On Call

on call

7.5k / pairing: cardiothoracic surgeon!javier peña x resident surgeon f!reader

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summary: Javier Peña - a shark of a surgeon - is the head of Cardiothoracic Surgery and you're on his service for the week. After letting you take lead on a risky surgery, you crave what else he can teach you. warnings/information:  MA 18+ (minors DNI), doctors performing surgery but no gore, medical talk (open heart surgery performed, mention of aneurysms and paralysis), both Javi and reader are surgeons, implied but unspecified age gap (Javier is an attending surgeon, reader is a resident surgeon), sex in an on call room (rooms in the hospital where the staff can catch some zzz's), swearing, size kink, praise & degradation kink with accompanied dirty talk, competency kink, (un)affectionate pet names, fingering, oral cleanup (f!receiving), oral (m!receiving), unprotected p in v, creampie reader is described having hair and wears surgical scrubs, but otherwise (I believe) no physical description, no use of y/n A/N: FYI the only knowledge about hospitals or doctors I know is from Grey's Anatomy, so expect some drama and inaccuracies! beta’d by the lovely @thetriumphantpanda! spanish assistance by the talented @undercoverpena! banner made by me!

Any doctor will tell you that smoking cigarettes has a well-documented history of negative health risks. 

Smoking can significantly increase the risk of various health problems, including cardiovascular diseases, lung cancer, respiratory issues, and, most importantly, to a surgeon, how delicate your tissue is. It shreds during stitching, falls apart in between gloved fingers, and increases the risk of infection. 

So why does Javier Peña, the Head of Cardiothoracic Surgery, smoke? 

Probably because he thinks he’s God. Galavanting through the surgical wing in his dark navy scrubs. The attending flirts with every nurse who passes his eyeline, sweet-talks his residents, and charms each patient he consults. 

Beneath all that, he was a ruthless shark of a surgeon. Driven to the point of recklessness. Stealing surgeries out from under fellow doctors, commandeering ORs, and always proving to be the smartest in the room. He knew when to bark and, more importantly, when to bite. 

Javier Peña was a piece of goddamn work. 

The operating room is the only time he’s silent. Espresso eyes narrowed on the surgical field, fingers succinct and persuasive like he’s giving the most delicate organ in the world a compelling speech: to live, to keep beating, to pump blood until it simply cannot. 

He’s impressive, really. 

Standing on the opposite side of the patient on the table, watching him work, you nearly forget how handsome he is behind his mask. If you weren’t such a great resident, you’d be more impressed by his looks than his hands. 

But his hands… they were brilliant. 

Peña was steady. Every movement is filled with confidence; they don’t stutter or flinch. He operates with wonderful dexterity, switching between both hands, neither more dominant than the other. Instrumental and graceful, like a maestro conducting a large orchestra. 

This was his stage, the surgical instruments were his props and everyone in his OR was simply an extra. He was a star; everyone knew it. But no one knew it more than you, his third-year surgical resident on his cardio service for the week. 

His years of training bleed through his expertise, and shine in a way that makes you remember why you signed up for so many years of medical school, dropped top dollar on an education to get you here, and then granted residency at one of the finest hospitals in the country. 

You were good. Peña was great. 

As his resident, you must prove nothing but useful. He’s not a natural teacher, the way his brain drives allows no one in his passenger seat. But you’re keen on declaring on cardio, and you’ve been the resident by his side for most of this year. He doesn’t need your help. He can do this all by himself, so all you can do is prove yourself useful. 

You must anticipate his needs and next move, watching him progress from step one to final completion. 

But this surgery was unexpected. Unplanned. Most heart surgeries end up being accidental, arising from complications during a routine surgery. The patient on the table before you was scheduled for a general procedure but began presenting with heart issues during the operation.

Peña performs an aortic arch replacement. He starts with a #10 blade, making an incision along the sternum to access the aortic arch. 

“Retract all this tissue,” he mutters. 

It takes you by surprise because his OR is radio silent. He talks in his head, not to you, ever. 

“Me?” 

“Are you really asking me that?” His tone twitches with irritation, but you do as he asks before he can disregard and bury your anticipation. It allows for more exposure, and he’s back to work. He cannulates the patient for CPB, working through the right atrium and then the aorta. 

“Proper placement?”

You nod before you remember he’s still staring down at the patient’s heart. “Yes.” 

Doctor Javier Peña is the commander of his OR. Which makes you all the more confused as to why he decides to put you in the driver’s seat. Or rather, the hot seat.  

“Okay, we’re going to arrest the heart using cardioplegia purposely. What’s next?”

Your mouth is going dry; it takes you a moment to find your words. You should know the answer, even without having prepared. He just makes you nervous. “We need to use myocardial protection techniques to minimize… ischemic damage?”

His eyes snap up, glaring, cold as ice. “Are you asking me? Or are you telling me?”

You force down the lump in your throat and take in a shaky breath. “Telling?” 

He cocks his eyebrow in annoyance. 

“Telling.” You say more confidently, nodding before he sighs. He wanes his options in his head before his eyes start to soften. He must feel at slight ease talking to a resident who isn’t a fucking moron. 

“Okay. You’ll deliver the cardioplegia solution and monitor its function.”

You let out a breath of relief, perhaps too big of one, because Peña smirks and tuts at your shift in breath. 

“You’re not a complete waste of space in this surgical program after all. Congrats.” 

After willing yourself to bite your tongue, you watch him proceed with the arch repair. He returns to silence as he carefully dissects the aorta, amber eyes admiring each of the strong branches like that of a great oak tree. 

“Name them.” 

Eyes meeting his over the operating table, Peña waits. He’s testing you, pushing you towards greatness or failure. He wants to see where you fall—if you’re worthy to be in his OR, opposite of him, learning under his greatness, or if you’re a waste of his time and talent. 

“You’re a third-year resident, I knew this by my second,” he grinds, “all the books I’ve seen you read in the cafeteria should have told you this. Name them.” 

He watches you, it wasn’t just in your head - the magnetic stare you can feel from across the room that makes the hair on your arms stick up. He watches, he knows you’re capable. “Not gonna get by just on looks here, Doctor.” 

Dragging your eyes away from his intense stare, you loosen your jaw and line your fingers over each strong branch, starting at the trunk of the tree. “The left subclavian artery, left common carotid artery, the innominate artery-”

Peña raises his gloved hand, seeing the gentle smear of blood along his fingertips and palm. “Stop.”

