how to and seems too distressed by the sight of her father to help much.

“It spreads, oh how it spreads,” she can’t help but repeat over and over again, moaning so piteously king and maester are too busy trying to calm her down to worry about keeping the king upright, and you, there because the princess dragged you with her, because after all this time you’ve finally begun to lose what little common sense you had left, have to catch the bundle of bones that is the King of the Seven Kingdoms.

You sweat coldly, the air in your lungs like ice, your heart caught in terror, imagining everything from shame and destitution to death in a cage.

But this isn’t the first stubborn old man you’ve bullied into bed.

“Get your brother!” You shout to Helaena, almost without thinking, willing yourself not to look at the maester, to think too closely of what you’ve just done and intend to be doing, willing the moment to be easy at least if it will not be over soon.

And the miracle is that it is.

Because Prince Aemond is to be found and found quickly he is when it is his sister looking. He is strong and careful and too stunned by the sight of his royal father’s oozing flesh to put up much of a fight when following orders from the maester or even you. You lift King Viserys up working together. You hold him down when cauterizing is the only choice, your hands on his thin stick-like legs, Aemond’s on his father's bony shoulders, while Helaena paces up and down the room, holding herself, mind too clear, heart too tender to stand an old man’s pain for long. Even the old man who gave her to Aegon.

And when it is over, when the maester has given King Viserys enough milk of the poppy to down a small dragon, you teach Aemond how to roll his father’s body so you can gather up his soiled linen and put in fresh ones without disturbing his rest. How to help him change his father’s nightgown without waking him and finally, how to put Helaena to bed when all she can do is tell you over and over again that it spreads, it spreads and it takes hold and it won’t let go.

You stand outside Helaena’s room for a full five minutes before you realize you’ve made a prince of the realm carry the king’s soiled bed clothes. There is no cruelty in the way he looks now, not even his stone-cold indifference, just a sort of hard, unyielding shock. He looks each one of his seventeen years, still a boy, one who has known too much pain and loss for such a sheltered life.

You make him sit down on the floor outside the princess’s room, his eye fixed on nothing, his breath deliberately steady

“He’s dying,” he says, voice devoid of emotion, not because there is none but because Aemond cannot decide which one he is experiencing at the moment.

“Not all sick, old men die…” you confess, loath to remind him of that more ruinous possibility, wishing you could give him a better answer, an easier prospect, wishing and wanting and hoping, all in vain. “At least not quickly.”

He does look at you then, woundedly, furiously, full of a poisonous hatred that is not for you but has nowhere to go. You tell him about your uncle.

Hip broken, half his skull caved in against the rigging of a fishing ship. Your mother’s brother. Your mother who wasn’t stolen by savages, no matter how much the rest of them wanted to pretend otherwise. His right arm and leg were all but useless, barely able to carry his weight from day to day, no way to work to support his eleven children but still enough fight in him to grab a handful of your hair, and shake you until he makes your teeth chatter, angry and ashamed that his wife and niece have had to keep him alive. His niece who he had received in charity, a scrawny ghost of a girl, her father gutted in a fight. A niece who is now an inch taller than him and strong as an aurochs. His niece who must clench her jaw and withstand humiliation because one good blow from her and that sick, old man will be sick no more.

You look at each other, prince and maid, your eyes fixed on the edge of his scar, his eye roaming your face and neck and arms, looking for whatever new purplish mark has been left on you. He had to have known, had heard you talk about it before, to Helaena always, never to him. Gods, what a fool he was. Fools the both of you and your sick, old men with fight enough in them to make everyone else’s life miserable.

That’s when he tells you about Vhagar.

You’ve known the stories. The kitchen gossip. The keep myths that are more enduring than any truth. That he had plucked out his own eye as a boy and fed it to the dragon in exchange for her loyalty. That the old king had taken it out himself, as punishment for his presumption in taking for himself the biggest living dragon.

Those and a thousand other stories, none quick and ugly like the truth. His eyepatch ripped off in anger so you can see what not a thousand sapphires could make up for. Wild with pride and rage, Aemond tells you all of it. His own daring after years of scorn. A ten year old boy and a mountain of teeth and claws. The desperate knife and the light of his left eye put out forever. (He says nothing of the pig, cannot bear for you to know, because you’ve known the taste of his steel and his tongue and he will be damned if that is erased by the words The Pink Dread.)

