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atrwriting · 1 year

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control — aemond targaryen x highborn!fem!reader

look at that STRUT.

whatta war criminal.

back with another installment of smut posing as fanfic ~~ ok after this chapter i will be writing actual plot i just needed to get this out of my system

as always, warnings: SMUUUT, submissive and bratty aemond, light!dom!reader, choking kink, breeding kink, dirty talk, talk of blood and cheese

minors pls go away

anyway, chapter ten:

your days after the wedding and leading up to the war, whenever it would be, fell into a… chaotic routine, you could say. you never received your own chambers, but you weren’t complaining. your own chambers only meant that you wouldn’t be able to spend your mornings with your lips around aemond’s cock, his head between your thighs, or bickering with each other. the afternoons sometimes were consumed with bickering, but usually you both were preoccupied with preparation tasks for the war close by to the other. aemond insisted on you always being in his line of sight with the war looming over his head and around the entire castle.

but your evenings…

those belonged to you and aemond.

one evening, after many long days of war preparation, you had laid against the wall of the tub with aemond’s back laying against your chest. you had locked his torso in your arms and rested your chin on his shoulder. the top of his head rested against the wall of the tub, with his one eye closed. the prince had long since stopped wearing his eyepatch when the two of you were alone.

“the long days have not been kind to your muscles, husband,” you mused, pressing a kiss to the skin of his tense shoulder.

he clicked his tongue on the back of his teeth. with a huff, he spat, “i always make time to train, and if my enemies never seem to forget it, neither will my insolent wife.”

it was your turn to huff as you turned your face towards his. “i’m saying you and your muscles must be exhausted, you git. obviously i know your muscles reflect your hard work!”

you tried to push him off of you, also frustrated from a long day, but he refused to get off. your husband sighed and turned his head to lean his forehead against yours.

“my apologies, my sweet,” he spoke gruffly. “it has been… a rather long day.”

“i find you rather mean, husband,” you exhaled with him, leaning your forehead against his.

he sighed once more. “i am afraid i will have to leave soon. i have tried to put it off for as long as possible.”

you narrowed your eyes. “you mean we are leaving soon.”

he shook his head. “you must-“

“if you try and stop me, i will only follow,” you replied. “you can lock me away, but i will find the key.”

he chuckled. “i take back my apology: you are insolent.”

“resourceful,” you bit. “and you would trust any of those men with me? or yourself?”

he huffed once more. “i can defend myself.”

“i as well, husband,” you replied. “then it is settled. i will go with you.”

aemond sighed. “almost three moon cycles we have been together. when did you last —“

“i haven’t bled since i’ve been here, husband,” you spoke before biting your lip in anxiousness. “that does not mean i am pregnant, keep in mind.”

“you would go to the camp nonetheless?” he raised an eyebrow.

“as i said, we can neither get our hopes up nor hope for anything… we can only wait until the answer is definite. besides… if i stayed, would you trust anyone with me?”

“i wouldn’t,” he answered honestly. “it appears you win this argument, wife. one of few.”

“we’ll see about that,” you laughed, stepping out of the tub and holding out your hand for your husband. he took it, but stepped out with reluctance. the heat of the water provided your husband with some comfort, you noticed. you decided to wield what cards you could with him in such a state. in a playful voice, you spoke, “i would have thought about doing something for you if you hadn’t been so mean earlier.”

he rolled his eyes. “i am much too tired to retort, my sweet.”

you laughed. “my poor husband. today has been so unkind to you. it’s unheard of that you won’t put me in my place.”

“do not get used to it,” he huffed, falling into bed without dressing.

you giggled once more, letting your eyes drift over his body. his eye has fallen closed almost as soon as he hit the bed and gotten comfortable, throwing one arm up to hold the back of his pillow. aemond was right: one look at his arms, and you knew he was a well-trained swordsman. the way his taut bicep muscle caught the shadows of the rippling flames of the fire would make any woman weak in the knees. how lucky you were to be his wife.

“husband,” you spoke softly.

“yes?” he sighed, a bit of annoyance in his tone.

“is there anything i could do to… help you relax?”

he swallowed thickly. “i am close to slumber, wife, i don’t think i will be able to fuck you into the wall tonight.”

you giggled, laying down on the bed next to him. “who said i wanted to do anything besides make only you feel good?”

aemond was selfish in my areas of his life, but the bedroom was barely one of them. when he realized the meaning behind your words, he turned his head to read the expression on your face. his eye, ever intimidating, stared you down before it rested on your lips. a flush rose to your cheeks before his spare arm has raised so his thumb could tug at your plump bottom lip. it took every ounce of self control not to swallow his thumb whole as you thought about what you wanted to do to his member.

“i suppose your lips would help me relax,” he whispered, continuing to play with them.