Your eyes squint heatedly, feeling your chest tighten. “I can finish, I know them-”

“Stop, damn it,” he barks louder, his eyes shifting away from yours and across the room. He wasn’t listening to you; he was listening to the heart. Doctor Peña tilts his head to the monitor, watching the heart shift its beats. “Doctor, identify the pathology.” 

You shift on your feet, the nerves throughout your arms leave you feeling shaky. Something was wrong. “The aortic arch, it shows…” Closing your eyes helps you focus, ignoring the crowd in the overhead gallery, forgetting the patient on the table just for a moment, and only listening to the beat on the monitor. 

“Pretty girl, not so smart,” he taunts with a shake of his head, the beeping on the monitor pitching louder and echoing hauntingly through your ears. You wished this room would swallow you whole, but that would be you admitting to cowardice. 

Peña takes a deep breath and looks between you and the monitor, “Alright, come on, open your eyes,” he instructs, guiding your hand off the retractor and along the heart’s wall. “What do you see?”

The commanding tone in his voice brings you out of your head and back to the patient. The room wavers and it goes silent. You don’t hear the erratic beeping of the machines, you don’t see the movement in the gallery. Doctor Peña is in front of you, calm and focused. Because he trusts that you know what’s wrong. 

The aortic wall bulged out of its normal shape. It looked weak, stretched out, thin, and nearly translucent. You see the saccular protrusion, lips parting at the discovery. 

“He’s—was there an aneurysm? He had an aneurysm?” you ask with more panic in your voice than you had hoped. It must have been during the patient’s original procedure earlier in the day before you and Doctor Peña even scrubbed in. “We can’t do a repair or a replacement of the arch. We have to stop everything--” 

“So what are we gonna do, Doctor?” He probes, piercing dark eyes on you. Suddenly, your height shrinks, and you feel only a few inches tall under his gaze. He’s so much older and wiser, and all you can do is panic. “What, you can't figure this out yourself? Four years of medical school, internship, and residency, don't fucking disappoint me now. Tell me how we fix it.”

Our brains hold endless files of knowledge. A doctor is not only supposed to keep files on how to perform a procedure but also what to do if one is horribly failing. But your brain only knows panic because until you become a brilliant surgeon, all you know is fear. 

“Should we page neuro? A-A neuro consult, his blood flow isn’t reaching his spine. He might be paralyzed.” 

Peña scoffs and shakes his head, “Hoping someone else comes to save you and fix your problems? What if I wasn’t standing here? You’re on your own, kid.” he spews, focusing his headlight back over the heart. “We don’t call neuro, the patient can’t wait that long. Come on,” he whittles away your confidence, fire in his eyes. “Come on!”  

You can’t seem to control your anger, feeling it ween down to something brittle and broken. You snap. “Doctor Peña, respectfully shut the hell up. We’re gonna fix the aneurysm sac.”

“How?” He’s quick on the whip, and it feels like your lungs might give out. “Come on, smart girl, tell me how.” 

“You’re-You’re gonna use the sac to bring blood back to the spinal cord. He’s only paralyzed because the aorta isn’t able to send blood to his spine. You replace the aorta with a Dacron graft and rebuild the aneurysm into a second aorta.” It’s spoken with half confidence, but your eyes are fiercely stubborn. 

“Its only job is to send blood to the spine,” he mutters in agreement, hands already at work. 

“Like the freeway being blocked by traffic, you take a side road. Or, in this case, you’re building the side road.” 

He momentarily pauses his hands, pretty brown eyes searching yours. He stares you down longer than anticipated, and suddenly, the air feels charged. Heat tingles up your spine, and you find yourself challenging his stare. 

You deserve to be in this OR. You’re good, but Peña is great. And you will be great once you learn more from him. Him and his stupid fucking- brilliant hands.  

“I’m not building the side road; we are,” he corrects, and he asks the scrub nurses to give him the supplies for constructing the graph. 

Finally, his cheeks perk up, and a small smirk hides under his mask. “Suction, Doctor. Prep some 6-0 of prolene. We’re gonna need it.” Peña spends the next few hours teaching you how to reroute the aneurysm and restore blood flow, allowing you to reconstruct and place the graph. 

You and Peña are a well-oiled machine. He lets you take the lead under his supervision. It’s impossible not to scream inside your head about this moment. You feel like you’re floating, no longer panicking. Your fingers weave with an indescribable amount of delicacy. It feels like braiding hair, the way your fingers know where to move, the muscle movements natural despite never having done this procedure before. 

What a fucking high. And you’ve always been such an adrenaline junkie. 

Once word got out around the hospital that Peña was doing this incredible and unexpected surgery, the gallery was all standing and fighting for room to glance out the over-viewing window. And you were there, across from him the entire time. Every surgeon in your class is sitting in the gallery, damn jealous of you.

Peña watches you close up the patient and says nothing; you were perfection. 

You huff loudly upon completion, watching as Peña wipes his forearm across the sweat on his forehead. You despise him in this moment. Thankfulness fights your need for social justice. He can’t talk to you like that, belittle you, squish whatever confidence you had left. But you’re exhausted now and don’t feel like snapping in front of half the hospital. 

“We won’t know if he has full function until he’s awake. Page neuro and tell them they have a post-consult waiting for them.” His voice drips with exhaustion, rolling out his shoulders as he speaks, and you can’t help but watch as the broad muscles move under his shirt, tan skin now visible after the medical gown has been removed. 

Trailing behind him out of the OR, you strip your surgical gloves, gown, and mask in the trash as you try to calm your adrenaline. It never stopped beating; your heart, the strong and beautiful organ that it was, never stopped pounding. You can hear it in your ears, in your pulse, even thudding excitedly against your neck. 

It beat for your ambition, it beat for Doctor Peña. He’d never see you as his equal. Hell, he’d never see anyone as his equal. But today, he taught you. And you can’t think why. He has barely done his duty all year despite working at a teaching hospital where the residents are nearly quizzed on the minute by their attendings. 

Peña didn’t think anyone was worth his time, but he saw something in you today. Despite being thankful, you can’t help the anger you feel bubbling up as he smirks at you from down the hall. 

“What the hell, Peña?” 

Oh shit. 

The head of neurosurgery stomps down the hall in his navy blue scrubs, graying hair tucked under a scrub cap decorated by EEG waveforms. His eyes are narrowed on Peña, pointed finger at the ready. 

“Who the hell do you think you are? Your patient goes into paralysis and you don’t think to page me?”

Peña merely shrugs and sets his hands on his hips. “I did think to page you. And decided not to.” 