And he flinches back when you touch his cheek, flinches but stays there, frozen in place as you relent at last. Because he hasn’t been the only one sulking in silence. Too wary of the consequences, too afraid of rejection, of the thought that the prince has had enough of slumming it up and needs you no longer

You don’t care anymore.

Let him keep his pride and his defiance, his savage anger. It means nothing to you, your own, the hundreds of times you told yourself you would not beg a prince again. What was pride anyway? What is scorn and self-refusal if Prince Aemond Targaryen shudders when you kiss his left cheekbone…

His hand on your jaw is dizzyingly quick. He does not stop your kiss or your touch, but grips your face with such a shivering strength that you fear you will hear the crack of your bones at any minute. You almost welcome it. Because Aemond is panting heavily, closer to you than he has been in weeks, his eyes, flesh and sapphire, fixed on you, so beautiful it hurts to look at him.

But Princess Helaena has always known more than people give her credit for and you see what she spoke of: the fear, the awful, scorching fear in his face. You cannot stand it if he turns away from you now. You know it and you gamble it all away for him, surrender to it, tell yourself, let me be a whore as long as I am his.

The translation is a poor one. It does not have the same ring to it the way your father used to say it, whisper it against a mare’s shuddering flanks when she had just given birth, and he needed to check on the foal, but you say it against Aemond’s gasping mouth anyway.

“Show me your heart. Take me to your dragon.”

She nests along the Narrow Sea still, too vast, too old and ornery for the Dragon Pit. Always he has been proud of her, relic of Old Valyria, viciously glad to fill the hearts of men with terror of her.

He does not know why today it should feel so different.

A knot in his chest. His breath caught in his throat as he watches the sea breeze whip your thin skirts against your naked legs. A memory of a boy of ten, ready to die before suffering mockery one more time.

You don’t laugh though.

You stop when you see her sleeping form surging from the ground, even through your poor albino eyes, and Aemond sees in you the awful moment of realization he has come to savor from any who encounter her. The wind has brought your long yellow braid loose from where you keep it demurely pinned up. Aemond sees your lips moving but does not catch your voice through the roaring of the sea.

“Mother of Mountains,” you repeat when he asks you. He knows he has read those words before, suspects only the barest hint of what this means to you. Because your voice trembles when you say it and you do not look at him, ruby-red eyes fixed on the tectonic rise and fall of Vhagar’s peaceful breathing. He is right behind you, ready to reassure you, unable to decide whether he wants you terrified or awed.

But when he reaches for your hands, he finds you have side-stepped him. Quiet like a phantom, eyes fixed on Vhagar, giving her a wide berth, approaching her from the side and not the back so as not to spook her. Somewhere in his memory, Aemond recalls the words from an old riding master, and realizes what you’re doing.

He will kill you once you’re out of here, out of danger, he thinks, fiercely, joyously. He will kill you and kiss you and never again let you go.

Because you go to Vhagar the way he had (“show me your heart”), all awful longing and sweet terror. And he can almost see you, as the waves crash against the cliffs around Blackwater Bay, a little girl, hands held out to calm a stallion much too big for her.

A little boy, braving the biggest living thing in the world.

When you reach the wall of Vhagar’s neck, stinking of sulfur and reptile, muscles hideously powerful, Aemond tells you to touch her if you want, watching you so intently, so hungrily he almost feels it against his own skin when you put your hands on her scales.

He hears you choke back a sob.

He can see you mutter something again as you lay your forehead against what is more edifice than corporality, inhaling deeply of charcoal and the reek of iodine. He recognizes the language but not the words. He recognizes the way your hands move over her, the way one would rub a nervous horse’s flanks to soothe it.

“You don’t talk to dragons in Dothraki, stupid girl,” he says, doing his best to keep his voice steady, looking at you like he wants to devour you. He drapes his body over yours, both of you pressed to the living, stinking wall of warmth that is Vhagar’s throat. “You do it in Valyrian.”

Splayed over her, you move up and down with her deep, cavernous breathing. Aemond’s arms on yours, his own quick and uneven breath as enveloping and all consuming as his dragon’s. The sheer power of his eagerness in the way he grips your hands in his, interwinning your fingers over the rough, gargantuan scales of the largest living steed in the world. Overwhelming. Impossible. Like Aemond himself.