“you suppose, husband?” you laughed. “does that mean you would prefer something else to help you relax?”

he smiled. “ride me.”

you bit your lip and smiled. “my pleasure, my prince.”

you felt flattered as you saw his cock already hard for your wet core. you stood on your knees over his length, and guided him into your entrance. with every one of your muscles being tight as well, it was a struggle to have every inch stretch your walls to fit him. noticing your reluctance, aemond’s hands found the flesh of your hips and gave a reassuring squeeze. soon, you had settled his entire length inside you and a moan has escaped past your lips. your eyes fluttered open to look upon your husband’s face, and you were shocked at what you saw.

usually aemond was on high alert, even during sex. he had always looked at you as if you were prey and he was the predator, and you had grown to enjoy it. however, at this private, intimate moment, watching him with his head thrown back, eye shut, and mouth slightly parted in ecstasy… there was nothing like the idea of predator turning prey to make you grow wetter.

“you are so big inside me, husband,” you whimpered. “nothing feels better…”

aemond had found himself in such a state of exhaustion he could only moan at your words. you began to pick up your pace as you rocked your hips against his, grinning down at the mess you were making across his pubic bone. his hands were digging into your flesh and you smiled at the thought of bruises.

“you are so good to me, aemond,” you whined as the tip of his cock nudged itself against your g-spot. “so, so good for me…”

“fuck,” he spat with gritted teeth. “don’t stop.”

your eyes widened at the thought, but you quickly recovered. with a wicked smile, you asked, “are you going to be sweet to me, husband?”

you dragged out the roll of your hips after you finished you question, keeping your eyes locked on your husband’s face. when no retort came, you grew angry. you then halted your motions as you waited for his response.

he groaned in frustration before letting his teeth sink into his bottom lip. “is this how you relax me?!”

you giggled. “i asked you a question. maybe if you answer, i’ll continue.”

“you will continue,” he bit, shifting his hips beneath you.

“i might,” you whispered softly, holding his gaze.

there was a flush to his cheeks at your words. his pupils were dark and wild and the rosiness in his cheeks affirmed that lust was trying to take over his senses. poor prince, always having to be in control…

he seemed to contemplate your statement, swishing it around in his mouth a bit before deciding on what to say. you watched him wrestle with his own thoughts, but you did not shift your expression. he was to make the next move.

“you are just as evil as you claim i am,” he sighed, with a hint of defeat in his voice.

you giggled. you reached for one of his hands and kissed his palm. his eye watched you intently as you stared back at him, popping on of his fingers into your mouth and sucking on it. you felt his cock twitch inside you, and you knew you had the upper hand.

“not nearly,” you whispered. “if you ask for something, it won’t be kept from you. what do you want, my prince?”

the prince held your hips in place as he pushed himself to sit up right, balancing on balled fists. “empty my balls.”

you pushed him back to the bed with a shove before his eye widened slightly in surprise. leaning forward, you wrapped a hand around his throat and slid down onto his cock. you watched his face to see if he was enjoying himself or not. his eye fluttered closed, and his hands dug into the flesh of your hips, but the prince did not seem to hate your hand around his throat. you smiled. you threw your hips up and down, back and forth, and let his cock slide in and out of your sopping wet cunt. your husband’s cock, seeming to grow by the second, was twitching against your walls and threatening to spill over at any second.

“are you going to give me what i want, husband?” you asked, gazing through your lashes.

aemond was far from answering. the vein in his neck was beginning to protrude as his head was slammed back. his eye was closed, and he appeared to be in another world of pleasure as you milked his cock.

“tell me what you want,” he rasped, scrunching his eyebrows together. “fuck, you’re so tight…”

“i want your seed deep inside me, my love,” you hummed. “can you do that for me?”

a low growl began to rumble in the bottom of his throat. “fuck, fuck….”

“be good to me, husband. fuck an heir into me.”

“you’re so fucking—“ the muscles in his arms were beginning to tighten. soon, his lips parted to show his bared teeth. “i’m going to—“

“don’t cum yet,” you ordered, squeezing the sides of his throat harder to not suffocate him. “don’t.”

he growled in frustration through his teeth. “i’m going—“

you halted your motions.

aemond wrapped one hand around the wrist that was choking him and glared up at you. he no longer had the strength to grit his teeth at you or threaten you. the man laying down before you, underneath your powerful thighs, looked as flustered as a man denied an orgasm could. you smirked.

“devil woman,” he breathed.

you giggled, leaning down to kiss your husband. your tongue fell into his mouth and tangled with his. you began to grind your hips against his, letting the tip of his cock nudge against the opening to your cervix. your inner walls squeezed him perfectly before you realized you were close to your orgasm as well.

“i might just get off your lap right now and finish myself off next to you,” you whispered against his lips, slowly fucking his cock. “saying such mean things to me...”