The head of neurosurgery scoffs in disbelief, raising his voice to a shout. “You’re too fucking- cocky for your own good! I could have done an assessment, they could gotten spinal cord ischemia- and a third-year resident of all people performing that surgery? What the hell were you thinking?!”

Fuck. Now you were brought into this, and standing at the end of the hallway couldn’t be farther away. Peña was as solid as stone, heat didn’t faze him. “She had it under control. She was perfect.”

Perfect. 

Neuro seems to smirk lightly, brain doctors who love to play mind games. “You two screwin’ around in the on-call rooms, too? Is that why you let her in on that surgery a fifth year couldn’t even perform? You pull that shit again, and I’ll-”

“You’ll what?”

Peña steps closer, narrowing his eyes on the short little man whose bark was louder than his bite. 

Neuro stutters for a moment, his posture shrinking. You can’t help but smirk, almost a little lightheaded at the way he steps in to protect your credibility. Peña was a dangerous surgeon to stick around with. His arrogance, next to his skills in the OR, could be taught by accident. 

Neuro grabs onto a slipping rope and sniffs as he glances around at the onlookers in the hallway. “Don’t think I won’t tell the Chief about what happened today. You and her are on thin ice.”

Peña smirks and pats his shoulder in a futile manner, pulling loose his scrub cap and running a hand through his jet-black tresses. “She had it under control. I wouldn’t have let her do anything she couldn’t handle. And if you talk about her like that again, I’ll knock your fuckin’ teeth out.” 

Peña’s already walking away, back to the angry little man. 

Your stomach bubbles with something unfamiliar, slipping behind the elbow of the wall and taking a shaky breath. You can’t feel anything besides the buzzing in your brain and the tremble in your hands. 

Doctor Javier Peña was defending your fucking honor. 

In Javier’s eyes, any surgeon can walk into an operating room and follow the procedure's already-written steps. They can rehearse, practice, and prep all they want. But the beauty of surgery was that it was both a science and an art. 

The heart was such an intricate, unpredictable thing. Healthy one minute, broken the next. 

Javier loves to read, but only for the plot twist endings—the ones you don’t see coming—which add richness to the story and make you fall deeper into the mystery. 

That’s why he loves the heart because it isn’t easy. It’s a challenge. He also loves that hearts make him feel special because not everyone can handle operating on a heart. That’s why people choose easier specialties. Cardio was hardcore. Javier was hardcore. 

Despite how difficult a cardio surgery can be, the surgeon must be gentle. Going too fast leads to mistakes. 

As if driving on black ice, you can’t twist your wheel too fast, or you’ll spin out and crash.  He was like that during his internship, even into his residency, but he carried raw talent that no one else could compare to. He was the star of his class, a surgeon who felt like he was more than a doctor, more than a God. A preacher to the soulless, a guide to the lost. He was his patient’s light at the end of the tunnel. He saved their fucking lives. 

In his eyes, heart surgeons needed to be sharks. He never met a shark who wasn’t fierce and damn near evil. It’s critical to success; to be a shark in the water, eager to see crimson. 

You were no shark—not yet. But your drive, dedication to the art, and willingness to work with him set you apart. He knows he’s not easy. But he’s never liked easy anyway. 

Javier slowly slumps down onto the edge of an on-call bed, smacking the light switch so damn hard that he thought he broke it. The room sinks into darkness, a velvet blanket of blue from the slight night sky slipping past the blinds. 

He was exhausted after today, the hours of his day stolen by back-to-back surgeries. His back ached, and his knees were screaming at him. But the comfort of a bed wasn’t all that he craved. 

You were brilliant, purring like a kitten whenever Javier stroked your ego. A younger colleague impressed him for the first time in months. 

God, you were young. What—ten years his junior? More? 

His face fell into his hands, heat flushing into his stomach at the thought of you. 

When he’s in surgery, the heart is all he can think about. But your eyes were on him for hours, watching him, learning from him—God, the things he could teach you. 

Suddenly, the door clicks open, and light floods the room, causing Javi to drop his head and squint. 

“We need to speak, Doctor Peña,” your silken voice evokes a sense of long-lost courage.  

You’re the last person who should be in his on-call room.

He groans and stands, eyes cast on your hand still nervously caught on the door handle. “Not now.” 

“Yes, now,” your voice wavers as you click the lock and cross your arms. His eyes drag over your body, hugged by the comfort of your soft blue scrubs. He can tell it’s taking everything in your body to control your temper, as he is still technically your boss. “You can’t just belittle me in front of the entire OR. No more calling me princess, no more calling me pretty. I’m a lot more than those pathetic superficial names, and you know it.” 

Javier runs his fingers down his nose, mutters something incoherent, and plants his hands on his hips before curtly jerking his head expectantly. “I said not now.” 

“You push me, you push me around, you push me in the OR, you just don’t stop-”

He snaps. 

“I push you to be great!” His brown eyes nearly turn obsidian as he locks you in his gaze. “You’ll be a better doctor when I’m done with you. You should be thanking me.”

You scoff indignantly and throw up your hands in frustration. You’re so fucking cute when you’re upset. “Thanking you?”

“Yeah. Thanking me. My ass is on the burner because I let you perform that surgery.”

“The one not even fifth-year residents could perform?”  

Peña pauses, his jaw shifting from left to right as he glances at the room's corner. “You heard all that, huh?”

There’s a lull, one that signifies you both know that he stepped in to defend his choices in the OR; specifically defending you. He watches as you slowly nod, pulling your hand off the doorknob and crossing your arms over your chest. 

“You didn’t have to do that. Now it looks like you favor me. I’m gonna get chewed out by the other surgeons, not to mention my entire class is going to think I’m sleeping with you.” 

Pena shrugs and purses his lips. “Let ‘em.”

He watches as your lips part, taken aback by his words. After a few doe-eyed blinks from you, the room falls out of focus, and it doesn’t feel like he’s standing in the hospital anymore. 

Javi imagines you in places he shouldn’t. At his place, in his apartment. On the couch. In his bed. He thinks about how different you’d look in the light of day, your body curved by jeans or even a sundress if the weather allowed. He’d be privy to the freckles on your back and shoulders, the dips of your hips, the slope of your body he wants to memorize with his eyes closed. 

But fantasizing wasn’t enough. 

“Let ‘em,” he mutters, low, and enclosing the space between your bodies. “If they already think that, let ‘em. Fuck ‘em.” 

Your face visibly softens, and your head naturally leaning into his hand that rests on your cheek. 

“I want you to teach me,” you whisper to him. And it’s so fucking soft, so sweet dripping from your lips, almost whining with need. 