“Rȳbās,” he whispers hotly against your ear, listen.

You laugh again, short and broken like a sob.

“Rȳbās,” you repeat after him, first through your teeth, clenched to keep from chattering, because you are as terrified of the beast under you as you are of the one over your. Then louder, clearer when you feel Aemond’s lips on the nape of your neck.

The ground trembles when Vhagar lifts her head to turn it towards the both of you, seismic, horrifying, the sagging folds of her skin like sloping hills, the shifting weight of her so awful it displaces earth and stone and the breath in your lungs. She is so beautiful you are crying through your laughter.

Aemond wants to lick those tears away, drink the poison of your love off them, just so he can get drunk on it and forget everything else.

“Hegnīr,” he hisses hoarsely into your hair, one of his hands snaking around your neck to show you where to reach for the sound. “Hegnīr. Let her know she’s done good. With your throat, to the back of it, make it guttural.”

And it’s only in that moment that you look back at him, lips so close to his that he can taste your breath.

“Thank you… how do you say ‘thank you’ in Valyrian?”

Aemond lets his lips against yours answer for him because his mind cannot recall it and he can almost feel the shift in the wind, charged and ready, filled with Vhagar’s sudden joyous roar. A greeting. A challenge. An exclamation of the love rider and mount share for each other. Her wings spreading as he laughs.

“Umbās Vhagar!” He shouts and hoists you up the rope ladder. The dragon waits, with a terrible shake of her neck that should have dashed both of you against the ground, just to remind him who is boss. But you do not. You are ahead of him, in spite of your skirts, and the great swaying beast beneath you, agile as a squirrel and he knows in that moment that there is no other thing he will ever want more than you. Because you turn to him, only your right foot and hand left to hold the ropes and scream, a Dothraki shout of battle and life.

“Barikh anna, khalakka!” Like any Dothraki girl would shout to a boy, to make sure he was worth the tumble in the hay, the chase across the plains, to make sure their children would be swift and strong. Catch me if you can, little khal. I am stronger, I am quicker. Catch me if you dare.

And he does, atop the heavens, atop the mother of all mountains, he catches you upon the saddle of the great dragon Vhagar and kisses you until neither of you has breath left in your lungs, until Vhagar can wait no more, and makes the world tremble with the mighty beating of her wings.

#aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen #hotd fic #hotd #rbing because i can

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irenadel · 17 days

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And if the devil... 4/9

Smut in previous and following chapters, Aemond x Maid!Reader

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9

You’ve always known the danger of your temper, that sometimes the risk is not in the damage you receive but the one you deal.

But it wasn’t you this time. You find yourself swinging and falling face first into your hopes and expectations because he is not there to catch the blow.

Aemond won’t talk to you.

Prince Aemond seems to have better things to do.

“It’s the blood,” she says tiredly but not unkindly. “Blood is still his currency. His, hers, yours. The realm’s. We’ll be drowning in coin soon. Maybe it’s better like this.”

“I know,” Princess Helaena answers heavily, like the burden of that love has bent her down under it. “But he loves his fear more.”

The day you tell Aemond about your uncle is the day he takes you to meet Vhagar.

You sweat coldly, the air in your lungs like ice, your heart caught in terror, imagining everything from shame and destitution to death in a cage.

But this isn’t the first stubborn old man you’ve bullied into bed.

And the miracle is that it is.

You make him sit down on the floor outside the princess’s room, his eye fixed on nothing, his breath deliberately steady

“He’s dying,” he says, voice devoid of emotion, not because there is none but because Aemond cannot decide which one he is experiencing at the moment.

He does look at you then, woundedly, furiously, full of a poisonous hatred that is not for you but has nowhere to go. You tell him about your uncle.

That’s when he tells you about Vhagar.

You don’t care anymore.

“Show me your heart. Take me to your dragon.”

He does not know why today it should feel so different.

You don’t laugh though.

He will kill you once you’re out of here, out of danger, he thinks, fiercely, joyously. He will kill you and kiss you and never again let you go.

A little boy, braving the biggest living thing in the world.

He hears you choke back a sob.

“Rȳbās,” he whispers hotly against your ear, listen.

You laugh again, short and broken like a sob.