“don’t—“ he struggled to get out. not because of the fact that you had a hand around his throat, no — it was because aemond had never been forced into a submissive position in his life. he only ever knew power, and getting everything he wanted when he wanted it — he had never been in this position before, and he didn’t seem to hate it, but the discomfort with something new could be seen on his face. “please, just…”

“i want your seed in my womb, my love, can you do that for me?” you asked sweetly, picking up your pace. “i want to be full of you.”

he moaned into your ear. “oh, fuck — please, don’t stop —“

“finish inside me, husband,” you stated. “be sweet to me.”

“fuck, fuck, fuck —“ he was struggling to speak coherently as his orgasm approached. “say that — say what you said -- before — again.”

confusion struck you, but there were only so many things that had rolled off your tongue in the past few moments. “please, my love, fill me.”

“fuck, just like that,” he grunted, throwing his head back. “tighter — my neck —“

you squeezed your hand tighter around his throat. aemond squeezed both sides of your hips and began to throw you up and down on his cock relentlessly. small whimpers left your mouth, usually his weakness, but aemond was so lost in his own head with your pretty fingers around his throat he couldn��t have cared less how good he was making you feel as a consequence of his own actions. you held your beautiful, strong husband down by his throat as he bucked his hips into yours, despite the fact that you were inches from falling apart.

but this was about him.

“you’re so good, aemond, so, so good,” you whined. “oh, god — i love your cock — i love you so much.”

“say that again, please...” he croaked, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip with his eye screwed shut. “please — i’m so close.”

“i love you, aemond,” you whined, your orgasm quickly approaching. “cum for me. please.”

“seven. fucking. hells.”

the pads of your husband’s finger tips dug so deep into your skin that you were sure they would leave bruises. he pulled you forward so his cock was still buried deep in your cunt, but your forehead was pressed against his. he clamped one hand on the back of your neck, keeping you firmly in place as several groans of pleasure left his lips. you milked his cock for everything that it was worth and moaned with each thrust. once aemond had begun to nuzzle the side of his face against yours, whispering sweet nothings into your ear, your orgasm overcame your entire body. your husband held you tightly in place as you sobbed into the crook of his neck, shaking with each wave of pleasure that rippled throughout your body.

“that’s it, my sweet. squeeze my cock. gods, my heart is yours…” he gasped, coaxing you through your orgasm.

once you were spent, you pressed a lazy kiss to his lips and fell to the space beside him on the bed. your eyes drifted closed, and soon you found aemond’s arms wrapped around you in your post-orgasm haze.

“do you still have hatred in your heart for me?” you asked with a coy smile.

“quite the opposite, actually,” he spoke, kissing your cheek. “much to my dismay.”

“dirty liar,” you laughed.

“you’re right, my love,” he admitted. “i believe i am in love with you.”

“how convenient,” you said, smiling up at him. “i seem to find myself in love with you.”

the pair of you had left for the camp early the next morning. aemond insisted you bring your pretty dresses, but you sent him a look as you packed most of the leathers you had commissioned as of late.

you also packed one for a growing stomach, in the off chance an unexpected surprise occurred. you couldn’t ride or fight in a dress, no — but you also couldn’t run. you needed to be prepared if something happened.

aemond tried to hide his smile when he saw you opt for more leathers than silks. you tried to hide that you noticed he was terrible at hiding.

the pair of you had left with your arm in his, followed closely in front of ser criston cole. you were scheduled to arrive by dragonback behind the front lines of where rhaenyra targaryen’s troops had begun to gather on the western border, nearest the sea.

the vast ocean meant a domain that was ruled by lord corlys velaryon. the king and his supporters had yet to ally themselves with a formidable match for lord corlys’ strength, and you didn’t think they ever would. the sea also meant a vast world above, the clouds, that any dragons could rule from and conquer. your husband may have had the largest dragon, but the opposing side had many more dragons. many, many more.

once you had arrived at the camp, you found yourself staring at that open sea. your eyes were locked on the horizon as if a young wife like yourself would be able to seem as intimidating or as infamous as the lord corlys or the false king consort daemon targaryen. you wrapped a protective arm around your stomach, as if, again, you had any means of protecting yourself, those around you, or something that might be growing inside of you.