He slowly nods as the room falls silent, Javi’s opposite hand coming to your hip, flushing your body against his. 

“Okay, cariño, I’ll teach you.” 

“Teach me,” you plead again, your chest heaving with anticipation. His eyes fall to the way your breasts protrude with each breath you take in your scrubs. The emotion that stirs in the room is enough to start a full-blown hurricane. 

Javi’s hands fall to the hem of your top, and you raise your arms swiftly, so pliant to his touches. But that’s your job, to anticipate his needs. 

The sight of your skin alone is enough to make his shoulders tighten, seeing you all pretty and exposed. A knot begins to grow in his stomach. But no, you weren’t done yet. 

“Please, Doctor Peña,”

No, don’t fucking beg. 

“I want you to use your hands and teach me.” Insistently, your fingers dip into your scrub bottoms, his eyes catching the pretty black band of your panties before the material is pooled on the floor. 

You stand there with soft eyes, wide and expecting. The longer he stands here, not touching you, it damn near looks like he’s hurting your feelings. But he’s not stupid enough to leave you abandoned. 

“Fuck,” he grunts, closing the distance in a matter of a second, his hands on your hips as he yanks your body into his firm front.

The kiss is tangled and heated, desperate and needy, so different compared to the subtle dance you both played before. But now it’s so obvious the pure need that consumes you both. 

Your small fists clutch his broad shoulders, and you moan into his mouth purely at the muscle built into his toned body. He licks into your mouth, and all he can think is how fucking sweet you taste. And how your pussy probably tastes just as sweet. 

Your fingers blindly reach for the light switch, flicking them off and sinking you into midnight once again. 

Javi tuts and shakes his head, breaking the kiss as he glares down at you. “You wanna see my hands work, cielo? Then you gotta watch.” He mutters as he flicks the switch back on, guiding you into the lower bunk of the on-call beds. 

He likes the way your hand slips from his cheek to the back of his neck, fingers gentle at first before clutching at the hair on his nape. 

Javi lets out an unexpected moan into your mouth as his body slots perfectly between your legs. His rough and calloused hands explore the smooth skin of your outer thighs. He squeezes and cradles the flesh with the perfect balance of strength and delicacy, the coarse hairs of his mustache scratching your skin as he presses kisses over your exposed breasts. 

He craves every breath that you take because of him, because of his actions. Your reactions are honest and instinctual, watching as you bite down on your lip because God forbid anyone saw you sneak into his room. 

Javi’s fingers are just as you expect, expertise as he unclips your bra with ease. He snatches away the black material, your nipples sensitive to the cool air as they peak under his eyeline. 

“Christ,” he mutters, his hot mouth on them in an instant. His tongue circles them meticulously before he suckles, lifting his head and watching as your breast is tugged into his mouth. A whine slips past your lips and he feels your legs tug tighter around his waist. It’s enough to get him hard, the way you won’t let him go, because this feels way too fucking good to stop. 

“Doctor Peña-”

“Javi,” he mutters upon letting your nipple go with a pop, moving to the other and showing it just as much affection, letting his teeth gently nip at the sensitive peak. “So fuckin’ pretty, princesa,” he mutters before sucking on a spot just above your breast, a place to mark his territory. 

You gasp at the feeling of his hot mouth on your skin, goosebumps flooding to his touches. You glance down through barely-open eyes as the skin changes color, from red to a soft purple as he draws blood to the surface. His teeth marks are still there even after he leaves, a smirk on his face as he slips lower to between your legs. 

“Javi, please,” you muster up, trying to regather air in your lungs. 

He shifts to his knees, one arm straight and hand planted beside your head as he hovers over you, the other finally slipping between your legs. Your lips part as he slowly swipes two up your center, seeing what makes you tick. 

His smirk widens as your eyes roll to the back of your head, biting down on the plush of your lower lip again to conceal a moan that surely would have slipped. He spreads you, letting his thumb pads delicately circle your clit experimentally. “So fucking wet for me.” 

Just as a moan emits, his hand is clamped over your mouth. 

“Shh, shh, shh,” he degrades, your eyes wide as the circles continue achingly. “Into my hand, baby girl, don’t want anyone else to hear you. Just me.” 

Your thighs begin to tremble as his thumb experiments on you, and you realize he’s learning. Everything is about learning for him. He learns and studies the heart, now he’s studying what makes you fucking soaked for him. 

The slow circles are enough to get you going, but as he continues to pick up the pace, he realizes you need more more more. 

His thumb moves faster and surfs the edges, it makes you twitch under him. His smirk widens as two of his fingers glide up and down your wet center, your hips nudging upward with neediness. 

“Wanna hear you,” he mutters, but you’re so scared to let out a peep. In this fog, you can’t even remember if you locked the door, and now your heart is pounding against your chest, the beautiful muscle that it is. 

“Come on,” he says goadingly, pushing two fingers into your entrance. Your eyes blow wide as you let out a soft sigh into his palm, followed by a wimpy whine. “Give it to me,” he mutters as his fingers start to move through your tight heat. He’s trying to find it, working himself deeper and deeper, curling them just right and finally-

His hand clamps harder down on your mouth as you let out a loud cry, eyes shutting hard as your body writhes against him. You leak out against his fingers, hearing them squish with your arousal as he smirks. “That’s fuckin’ right, feels so good to let it out, doesn’t it? You can gimme more,” he encourages, and you don’t think you fucking can. 

But he works against you so feverishly, the combination of his thumb on your clit and fingers fucking your entrance, once the seal was broken, it was hard to contain it. 

“Fuck!” You cry out as he scissors you open, separating his fingers and forcing your entrance to work itself wider for him. The noises are obscene, soaking his fingers as he continues to plunge so deeply into you. Your hand shakily reaches up to the bicep bulging beside your head, nails sinking into his tan flesh. 

His movements have your thighs beginning to shake as he searches, still learning, looking for that one spot that has you breathless. Then it fucking sucks the air from your lungs. 

You gasp against his hand and clutch his wrist desperately, feeling him massage the sweet, spongy part inside of you that has sparks going off at the base of your spine. Your eyes begin to water at the overwhelmingness of it all, him and his stupid fucking perfect hands. 

“Javi,” you pant against his mouth, because something indescribable is building. Your back arches against his body. He doesn’t even need to look at what he’s doing, he’s so distracted in watching you unfold. 