Aemond wants to lick those tears away, drink the poison of your love off them, just so he can get drunk on it and forget everything else.

And it’s only in that moment that you look back at him, lips so close to his that he can taste your breath.

“Thank you… how do you say ‘thank you’ in Valyrian?”

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen fic #maid reader #dothraki reader #hotd fanfiction #hotd #king viserys #helaena targaryen #and if the devil...#vhagar #aemond shows you his dragon in lieu of his dick

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irenadel · 19 days

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I'm sick of internet negativity, so let's combat it: reblog this and saying something nice/pay a compliment to the prev in the tags.

#not only is your writing amazing but you are a kind and welcoming person who often makes me laugh so hard I snort my morning coffee

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irenadel · 19 days

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reblog to give somebody a fucking hug because we are all struggling to get through it. solidarity in this tough ass world.

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irenadel · 19 days

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i haven't forgotten about them

#house of the dragon #hotd #aegon ii targaryen #aemond targaryen #not into the ship but jeebus is this beautiful art #i’m in love

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irenadel · 20 days

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And if the devil... 3/9

Smut, Aemond x Maid!Reader

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9

“Is he going to marry you?”

You were home again for your fortnightly visit, had left your bag of castle cast offs with your cousins for them to recover old fabric and mend whatever could be mended and hurried to help your aunt with the scrubbing and the cooking and the late night bread making. You were still hauling water for her, conscious of her bad shoulder and your uncle’s temper simmering as he sat by the fire and sulked. You were only too glad to carry heavy buckets and stay out of his house and his sight as much as you could, when your aunt had intercepted you still on your way in, out of your uncle’s hearing, taking her chance with Angus away at his master’s and the older girls out running errands.

“Whoever has got you washing your hair twice a week and smiling even when you’re gutting fish… is he going to marry you?”

And she had said it so kindly, so glad for you in that moment, had not even eyed you suspiciously when you blushed furiously and told her you weren’t stupid enough to get distracted by such a things, that you hadn’t had the heart to tell her any of it.

You haven’t had the heart to tell her anything since you were sixteen and had been desperate enough to do whatever had to be done to get money for your family’s passage to Westeros. Sailed a smelly, old ship in boy’s clothes (paid in more than coin for the chance, in pain and sleepless nights for your moonblood to come). She’s known though. Somehow, she always knows, but you are sure if she knew the extent of it now she would pull you out of castle service, no matter how good the position or how precious the coin you earned was.

A prince was a dangerous thing. A prince’s lust more so, no matter how profitable some fools thought it. But a prince’s heart…

You know better than to let this continue, more aware even than Prince Aemond himself, of the monstrous danger you both court, and who the consequences of it will fall upon. Because this isn’t a man you tolerate to survive. This isn’t the frivolous fun other girls had told you about when you had been too busy and too smart to risk the squalling, tender results a roll in the hay could get you. This has gone far beyond dire need or bullheaded resignation.

Because Prince Aemond sneaks you out of kitchen duty not to fuck you against a wall or bend you over his royal bed, but to ask you if punches are all you can throw and daggers are all you can hold.

And you know the wise choice. You’ve known what the wise choice has been all your life, dashed your heart against it, over and over, just to quiet the bloody, pulsing thing.

But he wears you down. In heart-hammering fear and fascination, not with coin or sweet words but with the delicious, sheer stupidity of his courage. He wears you down. Because you’ve never let yourself be this, this thing he doesn’t even think to fear, a thing he wears with pride as if it were his due, along with beauty, and dragons and a life without hunger.

And you can’t turn away from it, metallic and sulphurous, the way you’ve come to know Valyrian skin tastes. Because Aemond’s easy freedom rips from your depths those long forgotten parts of yourself that had been better left dead and buried.

You remember an arakh your father had been too sensible to teach you, explain to your prince, that precision had never been something you could count on, your eyesight being what it was. So no bow or whip for you, but your father had given you a staff and told you, the closer the better, so you would be able to use your height and strength to your advantage, but still see the face you were aiming for. And Aemond takes up the task, knowing something of blindspots and making up for perceived weakness. He teaches you the ring of metal sword on metal armor, the echo of footsteps on cobblestones and dirt floors instead of grass ones. All the other little tells, so different from the ones found in the Dothraki Sea.