“we did not have the privilege of going on a romantic tour celebrating our marriage after the fact, this i am afraid i have denied you.”

you turned around to face your husband. a smile was upon your face at this moment, but your husband did not have a similar expression. his jaw was tight and set and he clutched the handle of his sword at his belt. his eye was not only focused on you, but somewhere behind you as well. the sea appeared to represent a ghost to your husband, as that was the only way you could rationalize why he looked like he was being haunted.

and then you realized why.

he saw the sea as his own possibility to become a ghost in his own right. everyone he loved could die by the hands of lord corlys’ fleet. skilled swordsman from the sea — a domain he could never even dream of conquering — storming his brother’s lands… absolutely no shot. aemond could most definitely fly away in vhagar, but when he felt more responsibility towards his brother’s armies, throne, and kingdom in comparison to aegon what, if any, allegiance felt to his kingdom… aemond would go down with his brother’s metaphorical ship, just as lord corlys would with his literal one.

but the air? the clouds? that was a different story.

that was the ghost of his son.

the actual ghost.

aemond saw daemon’s face in those clouds with caraxes’ wings spread and his son’s head clutched in its fangs.

you couldn’t blame him.

it also haunted you.

you saw the scared faces of his remaining children in front of you as you struggled to shield them from the horror.

you let your arm fall from your stomach. you were scaring yourself. you forced yourself to push down your anxiety and address the problem at hand: your husband, who was also consumed with anxiety.

you walked towards your husband to stand in front of him, smiling, but him still not returning the grin.

“i don’t think i would’ve changed the days following our marriage,” you stated coyly. “i had my fun. are you telling me you were not kept entertained, husband?”

he blinked at your attempt to pull him out of his own head. once he had swallowed and understood your words, one of the corners of his lips lifted.

“i think we both had our fun,” he responded in a light tone.

you smiled at him before looking down at the floor in apprehension. you took a moment to collect yourself before you spoke once more. you glanced back up at aemond, and stated, “we’ve got each other’s backs in this next phase of the war, aemond.”

he nodded, emotionless. “and in our marriage.”

you smiled. his personality tended to be abrasive, but there were small moments where you locked away to cherish. “we may not be able to count on very many people… but if you trust me, husband, you will not regret it.”

he narrowed his eyes at you. “we are in a camp filled with men who have not seen, and probably will not see, a woman for a very long time. stay by my side at all times.”

you nodded. “of course.”

“do not pull out your daggers unless specifically told to do so,” he ordered.

you raised an eyebrow at him. “i know to play the part of the obedient, meek wife when necessary, husband, but if someone comes for your throat… i am going for their balls.”

you expected him to laugh, but he didn’t. you held your ground though, as you meant every word.

he smirked before leaning his head in closer to your face. “visenya targaryen was a force to be met with, but imagine the look on an enemy’s face when they see my wife castrate them.”

“that’s if you don’t kill them before i can show them my handiwork.” your coy smile matched your quirked eyebrow.

he laughed then. “that’s if i don’t punish you for taking out your daggers with my explicit permission.”

* * *

what do we think?? sorry abt the shorter/boring chapter -- needed a break from the intensity but we will return to our regularly scheduled programming soon, dont worry ;) -L

#Aemond the Kinslayer #aemond targaryen #aemond fic #Aemond x Reader #aemond targaryen smut #aemond fanfiction #hotd aemond #aemond #house of the dragon #hotd

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littleperilstories · 1 year

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The Prince of Thieves: If It's Not Right, You Have to Put It Right

Mood Boards | Chapter Titles | Also on A03!

Warnings: Fantasy-esque prison setting, painful wound cleaning, restraints (shackles), severe power imbalance, nasty law enforcement/abuse of power, aftermath of flogging, mention of wound infection, lady whump

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Word count: 3917 || Approx reading time: 16 mins

If It's Not Right, You Have to Put It Right

Teaser: Is there no one around here with any kindness in their heart? Or any goddamn sense in their head? “But…no one’s looked at his back since yesterday.” I point at Fox, letting my voice quaver. “Those cuts will get infected if they don’t get cleaned.”

Bree

The night passes in unsettling quiet. There are no howls of despair from other cells, no angry bellows from the constables. In fact, little noise at all breaks through the darkness, save for the scraping of hobnailed boots when the patrolling guards stalk through the halls.

Fox, too, is quiet—no moans or whimpers from pain-induced dreams. He sleeps, silent enough that I catch myself hoping he’s not dead.

Sleeping, when it’s my turn to sink into its elusive mists, brings no rest. Waking, which happens enough that I’m not sure I slept at all, brings only grief and uncertainty.

Hatchett first said I would hang, then changed to not necessarily. Was that part of the game? Was he simply trying to confuse me? If I am not taken to the gallows, but left here to rot instead, what then? Or perhaps…perhaps that’s it? Maybe it’s enough for him to watch me suffer? He’ll get his long-awaited vengeance for running away from him four years ago, and I’ll get to die cold and alone.

A hoarse moan from the other cell jars me from my thoughts. “Am I still alive?”

I don’t know whether to muster up tears or laughter. Pressing as close to the bars as I can, I squint through the dark. “Seems you are.”

“Shame.” He draws a slow breath, punctuated by a wince.

“Does it hurt?”