Finally, it’s all too much, and he’s got you in the palm of his hand. You can’t help but bite into his palm as you sob against his hand, his fingers so perfect inside of you, leading you to the crescendo of your orgasm. The build leaves you lightheaded, your thighs twitching against his hips as he purrs your name. 

“Just wanna little taste,” he mutters as he finally slips his hand from your mouth, still feeling the burn of your pretty bite. His chest lands on the mattress, and you sit up a bit to allow him space. 

Javi’s arms wrap around your legs, hands now on your inner thighs as he helps spread you open. You whimper, still so sensitive that you nearly twitch away as he moves in. “Aww, come here, sweet girl. Know you taste so good, don’t you?” 

You weakly nod and sink back into the mattress, your eyes falling closed as he slowly sponges kisses to your warm inner thighs. Your hole still puckers for the loss of his fingers, a groan leaving his throat at the sight. He teasingly flicks his tongue against your twitching clit, and it’s enough to make your entire body seize. 

“So fucking sensitive,” he mutters adoringly, spreading your labia and letting his tongue flush against the juices that soak his tongue. He audibly grunts against you and works slowly to clean you up. His eyes meet yours, and he reads your wrecked face instantly. 

You let out a hesitant moan, your fingers tiredly weaving into his dark locks and nails gently scratching along his scalp. His mustache tickles your clit and you try to breath through the aftershocks of your orgasm. 

He was right, his hands were fucking perfect. Look at the way he learned your body, what it was chasing after, how it could be healed with his touch. You only with to give him the same. 

You sit up off your elbows, and he looks up at you with your arousal sitting silkily across his mustache. You cup his jaw, and he sits up with you, your mouth landing on his. You taste yourself, and it almost makes you shy, knowing Doctor Peña has tasted you. More importantly, made you cum with nothing more than his fingers. 

The opportunity to touch his body is one you didn’t realize you craved, small palms moving down his front. On instinct, he parts from your kiss and pulls his scrub top off. And God, you were right with every assumption. 

You knew he worked out, all cardio Gods adhere to the rule of working out to keep the heart muscle strong, but this was a different kind of strong. He was a Greek marble statue, all arms and toned chest and a waist you could easily tangle your legs around. 

“Jesus,” you breathe out.

Javi smirks confidently, his large hands cupping your face once more and tangling his tongue with yours. You swallow the lump in your throat and move your hand to his upper thigh, coasting your hand along until you feel his shaft protruding against his scrubs. 

“Take ‘em off,” you whisper. 

“Are you asking me or telling me?” He asks confidently, forcing a grunt out of your mouth as you tug against the hem. 

“Telling. Now off with them.” You command. 

He tuts as he stands from the mattress. “That’s my girl,” he mutters proudly, circling his thumbs along the waist of his scrubs before pushing them down, briefs included, stepping out of the material that pooled around his feet. 

You slowly raise an eyebrow, your lips parting at his size. No wonder he was so cocky. You sit at the edge of the on-call bed and he steps forward knowingly. 

“S’okay, pretty girl. Just wanna make you feel good.” 

You stubbornly shake your head and take his hands, guiding him closer as your doe-eyes meet his melting brown ones. 

“I can do it.” Wrapping a hand slowly around his length, your other hand rests on his thigh to allow some security. 

He takes in a slow breath, his eyes growing heavy as you spit along his length. 

“Fuck,” he mutters as his large hand gently comes to rest on the back of your head, fingers intertwining in your hair as he begins to clutch them possessively. 

It felt so good to be the one in charge, to be his guidance. He wants you so badly, your hot mouth wrapped around him, begging for his own release just as you were. 

You sponge kisses along his length, watching him almost in a taunting way, because you know he’s going to fall apart before you. Flatting your tongue and sticking it out, he grunts at the sight. Leaning forward, you take him in your mouth. Your tongue circles his beady tip and you get to enjoy the taste of his pre-cum on your tastebuds. 

He’s salty and musky, hours after a long surgery and it tastes divine. All man. All Javier Peña. 

Javi’s breaths are getting faster as you begin to bob your head, taking him inch by inch until you felt comfortable enough to really go for it. 

“Such a fucking- overachiever,” he grins, your nose brushing against the coarse hair along his base as your eyes clench closed, choking around him but not letting off. “Holy fuck,” he moans. Your nails sink into his thigh and he hisses, your one and only reminder for him to stay quiet. He pulls off with a pop, leaving you pouting as you stroke over his impressive length. He twitches in your hand and he’s so heavy in your palm. 

“Don’t want anyone to hear us, Peña,” you remind as you break to give kisses along his thigh where your nails created crescent moon shapes. 

“Got me so close, baby. Don’t wanna cum yet, though.” 

You pout but ultimately leave him with one last kiss to his shaft. 

Javi can’t seem to get enough of your kisses, tracing his tongue along your bottom lip as he moves you back onto the mattress once more. Your fingers glide down his body, feeling the ripples of his muscles that you hope stays engrained in your mind forever. 

Even if it’s just a one-time thing, you wouldn’t mind storing the way he makes you unfold so effortlessly, caring to learn your body and its cravings. 

“Please, Javi,” you whimper against his mouth, feeling the warmth of his body slipping between yours once again, and it feels like a home. “Need you.” 

He nods breathlessly against you, propping up the pillow behind your head. You’re not sure why it gives you butterflies, taking care of you more than just sexually. But he pats the pillow a few times nonetheless and centers it to the back of your head, not stopping until you’re smiling up at him. 

Your hand cradles his jawline, thumb gliding across his chin before his mouth is back on yours. His lips part as your gasp enters his mouth, feeling his hand guide his tip from your clit to your leaking entrance. 

“Wet all over again,” he mutters against your mouth, but acting surprised is pointless. 

“Uh huh,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth before letting him envelop you fully. 

Javier listens to you, reads your body language. He feels you grow tense as his tip nudges at your entrance, feeling your legs tighten hesitantly around his waist. 

Your hands are soft on his back, moving along the carved muscles and following their runs like wild rivers. Perhaps it is a way you calm your nerves, touching his warm skin relaxes your walls. He’s able to push onward. 

“Jesus- Javi,” you whimper, letting him sink his length fully into you until he bottoms out in one thrust that leaves him groaning. The pillow he’s laid down for you is held by his fist, the veins down his arms bulging against your head. 

“Fuck, that’s it,” his chest rumbles, Javi starting to find a rhythm as he guides his length in and out of you. 

The first couple of strokes are dragging, aching. It’s hard to breathe and your nose brushes against his neck. 