He teaches you the smell of reptile and charcoal that means dragon and laughs when you complain a great big lizard blocking the sun cannot be too hard to miss. You do not know how precious his cruel laughter is or the way he describes the clouds and storms he and Vhagar have lost themselves in.

In return, he drinks in stories of a father who taught you how to break a horse, how to throw a rope without trusting your poor, dead eyes but the thunderous gallop of hooves coming towards you. The father who had yelled at you through his laughter to stop trying to break your neck climbing wild stallions you had no business riding and let you whack him liberally with a quarterstaff just so you’d know what to do if an enterprising boy were to be tempted to haul you onto his saddle. A father who sounded to him, less like a king than a weapons master. But also, in stories of scarves wrapped around your head, rice extract for sun-burnt skin stolen at arakh-point from fat merchants and evil spirits kept away from your crib with knife and deception, Aemond finds his own hungry memories of his mother’s tender care whenever he had fallen sick and been secretly thrilled to get her attention.

He steals these hours to spend with you like he steals your memories of the Great Grass Sea, furtive and guilty in the knowledge that none of it belongs to him. That Ser Criston must be wondering at this sudden renewed zeal for his indoor studies, away from the practice yard, where he had previously been so eager to be.

But one doesn’t question a prince. Especially a prince who grows no duller in his sword drills, in spite of persistent disappearances.

Ser Criston need not know where Aemond takes the practice swords or that he lets Princess Helaena’s chambermaid have a go at him with a dull blade. Not bad with a sword but still better with a quarterstaff you use to put him in a chokehold that leaves him hard and aching for you. He elbows you in the stomach and takes the chance to throw you unto the soft grass of the little secluded garden you have taken over. Laughs at your outraged struggle and pins you down just so he can watch you bare your teeth at him, ferocious and angry like a dragon hatchling.

And it is you who kisses him first always, because he is not his brother, because he is better than that… but most of all because the thrill of your legs around his waist, your nails against the back of his neck, your hunger matching his, is better, a thousand times better, than the cheap satisfaction of unopposed conquest.

He will stubbornly refuse to think of this when he is dragged to the Grand Sept with his family, to pray for his father’s ailing health. He will look straight ahead and will not meet his mother’s or his siblings’ gaze. Will fiercely despise Aegon who can so easily ignore every reminder of temperance and decency thrown his way, and stare serenely at the candles lighted in their father and king’s honor. He is nothing like his brother, Aemond will think desperately, as he hears the prayers to the Mother, extolling them all to piety and chastity so that her gentle hand will ease the king’s burden. He will tell himself, this has no bearing on him, that it means nothing, even as he remembers the keening sound of your voice the first time his hand found its way into your cunt.

He’d known nothing but what the women of the Street of Silk had done to him and found himself drunk on the knowledge of his power, this new prowess he could pursue, the moment his fingers had slipped inside you and his thumb had found your nub. He had not known when to stop once he had realized he could make you scream. Not even amidst the incense and candles of the sept, because nothing here could make him forget, and he wondered contemptuously if Aegon could so easily keep a straight face during service, because he had never known what it was to make a woman fall apart for him without his coin.

Gentle Mother, strength of women…

But Aemond Targaryen does not hear the Mother’s Hymn. All he hears is his own cruel voice against your ear, riding too high on his mastery of your body to remember to be afraid of his own, “Tell your prince where you want his fingers.”

And you keen and struggle to steal another kiss from his smiling lips, thin like a blade and twice as sharp.

“Beg,” he had told you as he had rubbed your cunt with his whole palm watching you come undone under him. And it had almost been the end of him when you had choked back a delirious, my prince, right when he had slipped his fingers inside you again and felt your sex clenching around them. He had wanted inside your cunt so badly in that moment, he thought he would go mad of it.

But he couldn’t, had found within himself an uncomfortable excess of prudishness he could not seem to shake off. Because even drunk of the smell of your sex and the sound of your moans, still Aemond knows he is not his brother. He knew it in the brothel even as he refused to back down from the challenge of a grown woman beneath him, consuming his eager, hard sex so quickly and thoroughly he had found himself spilling into her with a child’s delirious cry of joy instead of a prince’s firm edict.