“Like hell.”

He hasn’t moved much from where he fell asleep last night—probably couldn’t. His wince echoes through the darkness as he slowly starts to rise.

“No one’s come to take a look at those yet.” I can’t see his lash-wounds, not while his face is turned toward me, but I was awake for enough of the night that I’d have noticed if someone visited.

“That asshole medic will come around when he wants to,” Fox mutters. “Or maybe never. He hates my guts.” After he’s pulled himself upright, panting slightly, he adds with a dark laugh and a vague gesture around us, “Like everyone else.”

I don’t understand. Why take care of the shoulder wound, but not these ones? “But they might get infected—”

“So? What do they care?” His words run together, so it sounds like, Whatta they care? “Aren’t I gonna die anyway? May as well make the lead-up painful.”

I can’t think of anything to say to that, so I say the first—and most inane—thing that comes to mind. “I don’t hate you.”

Something flashes across his face. Amusement? Gratitude? Confusion and discomfort he’s too polite to acknowledge? “Uh. Thanks.”

I don’t respond. I’m too busy wishing I could die right about now.

Long, dragging minutes prompt the realization that I haven’t eaten since my last meal at the Smith house, nor have I had any water since my interrogation.

Tell me what you know about IA. Its leaders. Its methods. Everything.

With the sound of the whip still ringing in my ears, I was not inclined to give Baden Hatchett a single word, let alone any goddamn details about running for IA.

Speak, Miss Cooper, or you will find your stay in this prison less than hospitable.

You realize it is in your best interests to cooperate, do you not?

You think I won’t go to any lengths imaginable to take them down? Do you really want to be on the wrong side of that battle?

You’re a fool, I finally told him. I already am.

“Please, sir. When is the medic coming?” The constable who delivers water and bread appears genuinely surprised when I scramble to my feet and address him. “Will it be soon?”

He gives me a look one might give a worm, squashed and bloody beneath their shoe. “You sick?”

“W-well, no, but—”

“Then sit down, girl. Mind your own business.”

Is there no one around here with any kindness in their heart? Or any goddamn sense in their head? “But…no one’s looked at his back since yesterday.” I point at Fox, letting my voice quaver. “Those cuts will get infected if they don’t get cleaned.”

Scoffing, he asks, “Is that supposed to be my problem? Take your fucking meal and worry about yourself.”

This time, when I answer, impatience slips through, and I press myself against the metal. “I’m telling you, he needs to come look at—”

“‘I’m telling you’?” Reaching through the bars, the constable shoves me back. My stocking feet and tired limbs struggle to keep balance, and I sink to the floor. “Who do you think you are? Mind your goddamn tongue, you hear? He’ll come when he’s available.”

Fox lurches forward when the guard shoves me, spitting venom—the only weapon he can wield. “Look what we got here. Another big man who likes pushing people around.”

I cringe. It’s nice of him to speak up, but he’s already saved me once. I don’t need him to do it again, certainly not now. For once, even if neither of them realize it, I’m the one in control of the conversation. Keeping my eyes on the constable, I reapproach. “What the hell’s the matter with you? Infected wounds kill people all the time. Don’t you care?”

The constable glances at Fox and guffaws. “About him? Not particularly.” He tugs out his baton. “Seems you still need a lesson in respect.”

Although I step back as if cowed by the implicit threat, I say, “I give respect to those who earn it.”

His eyes narrow. “Is that so? Rest assured… I will let Constable Hatchett know.”

Fox leaps back into the conversation, contempt upon his face. “Going to run right to mommy and tell her, are you?”

The constable slams his baton against the bars of Fox’s cell hard enough to echo. I barely suppress a startled squeak. “You and your mouth. You just don’t learn, do you, you stupid fucker?”

Based on the look on Fox’s face, I can only imagine what he’s thinking: Well, you better come in here and teach me a lesson, then, or something equally ill-advised. But he grits his teeth and says nothing.

“Huh. That’s what I thought,” the officer says, and he stalks away.

Fox turns his glare on me. Once the constable’s footsteps have faded, he says, “So much for not doing that anymore. Didn’t you promise just last night you wouldn’t try to piss them off for my sake?”

Irritation flares inside me. “I promised I wouldn’t put myself in harm’s way. There were bars between us, in case you didn’t notice.”

“Didn’t stop him from trying, though, did it?” Fox gestures toward the door. “And you do realize, right, that he could have come in if he wanted to? That’s how jail works. They’re the ones with the keys.”

“Sure. But I’m the one with this.” I brandish the flask I unlatched from the constable’s belt while I was distracting him with my complaints. “Let’s hope it’s just water.”

How satisfying it is to watch his eyes widen. Ha. Weren’t expecting that, were you? “When’d you pinch that?”