Javier is so lost in the feeling of you, your tight little cunt squeezing repeatedly around his cock. The hand not holding him up runs up the side of your body, first on the outside of your thigh, then moving upwards to squeeze your ass in his large palm. You moan into his ear, and he does it again, both of you smirking against the kiss. Then he’s on your hip, following the pretty curve before he wraps his arm on the underside of your body, cradling your shoulder. 

It’s like a seatbelt clicking in, gasping as you feel him lock you into place. Your eyes widen as you look up at him, Javi coming to rest his forehead against yours as he begins to snap his hips. 

With the change in pace, the energy becomes charged with something less delicate. It’s like you were witnessing Javier’s two-sided personality, trying to learn and teach, and now, the arrogant, cocky shark. 

The drag, once painful, now feels heavenly, the ache becoming a sedative that has you cooing for more. He’s more relentless now, hips snapping into yours that has your eyes rolling into the back of your head. Your jaw points to the ceiling, and he sees the opportunity for his lips to latch onto your neck. 

At the height of sensitivity, you feel everything. The sweat trickling down your temple, his teeth carving marks on your neck, your breasts pressed against his toned front; he’s all encapsulating. 

You whine as you squeeze around his cock, his hand on your shoulder pressing harder into your skin. He keeps you there, pounding into you, the coarse dark hair grinding against your clit so perfectly. Your core tightens, and you feel your second orgasm begin at its crest. He must be close, too, because he’s driving into you with ferocity. 

“Javi,” you cry against his neck, your nose brushing against his tousled hair, “I-I can’t.”

Javier shakes his head and moves the hand on your shoulder down between your bodies, finding your quivering clit and adding pressure to the small ministrations he starts on. His lips move to your ear, placing a kiss against the outer shell. 

“You can,” he demands in a stern tone, his hot pants fanning against your face as his aquiline nose nudges your cheekbone, “you can give me another one, cariño.”

He wants to see your star explode. See you dissolve before him into a million tiny sparks, fizzling into the night sky so he can take your beauty in fully, from inner soul to outer exterior. You were slipping into the void before him like a firework bursting. 

“Fuck, I can,” you pant, your head dropping back onto the pillow as heat slips down your spine and your vision goes dark. 

You squeeze his cock repeatedly as your orgasm surges through you, back arching off the mattress and your legs tightening around his slim waist. He can feel your pulsing clit against the pad of his thumb, feeling you gush around his dick as his balls slapping against your core grow slick with your arousal. 

From below, your vision is hazy, and he looks so fucking handsome. The surgical mask doesn’t do him justice. 

“You can come inside me,” you whisper as you lean in and nibble his earlobe, hearing him grunt at your comment. 

“Christ,” he mutters, “you have no idea what you do to me.” Javi gently tugs on your lower lip before he distracts himself with your kisses. His snapping hips begin to lose their rhythm, becoming more sloppy and erratic.

He was chasing the feeling, distracted by how perfect you were for him today.

The vein along his temple bulges as his desperate espresso eyes meet yours. All he needs to see is that little smirk of yours, and it sends him over the edge. 

His jaw drops, and a silent moan wants to slip out desperately, but somehow, he’s able to conceal it with low grunts of something that resembles your name.

You begin to feel his warmth spread through your core, making your insides fuzzy. He trembles; you both do. It feels like he comes for forever, but frankly, you don’t want it to stop. 

This feeling sits still inside you, humbles you, and centers you with the universe. Your life is hectic, and for one hour today, you’re not running around from one room to the next or getting chewed out by the senior doctors. This was the perfect stress relief; Javier Peña was a damn good break. 

His strong body collapses over yours, and any residual strength he has left is being held by a tiny string that keeps you from being crushed. 

He lays on his side, shoulder blades pressed against the cold cinderblock wall. He buries his hand in his face, and you wonder if he regrets what he’s done. 

Did he? 

“Thanks,” you whisper, reaching blindly for scrubs and accidentally tossing on his scrub pants in your orgasmic haze. 

“For what? And those are mine. You can have them in a few years when you’re an attending.” He hums, smirking as he pulls the sheets up to cover his lower half. 

You scoff and pull off the pants, switching out for your own after you clasp your bra behind your back. 

“For the lessons.” 

He watches you change, slipping your shoes back on and fixing your hair in the mirror. You try to ignore the feeling of his come slipping out of you, your legs as wobbly as a newborn calf. 

“Yeah? What did you learn?” He cocks an eyebrow and blindly reaches for a pack of cigarettes on the windowsill, propping open the window a few inches. 

Your eyes scan over him slowly as you tighten the tie on your scrub bottoms, a slow smirk gradually growing on your lips. 

“I know why you smoke.” 

Ignoring his intrigued face, you flip off the lights and leave his on-call room in a midnight blue film. The heavy door inches open, light shedding through and inching into the darkness. It clicks closed behind you just as your pager goes off, seeing that there is a message coming through for your newly reconstructed aortic arch patient. 

“Shit,” you mutter. 

The door swooshes open behind you, and Peña reappears dressed in his navy scrubs, surging past you. His shoulder knocks yours on the way out, and you can’t help but scoff. 

“Let’s go. Pick up the pace,” His voice is raspy and tired, but you keep his stride as you work your way towards the intensive care unit. 

Doctor Peña glances back over his shoulder, his smirk mirroring your own.  

Even a shark has its vices. Perhaps after tonight, you’re Javi’s. 

main masterlist | notifications blog if you enjoyed the read, commets and reblogs are super appreciated!

4-7-8; series masterlist

pairing: jungkook x reader

glimpse: you’re secure when it comes to loving jungkook, knowing that your husband loves you beyond words. what you aren’t so secure about is his first love — someone who isn’t you.

alternatively, jungkook’s married to you, but he still celebrates his anniversary with his ex out of sentimentality.

warnings: semi-heavy angst (pls take a break when necessary!!), emotional constipation, no cheating happens here btw (neither physical nor emotional), self-loathing, miscommunication, based on the moral dilemma of whether or not it’s okay to be friends with ur ex, intense yearning + specified tags in each installment!

notes: thank you so much for all the love for 478 ♡ i rlly love reading all your feedback and thoughts!! send them in here :)

cross-posted on ao3.

— PHASE ONE

CHAPTERS

01: part one 

02: intermission

03: part two

04: intermission 02

05: part three; finale

DRABBLES

the first meeting

the wedding band habit

miso meets yoongi

the hickeys

the jealousy

tiny bowls for tiny babies

the one with the doubt

maybe physical affection isn’t so bad

the everyday risk

the groveling

the anniversary (derogatory)

— PHASE TWO

DRABBLES

the baby blue couch sex

the babymaking

jungkook’s birthday

couvade syndrome

the argument

jk fights with miso (real)

the comeback of slideshows

the false alarm

the nesting period

hwayoung_debut

yoongi’s visit

hwayoung’s first 100 days

jungkook and hwayoung’s bad day

this is so gorgeously written!!!