Aemond is not his brother, has far less tolerance for humiliation or a woman’s pain than Aegon ever did… but still, he is only human

“You’re not a whore,” he had hissed against your skin, choking back the angry moan you had ripped from him that day you had tried to take him into your mouth for the first time. He’d yanked you back up, panting wildly, half-outraged, half-terrified, all aflame. He had not known how to tell you that you were more than this to him. The thunderous beating of his blood, in his lower belly, taking root in his cock still hard and ready against your thin skirts. He’d wanted to tell you he did not need your obeisance or degradation, but could not, because even now he craved them so hard his mouth watered at the thought… And he should have known how far from the mark he was because you’d grabbed a handful of his Targaryen silver hair and pulled so hard his prick had jumped for joy. Hauled him to eye level and kept him there just so you could look into his eye while you milked him dry. And it was everything Aemond had never known he needed, panting madly, feeling himself lose control of his own teeth-clenched defiance. His hands burying themselves in your hair, almost smiling, eye wide as you’d reached out for his chest, for the place where he had shown you, and held your hand to, as he came all over your fingers, balls empty, still hard, too far gone to the think of his duty or his crown or anything that wasn’t the burning heat in his groin and your merciless grip around his heart.

It was Aegon who found out first. Unsurprising given his brother’s proclivities and the appalling lack of subtlety Aemond himself was capable of, unused as he was to hiding anything but his resentment. And lowly and larval as he had always been, his brother had not chosen to deal this blow to him when it could have done him the greatest harm, in the Sept or around their mother or their lord father even. No. Aegon had chosen to go for the throat flat on his back in the training yard, Aemond’s mind already far from the brother he had just quickly disposed of, thinking as he was, of you.

Stripped to your small clothes because they were the closest thing to dothraki riding slacks you possessed. Legs splayed apart, firmly planted on the ground, center of gravity low, both hands on the pike Aemond had found for you, akin to, but more deadly than a quarterstaff. Braid hanging severely behind your back, strands of its coarse, heavy hair falling all over your sweat-soaked neck, making Aemond swear to himself and all the gods that he would take it apart the moment he had you on your back on the ground, just to see the stream of pale hair falling over your naked shoulders.

Small clothes and borrowed pike and already a more formidable opponent than Aegon had ever been.

It was his mistake. The memory of you making him feel generous enough to haul his brother back up, suddenly close enough to hear Aegon’s poison right up close to his ear.

“Fucked her yet?”

Aemond had clenched his teeth so hard it hurt.

“Better fuck something other than your hand first, little brother,” he’d said, barely holding in the laughter, Ser Criston already fast approaching at the set of Aemond’s shoulders, arched and poised to strike like a panther. “… if you don’t want to shame yourself the moment you wet your wick in her.”

He should walk away. Scoff. Give it no importance and just carry on. If Aegon could do it then so could he.

He did neither, would will himself not to flush angrily if he could keep his pale Valyrian skin from betraying him. He thought coldly, rationally, he told himself later, considered how much further he could expose himself to humiliation as he heard his brother’s half-heartedly restrained giggle. He didn’t even register when he shrugged Ser Criston’s hand off his shoulder and came to rest his own on Aegon’s neck as his practice sword clattered to the ground.

He squeezed, not much, just enough to make a point, didn’t realize Ser Criston was talking to him, steadily but urgently, didn’t think much of his brother choking back his giggle along with his breath. He smiled, he thought he did, but Aegon’s quickly darkening face and evaporated mirth should have told him otherwise.

“This hand you mean?” He asked and squeezed some more. A faint whistling sound coming from his brother’s throat and Aemond found the corners of his mouth hurting from being pulled too tautly against his teeth. “Spend more time worrying about your training and less time worrying about my sheets, brother.”

Then Ser Criston did pull them apart, Aegon crumpling against the kingsguard, coughing to allow sweet, precious air back into his lungs. Aemond, paying it no mind, walking away, hands clasped behind his back so they would stop trembling.

He is not his brother, he knows. He is better, stronger, more disciplined. If he kisses your lips and hair and not your sex, it is because he understands this. If he has yet to see you unclothed, or even let you undress him, undo him… it is because he knows what he owes his honor, his family, his kingdom… his future lady wife.

It isn’t fear, he tells himself, it isn’t shame. He hasn’t known fear or shame since the day he stared down dragon and death. It is respect.