“There’s a reason Spider recruited me.” I unscrew the top and inhale, praying the pungent smell of alcohol doesn’t assault my senses. “I’m not half bad.” With a sigh of relief, I return the cap. Just water. Exactly what I wanted.

“All right, well, good job, but…why do you need that?”

“I don’t need it.” I drop the flask and scan my clothes, seeking the least soiled stretch of fabric before I tear a strip from the skirt. It’s far from sterile, but it’ll have to do. “You do.”

He frowns. “What?”

“If that dumb fucking medic,” I say, “isn’t going to do his job, then I’ll have to do it for him.” Waving the torn cloth, I gesture toward the water flask. “Come closer.”

He’s staring at me with a mix of astonishment and something I can’t place. Suspicion? Confusion? “Why?”

“Because just hurry up.” I beckon him with my hand. “Before he figures out his flask is missing and comes back. I’m going to clean your cuts.”

He blinks. Flinches. Is he…embarrassed? Is the prospect of me touching him more horrible than being whipped in front of the entire prison? “Bree, you don’t need to—”

Bitterly, I say, “I do if he’s not coming.”

He barely moves a muscle. “We just met.” His good hand rubs anxiously at the nape of his neck. “You shouldn’t have to…”

We just met. His words sting more than they should. “We’ve met before.”

“That night doesn’t count.” For the first time, he looks at me with something akin to pity. “It was awful. For both of us.”

“You saved my life.” No point in bringing up the first time we crossed paths. Why would he remember? He’s probably helped Spider recruit dozens of runners.

“Right, but…” Wide and uncertain, his eyes are still fixed on mine. “I don’t expect nothing from—” A pause. “You…you don’t owe me anything.”

I huff out an annoyed sigh. “Will you just get over here? Or was st—taking this a complete waste of time?”

For a moment, he remains a statue—then hauls himself across the floor, stopping with his back to me. “This…good?”

I reach through the bars to test the distance between us. “Yes.” Hovering my fingers over his back, terrified to touch him until we’re both ready, I scan for any inch of skin that isn’t pocked with lash-marks. “I’m…I’m sorry again. He wouldn’t have flogged you if not for me.”

“Not your fault.” Fox’s voice is bitter, but I believe him. “For a miserable bastard, he’s fucking creative when he wants to be.” He puts on his best mimicry of Hatchett’s low voice. “Consequences.”

Surely he’s trying to be funny, but a shiver runs down my spine. Father was cruel and quick to use his fists, but dumb as a rock. Baden Hatchett is cruel but sharp—clever and quick to use his wits. Had I gone through with the marriage, what awful consequences might I have met when my actions brought him displeasure? “Yes.” You will call the count. “He is.”

Banishing Hatchett from my mind—as much as I can when I’m staring directly at his handiwork, embroidered in blood across Fox’s back—I reach for the flask. “I’m going to run water down your back first. I imagine it will hurt.”

“I expect so, yeah.”

“Are you ready?”

“Do I got a choice?”

I pause, not sure what to do. “I mean… You do, but…”

He snorts. “Just say no.”

Swallowing an uncomfortable laugh, I open the flask.

At first, the water runs rust-coloured to the floor, pooling between us and mingling with the filth crusted there. Fox hisses.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “Just breathe.” What did Mother used to do, when I was young and Father got carried away? Tell me about the story you read today. How were your lessons this morning? Let’s go through some arithmetic facts. “What’s two times two?”

He jerks his head back to look at me, brows pinched in confusion. “What?”

“My mother used to try and distract me,” I say, “when she had to, um… When I was hurt and she didn’t want me to cry.” Didn’t want me to cry too loudly and bring him storming back. “Stories, arithmetics, and such.”

“Listen. I’m not doing any maths right now. This fucking hurts enough as it is.” He winces again as another flood of water drips down his back. “No need to bring school into it.”

“All right. That’s fine.” Inexplicably, my heart is pounding as I lift my makeshift washing cloth. “I’m going to start, um, cleaning.” Why are my hands shaking? “May I…?”

If he was embarrassed before, he’s gotten over it. “You’ve already started. Might as well finish it, yeah?”

I grit my teeth as if I’m the one who’s bracing myself for pain. “Tell me a story, then. Something about you.”

He barks out a laugh.“You think that’s a good idea? Who knows who’s listening in?” After a pause, he adds, muttering into the darkness, “Fuck you, whoever you are.”

“You needn’t tell me your life story,” I say, chuckling, though my stomach twists. “A happy memory or something.”

He gives a soft yelp. I’m doing my best to be gentle, but the wounds are still raw, and my dress isn’t made from the softest material. “About. What?”

“Anything.” Reaching through the bars is awkward, and my back and arms already ache from the awkward position. Perhaps his story will distract me, too.

To my relief, he acquiesces. “I…used to have…this dog.”