✶ ┄ DIVINE MADNESS !

summary: you were aegon's long before you were aemond's, and the king takes great pleasure in reminding his brother of that – especially when he's drunk. aemond, however, finally decides to remind you and his eldest brother who you belong to now. (8.4k)

pairing: aemond targaryen / f!reader / aegon targaryen

contents: established relationship, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, jealousy, aegon's a little shit, cw for cheating? sorta?, swearing, mentions of gore smut 18+, rough sex, dubcon-ish because r needs convincing, degradation, exhibitionism (reader) & voyeurism (aegon)

Aemond Targaryen was not easily conquered.

He was born with an inherited sort of anger that followed him well into adulthood. As the unloveable boy grew into an unloveable man, he learned the world in only its most violent terms. The greatest swordsman he ever knew taught him as much. The soft get eaten, said the man who would soon become The Kingmaker, as he pressed his boot to the center of the fallen boy’s chest. 

The words have since scorched a hole into his memory. The remains of them sit like ashes on his tongue.

Aemond didn’t learn of love until it was too late. Until he could only imagine it, like the rest of the world, from a most violent point of view. 

When a royal hunt was held to celebrate his betrothal to you, he felt it was rather fitting. He followed the armored soldiers as they stalked a perfect stag all afternoon, only to find it again at sundown in a bloodied and mangled mess. He watched with his one good eye as a towering bear ravaged the dying deer. He understood quickly that he was seeing love for the very first time that golden hour. 

As the bear ripped the throat of the stag and licked affectionately at the pulsing wound, Aemond wondered aloud, “Is that what marriage is meant to be?”  

You stood beside him in the center of the Kingswood in a pretty dress made of pink tulle and delicate flowers — neither put off by the vicious sight nor his vicious words. “Which one of us is which?” you mused instead, as the bear’s fur matted with blood.

Aemond pondered the question for several long moments. “I’m not sure,”  he answered honestly and without looking at you once. “But I assume we’ll know in time.” 

He realizes now, after many moons gone, that he never found an answer to your question. Who was the deer between you, and who was the bear? Which one of you was bleeding out, and who was the one picking flesh from their teeth? 

Aemond ponders the question now from the center of his marriage bed, where he lies naked over silk sheets. His hair spreads across the pillow in a silver halo around his head — the pin-straight strands set aglow by flickering candlelight. 

His pale body is pressed between your bare one and the mattress as you roll your hips over his lap. There is no real rhythm to your movements, which seem to be guided only by your building pleasure. Your nails bite crescent shapes into his chest like you intend to break through the skin there — to rip his heart from behind his ribcage and crush the beating organ in your fist.

Your skin is lithe and plush and delicate like a flower’s. You leak honey for him, too, which drips warm on his thighs and glimmers in the coarse thatch of hair above his cock. You’re a heavenly thing on top of him — a fact so undeniable that not even Aemond himself can turn away from it.

Your resemblance to that bear, from that day in the Kingswood, is equally as indisputable. 

You do not fuck him for his pleasure but for your own. You open him up to ravage him. To eat. And you leave claw marks on his skin to remind him of the damage you’ve done. 

Aemond does nothing but let himself be slaughtered by you. He yearns for it — for your teeth in his flesh, for the sight of his blood staining your mouth.

The Kingmaker always said that love makes you soft and that the soft get eaten, but god, Aemond has never felt more brutal.

“Are you close?” he wonders in a monotone that shatters the heavy silence, which has so far been filled only by your breathy whimpers. He already knows the answer to his question. Your body tells him without words as your velvety cunt flutters around him.

Aemond feigns an air of disinterest, anyway, just as he always has. 

He tilts his strong jaw upward to pretend he’s looking down at you and digs his lanky fingers into your bare thighs to pretend he’s ripping flesh from bone. Because he is not the weak and mangled stag, but a thing built for death. A thing that bleeds out joyously. A creature not worth loving.

A loyal hound that would bleed for you if you loved him right.

It explains why he let you mount him for the very first time, despite the queer nature of the position. The Maester always said it was best for him to be on top, so that his seed may have an easier time penetrating you — so that he’d produce an heir swiftly and no longer have to touch you. But Aemond lets you ride him with your own selfish intent because that’s what dogs do.

Dogs are loyal. Dogs don’t ask questions. Dogs are happy to be owned.

You nod wordlessly at his question with your eyes squeezed shut and your mouth wide open. Your nails dig further into his skin as the coil in the pit of your stomach tightens. The bed creaks in time with your enthusiastic thrusts, hitting the wall each time your hips roll forward — like a symphony of your desperation to cum.

“Say it,” Aemond commands quietly, to feel like he’s the one in charge despite being caged underneath you. To pretend that he’s the bear devouring you and not the other way around.

“I’m close, Aemond,” you obey in a breathy moan.

The sound of his name on your lips makes his cock twitch in the pulsing confines of your drooling cunt. He wonders briefly if you felt it, and his chest pinches with embarrassment. It’s hard to pretend he doesn’t want you when his body so hastily betrays him. 

“Go on, then,” he orders indifferently.

Despite his apathy — or perhaps because of it — your orgasm rattles very suddenly through your body. 

A whimper squeaks in the back of your throat as you tense over his lap. Your hips still as your pussy gushes around him. You work yourself through your high with little help from the boy beneath you, rubbing at your swollen clit to milk the remains of your pleasure. 

You sigh after a few breathless moments. Your trembling thighs gradually relax on either side of his hips. Your grinds resume, slower this time and with much more rhythm than before. When you grow too sensitive to be touched, you remove your hand from your pussy and smooth your palms over the crescent indents left unknowingly on Aemond’s chest. You feel his heart thrumming beneath your touch.

You toss your head back to smile deliriously at the ceiling. “Seven fucking Hells…” you whisper to yourself.

“You’re in rare form today, aren’t you?” Aemond observes in a detached tone of voice. “The Maester said you would be. Said the days after your bleeding made you more… spirited.”

He tucks his hands behind his head and only then notices the marks his fingers left behind. Small indents from his dull nails beneath blooming marks from his fingertips. It looks like it would hurt someone as delicate as you, but you don’t seem to mind. You seem to enjoy them, actually — which he thinks only proves his point.