You are not a whore, he had told you, and proceeded to behave like one himself. He’d known it couldn’t last long, should have been aware always how there was no future to it.

But he thinks of your head laying on his belly, under dappled sunlight, his fingers caressing another darkening bruise on your collarbone. He had promised to take the hand off whoever had dared, with a lazy cat-like smile that had made you smile back. He thinks of Helaena’s laughter behind the closed doors of her rooms, shrill and unexpected, even for her. He thinks of you carrying little Jaehaera, spinning her around the gardens until she shrieked in delight. The mottled red bridge of your nose, the velvet-soft hair of your temples.

He is not like his brother Aegon. Has never been. Could never do the things he does. But Aemond finds himself surprised to discover how much worse he has managed to become.

#aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen fic #aegon ii targaryen #hotd fanfiction #hotd fanfic #hotd smut #rbing my own shit cause I can #maid reader #dothraki reader #dothraki

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irenadel · 20 days

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A Mirror in Half-Light

18+ 1.5k. homelander x supe f!reader. blood, dirty talking, cunnilingus, use of telepathic powers, acts of violence mentioned (not between reader and HL)

From someone so concerned with shielding his mind, Homelander quickly comes to appreciate your telephatic powers and how useful they can be. Especially during a boring Seven meeting.

prompt sent by @infinetlyforgotten, thank you so much 🤍

When you were first introduced to the Seven, many, including your new colleagues, compared you to Mindstorm. Sure, there were some similarities—the ability to see a person’s thoughts or to project specific images. But that’s where it ended.

The ace up to your sleeve, which distinguishes you and earned your supe name as Quickstep, is both your telepathic precognition, giving you leverage in hand to hand combat, and your crown and glory—possession. Supe or non-supes, all could have their minds hijacked by you; an ability Vought decided not to publicize.

Your fellow partners in fighting crime knew, though; and from day one you could feel Homelander watching you with suspicion, a stare so filled with distaste your knees almost buckled.

Seeing you in a corridor, Homelander signed for you to approach.

“Quickstep,” he sneered, invading your personal space until he towered over you and your neck ached from looking so high up. “If I catch you using your little powers on me, be sure I’ll crack your spine. It’ll be easier than stomping on an ant. Got it?” His sudden artificial smile did nothing to lessen the weight of his words.

Homelander was your hero, always, since childhood. Not only that, ever since you saw him for the first time, the shining blue eyes, the softness of his blonde hair, that commanding voice... You were a goner. And he most certainly knew. The disappointment almost, almost broke your heart.

Little by little, however, with the unspoken promise you wouldn’t pry on his mind, you’d grown close. Partners in fighting crime, yeah, of course, but you had his back, no matter what.

In one of your missions together, Homelander smeared in an innocent’s blood from head to toe, your first instinct was to help him—clean the mess. And you couldn’t lie, him in his violence and brutality did something to you.

“Hey, you,” you murmured. “Let me help you, okay? Let me take care of it. Let me protect you.”

Surprisingly, he acquiesced. It took no more than minutes to possess the mind of some poor bystanders, having them fight and commit atrocious acts; they wouldn’t know what came over them and Vought would be too happy not to disclose. In quick action, the narrative changed; from rabid supe, to terrorist crowd.

Later, you found yourself in his penthouse, in his bathtub, naked and cleaning the gore as he squeezed your waist. When you sealed your relationship with a bloodied kiss, you knew there was no turning back—and you loved it. Loved his quirks, his humor, his beautiful nose and soft hair, loved his flaws and all that came with it. Loved the tie that bound you forever.

“I love you. I love you so much,” you whispered in his ear as you lay in his bed, a few hours before your meeting with the rest of the Seven. “I ache for you all the time. It overflows.” You giggled, remembering those times your desire burned you so passionately, so intensely, your mind had one focal point: Homelander, and what he could do to your body. Without realizing, all your wants and needs were projected on his mind.

At first, you were fearful he’d throw a fit, but he had a devilish grin on his face.

“Wow,” he laughed. “If I’d known more about your dirty little mind I would have put it to use a long time ago, babe.”

After that, it became a fixture, in bed, in daily moments where voicing your thoughts wasn’t an option, or when in missions silent communication was useful. And bit by bit, he delighted in it, veritable proof of your devotion and love.