The cloth is already stained pink. “How sweet.”

“She w—” He breaks off, choking back a gasp. I’ve reached one of the deeper cuts. “She really was. And my br—”

His words halt so abruptly, I wonder if I’ve somehow killed him.

“Fox?” I murmur. “Your…?”

“Nothing.”

He is quiet, his breath stuttering as I wash the dried blood from his back. Some of the wounds have already scabbed overnight; I pray there’s no grime trapped inside.

“I was a little shit in school.” I’m puzzled by the change in subject, but I don’t pursue the dog story. “The schoolmaster hated me. He loved to give me the strap.”

Perhaps Fox and I differ in our understanding of something happy. “This doesn’t sound like a good memory.”

“Well, every time I put crickets in his desk, it felt pretty good.”

I bite back a laugh.

“Once, I put a baby snake in his hat.”

“You didn’t.”

“And I broke—ah—” The cry only deters him for a moment. “—into the schoolhouse one night and wrote a rude story on all the slates, pieces of it on every single one. It took hours.”

I’m giggling now, helpless as I imagine the look his shenanigans must have brought to the schoolmaster’s face. “You were a wicked little boy.”

“Yes. Very.” He pauses to wince and jerk away from me as one of his cuts splits open at my touch.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m trying—”

“I didn’t make it easy for myself.” He’s rushing now, shoving his words together as if that will somehow keep the pain at bay. I di’n make it easy f’r m’self. “I could never sit still, and listening to him droning on and on was so boring. All I ever wanted was to go out and play. I’d get in trouble for talking to the other children, daydreaming, fidgeting, talking out of turn, generally being insolent…” He laughs. “Once, I just ran outside because I decided I wanted to go for a walk.”

“How old were you?”

“I dunno. Young.” There’s a wistfulness to his voice now that makes my heart ache. “Ma almost killed me when she found out.”

“And you were, of course, very sorry when you got in trouble.”

“No!” His laugh wraps around me like a cloak, a snatch of childish joy that has drifted from the past to offer us comfort for these precious, fleeting moments. “I remember enjoying my stroll very much. How could I be sorry for that?”

Another cut dribbles fresh blood down his back, and the spell is broken. With a hiss of annoyance, I tear another strip from my skirt to soak it up.

“Was it a happy one, then?” I keep my voice soft. “Your childhood?”

His unkempt mop of hair bounces with his nod. “Yeah. It was.”

Why am I suddenly blinking back tears?

“All right,” I say, hoping he can’t hear the tremor in my voice. “I think that’s the best I can do.”

A dark stain, wet and rusty, glares up at me from where bloody water dripped onto my skirt.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

I drop my hands in my lap, trying not to dwell on how my hands, too, are stained. “It was nothing.”

“Won’t be nothing if—when—we get busted. Give me the flask.” He turns so we can face each other once again. “So they think I took it.”

“No.” I place it behind me, where he can’t reach. “You’re not taking the blame for me. I’m not afraid of them.”

The look on his face tells me he knows I’m lying. “They’re gonna figure it out.”

“No,” I repeat. “I’m the one who took it, so—”

The sound of hobnailed boots scrapes through the air, too quickly, so quickly I barely have time to think.

“Bree, please,” Fox says through gritted teeth.

I tent my legs and sweep the empty flask beneath the canopy of my skirt.

It isn’t the same officer from earlier. Rather, the junior constable from yesterday appears outside our cells. What’s his name? Michaelson.

Shit.

“Please,” he begins, his voice doused in sarcasm, “please tell me you two crooks are continuing your thieving ways in here.” The torchlight gives his eyes a maniacal gleam. “Because I would so love to find out that you’re bold enough—stupid enough—to steal from a constable.”

My earlier confidence disintegrates under Michaelson’s searing gaze.

“Where is it?” he asks softly.

How likely is it he’ll believe anything I say? “What are you talking about?”

“The flask that mysteriously disappeared from Officer Lenton’s belt. Where. Is. It.”

I frown. “Flask?”

Would it be better to confess? Give it back? His face gives no indication that either scenario would result in mercy.

Michaelson flips his attention to Fox. “Where is it?”

Fox just shrugs, silent.

The constable looks back to me, and I can tell—impossible though it should be since he wasn’t even fucking here when I took it—he knows. “Stand up.”

How foolish I was, believing I was ever in control. Sighing, I pull the flask out from underneath my skirt and toss it toward him. It clatters against the bars and hits the floor.

“Well, well.” Michaelson studies the flask for a moment. “And why did you take this, girl?”

Before I can even open my mouth, Fox speaks. “I made her do it.”

What the fuck? I shoot him a furious glare. “No, he d—”

“I…” The idiot next to me is racking his brain for a story as he speaks. “I… I wanted to see how loyal she still is to IA. To me.”