As it were, in this stolen moment, cuddled in his bed, he answered. “And I love you, my darling, My own mirror.” He nuzzled your neck. “No need to scream in my mind, I’m gonna eat your pretty pussy until you beg me to stop.”

“I’d never,” you said breathily.

Slowly kissing from your collarbone, to your stomach and thighs, mischievously looking you in the eye and he bit and kissed and licked so, so close to your cunt. His strength was enough to keep you in the exact place he wanted. Such sweet torture.

Finally he turned his attention to your clit, dragging his tongue over your it in elaborate patterns—he was relentless, and you both moaned at the contact. You are loud, thrashing and screaming at the slightest touch, but only for him. He played your body so perfectly.

Your hands found his hair, soft to the touch, and yanked, wanting him closer, where you needed and he groaned—the vibrations going straight to your core. Soon he started tongue-fucking, just as you liked it, going deep and slow, alternating to trace your slit from your asshole to your clit; not one part of you ignored.

“Fuck, you taste so good. You’re fucking made for me, your pussy is mine, mine, understand that?”

“It’s yours! It’s all yours. Please, Homelander, please—”

“Please what?”

“Let me come, let me come in your mouth, I want to feel you.” It was all too much, the mess his tongue made, the wetness running down your pussy and dripping in the mattress.

Moaning, he plunged two fingers deep inside you, as he squeezed your ass, bringing you even closer. You cried from the pleasure he woke in you, and even in this madness you caressed his hair, closing your legs until he was in the position you liked most: with a perfect view of his face, his soft locks, his bright eyes.

He smirked, squeezing you tighter, until you no longer touched the bed, and he slapped your ass so hard your whole body trembled.

“Like that, princess? Like when I do whatever the fuck I want with your sweet body? Now show me. Show me what you want.”

You complied instantly.

You imagined him feasting on your pussy, licking it all until his spit and your slick became one and the same. His fingers marking your ass, your thighs; biting so deeply even your invulnerable skin would cleave to his superior strength. You wanted his tongue deep inside you, for yours on end, fucking your pussy so good your legs would spasm and you would scream, pussy clenching just the way he liked. You wanted it all—Homelander slurping on your clit and swirling his tongue, making you squirt and swallowing it all, leaving his chin a beautiful fucking mess.

In the aftermath, body boneless and exhausted, you wanted his fingers, for him to drag it all over your juices and make you swallow and gag on it. Then, in a little tenderness, he'd give you a breathtaking kiss, further proof of your intimate lovemaking.

As you projected all of this on his mind, his smile grew bigger, more wicked. And you knew he'd deliver it, or even more.

“You really such a slut.” You giggled; it was all in the game.

Later on, as all the Seven were debating their latest terrorist attack, and what plan they'd need to put in action, all you could think was Homelander. His hands on you, his tongue lapping at your clit and his disheveled hair—which, you noticed, he didn't fix to the meeting. It wasn't fair. He was taunting you.

You couldn't keep your eyes off of him and he knew. Flashes of your morning together ran through your mind, no matter how satisfied you'd been, you wanted more, again, all the time. You wanted his kisses and devastation, his head between your legs and his mouth both teasing and giving you the most world-shattering pleasure.

You wanted to caress his hair, your newfound obsession, while he fucked you, hiting that sweet spot and filling you up with his come.

In your daydreams, you tuned out from the conversation, and like being burned you found Homelander staring straight at you, an expression you had become oh so familiar. Unintentionally he'd become the spectator of your fantasies.

Rising from his chair so quickly you barely caught it, Homelander said, “That's enough for today. I have other things to take care of. Quickstep, you stay.”

Whispers of complaint were quickly shut off, as Homelander glared at them until each and everyone left the room.

“Well, well, seems like someone is still wanting for more.”

He had laid his hands on your chair, then turned it so you were face to face.

“I couldn't help it,” you smirked. “I can't get enough.”

“But that's not fair, don't you think?" He clucked his tongue. "Now it's your turn to please me.” He pulled you from the chair, and manhandled you until you fell to your knees with a thud. “Now, princess, get to work.”

#Homelander fanfiction #homelander smut #homelander x reader #homelander x you #supe reader #telepath reader #love the inkling of narcissism in his love of someone who can reflect back his feelings

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