After a long pause, Michaelson pierces me with his gaze. “And? Are you?”

Great. Fox tried to help and ended up throwing me into a net. No matter how I answer, we’re in trouble—either he’s a liar or a manipulative bastard gang leader. Either I’m the thief or a stupid little girl following orders. Swallowing hard, I stare back. “What do you think?”

Michaelson smirks. “And did the fox-thief force your hand? Did he make you take it?”

“Yes, I did,” Fox says quickly. If I ever get my hands on him, I’m going to slap him for being a self-sacrificing moron.

Instead of reaching through the bars to retrieve the flask, Michaelson unlocks the door. I realize how egregiously I overestimated my abilities to run this fucking water-flask heist.

“You know what I think?” He steps inside. I scramble to my feet, unsure how that will help me—but I’ll be damned if I’m going to be sitting passively on the floor while he goes through with whatever he’s planning.

“Jesus Christ.” Fox is getting to his feet, too, pain written across his face—violent poetry inked into his skin, sweat glistening on his brow. Sit down, for fuck’s sake, I want to say. But he’s still talking, clinging now to the bars with his uninjured arm. “Leave her alone. She didn’t—”

Michaelson ignores him. “I think,” he says, grabbing my arm and yanking me toward the back wall, “that he’s as much a liar as he is a thief, and a bad one at that. And you? You’re a little bitch who was happy to let him take the fall for you, yes?”

“Get off me.” Trying to wriggle from his grip is useless. What am I supposed to say?

A bruising grip digs into my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. “And not even a word of apology. Incredible.”

Is he serious? “Apology? You think I’m going to apologize?”

Michaelson smiles, as if this is the answer he was both expecting and desiring. “No.”

My back is pressed against the wall now, heart thundering in my chest. “I didn’t take it to drink, I took it to—”

Why am I even bothering? He doesn’t care. “You two want to play games?” His voice slithers into my ear. “Better understand the fucking rules.”

When he lets go of my arm, I try to jerk away, only to feel a sharp sting across my cheek.

“Don’t.” Fox’s voice cracks.

“Rule number one. Don’t forget it.” Michaelson closes a ring of cold iron over my right wrist. “It’s us who make the rules. Not you.”

I glare up at him, every thought unintelligible except for one. “Fuck you.”

He slaps me again.

“Constable Hatchett says you two can cry in here together while you wait for your turn in the square,” he says, dropping my arm, making the chain rattle. “I don’t understand it, but fine. Try to rig the game in your favour—even think about stealing from one of us ever again—and I’ll fucking make you wish you’d never been born.” His gaze slides to Fox. “Both of you.

I can see the way Fox is shaking, and I have a feeling it isn’t from fear.

Unlike me.

I watch Michaelson stalk out of my cell, unable to follow, tethered now to the wall. The chain allows some freedom—but not enough to reach the door or the wall I share with Fox.

Michaelson doesn’t even look at me when he lets his foot, no doubt on purpose, knock over my untouched cup of water. I flinch at the tinny sound, at the sight of the liquid—that I should have gulped down while I had the chance—transforming into muddy sludge on the floor.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Fox is still clinging to the bars. “How was that necessary?”

The clang of the locking door echoes through the corridor.

“You really think you’re some kind of hero.” Michaelson pauses in front of Fox’s cell, making no effort to go inside. “You’re not. You’re nothing. The sooner you get that through your thick head, the better.”

“That’s not true.” I shuffle forward, trying to ignore the pull of the chain on my wrist. “Don’t listen to him.”

Michaelson laughs, turns on his heel, and walks away.

My knees give out on me the second he’s gone. I kneel, gasping softly, waiting for Fox to say the words I deserve to hear—I told you so.

Instead, once he, too, is on the floor, he asks quietly, “Are you all right?”

Nodding—all I can do.

“Did he hit you hard?”

I shake my head.

Surely, tears should be streaming down my face, carving ravines into my skin, burning my slapped cheek. But there’s nothing.

Once I can form words again, I ask him, “Are you all right?” He shrugs in answer. “Your back?”

“Still hurts like hell.” The tiniest flicker of a smile. “But it’s clean. Thank you.”

Maybe it’ll be enough to stave off infection. Maybe it will mean his last days here carry a smidgen less suffering.

How could I be sorry for that?

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Tagging: @starlit-hopes-and-dreams, @gala1981, @kixngiggles .

[Banner ID: A narrow horizontal, rectangular banner featuring a barred archway. The bars and the stone walls evoke the feeling of a dungeon or prison. There are burning candles on either side of the archway. The title of the story, The Prince of Thieves, appears in white text in the centre of the image. The author's username, abbreviated to LPS from littleperilstories, appears in the bottom right corner in partially transparent text. End ID.]

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