You scoff a breathless laugh and drop your chin to peer down at him. Something mischievous flickers like a flame in your heavily lidded eyes. 

“You’re talking about my sexual appetite to The Maester?” you wonder aloud, scraping your nails over his unblemished chest — tainted only by the reddened marks you left behind. With his hands behind his head, Aemond’s lean torso is pulled taut. Your lips ache to trail kisses down the length of his milky skin, as smooth as white quartz.

“Of course I am. I’ve got to fuck a child into you sometime, don’t I?” Aemond answers, shrugging like it’s obvious. A smirk hints at the corner of his thin lips as he blinks up at you.  “Especially if I intend to make you queen…”

The sapphire gem in his right eye glitters in the low light as he rises from the mattress. He presses his heartbeat against yours, smothering your pillowy breasts with his slender body. 

You wrap your arms around his neck and roll your eyes at his insistence — of which he’s maintained since your engagement. You thought he’d get over the false fantasy with age, but his thoughts of sitting the Iron Throne have only seemed to mature alongside him. 

“I have no wish to be queen, Aemond,” you confess quietly, peering at him beneath your lashes. The look you give him is bone-crushingly sincere as you swipe your thumb over the marred skin beneath his severed eye. “I don’t want all of Westeros… I just want you.”

Something in Aemond’s chest threatens to warm.

He refuses to let it.

He knows that isn’t the truth. Not completely, anyway. 

You don’t want him the way you want his brother — the way you’ve always wanted his brother. Aegon was a drunken fool and a middling ruler, but he had always been good to you. The two of you fell in love well before you understood what the word meant. You only loved Aemond because it was your duty to, as his wife. The title was not of your choosing, either.

You did not want Aemond — not then, and maybe not ever — but you were cold and you were lonely, and Aemond was a dragon, and a fire was a fire. It was not fate that drew you to him, but convenience. 

But Aemond lets you kiss him anyway because somewhere down the line, he forgot he possessed the blood of the dragon. He became your loyal dog instead, watching you dangle the leash of his longing in a limp hand, growing hungry as he waited obediently for something that would never come back.

As you lick hungrily into his mouth — making his softening cock twitch with a newfound ache inside you — your bedroom door swingssuddenly (and very forcibly) open. The heavy wooden panel drones in protest before it slams hard against the cobbled wall. 

Neither of you is particularly startled by the sudden entrance. You both know who it is without having to look. The notion makes you part from each other with annoyed huffs. 

A fit of boyish laughter and a very strong scent of ale follows Aegon Targaryen as he saunters into your bedroom. His dark green robe flows behind him, unbuttoned to reveal his undershirt and baggy sleep pants. 

He doesn’t bother to shut the door behind him, and Criston Cole, standing guard at your door, blinks wildly into the amber-lit room. He momentarily forgets himself at the sight of your and Aemond’s entwined bodies. His armor clunks heavily as he rushes inside with an averted gaze. He doesn’t say a word before shutting it behind him.

“We’re busy, Aegon,” you huff, scolding the drunken king as though he were a child. 

You don’t bother to cover your bare form or dismount Aemond’s lap as you glare at the silver-haired boy over your shoulder. There is a very obvious familiarity between you and Aegon — so palpable that Aemond feels it even now, with his cock still piercing you.

“Oh, trust me. I noticed,” Aegon says, chuckling to himself as he attempts to pour a glass of wine with fumbling hands. 

The jewel-encrusted chalices clang together and fall heavily to the table when he reaches for them. The wine sloshes over the pitcher and splashes in fat droplets onto the cloth as he makes several attempts to pour himself a cup. To anyone else, it would be a clear sign to practice temperance, but Aegon has only ever known indulgence.

His white hair swishes around his shoulders when he turns to face you, grimacing briefly when wine splatters to his feet. “Please don’t tell me my brother always makes you do the work, Dove,” he pouts playfully into his goblet before taking a hearty sip.

You open your mouth to protest, but Aemond beats you to the punch.

“When she begs for it, yes,” he answers plainly and without an ounce of hesitation. 

The youngest boy sighs through his nose and leans away from you to rest his weight on his hands. You flash him a hardened glare in response, which he meets with a stoic look of apathy — you can’t get anything more out of him when his brother’s around.

“Isn’t it a divine thing?” Aegon slurs unknowingly, tripping over his feet as he staggers towards the bed. “To see her so desperate for your cock she’s practically salivating for it?”

A pink smile sits lazy and lopsided on his mouth before he stumbles again, catching himself on the bedframe with a pale, ringed hand. He laughs loudly then — at himself or perhaps at his words — but your face flares with embarrassment anyway. Both for the drunken king and for yourself.

You slide off of Aemond with a huff. The mattress dips softly as you sit beside him. His softening cock falls heavily to his hip, shining in the low light with your cum. You try to ignore the suddenly empty feeling as you drag the scarlet blanket over your naked bodies. 

“I don’t much appreciate being talked about like I’m not here,” you gripe with the sheets balled up at your chest — gripping at straws (or silk, rather) for an ounce of privacy, as if Aegon hasn’t already memorized every corner of your body and mind.

He had no choice but to commit every inch of you to memory after you were sold to his brother like cattle. He thought he’d get to keep you when he became king — that he’d have a wife to bear his children and you to warm his bed. He was very boyishly heartbroken when he’d heard of your engagement.

“I can’t just be your whore for the rest of my life,” you’d giggled the night after the royal hunt, drawing indistinct shapes on his bare chest with the tip of your finger. 

Aegon shrugged a bare shoulder and jutted his kissed lips.“Well, you wouldn’t be my whore.”  

“Oh, really?” you grinned.

“Of course not! You’d be my paramour!” he insisted bluntly, hugging your naked body closer with a pale arm around your shoulder, trying to ignore how perfectly you fit against him. He smiled wildly at you, and his light eyes sparkled with a post-orgasmic bliss. “What more could you possibly want?”  he asked you, only partly joking.

Aegon never imagined, then, that he’d be where he is now. A king. A father. A drunk. A heartbroken fool standing at the foot of his brother’s marriage bed, trying to remember how it felt to be noticed by you. 

“Surely, you’re used to being disregarded— as my brother’s bride and all,” Aegon jokes in muddled slurs. He cups a hand over his mouth and whispers loudly to Aemond, “You’re not very attentive in bed, I’ve heard.”

The orange embers simmering in your chest burst into red-hot flames behind your ribcage. A wildfire swims in your irises. Smoke billows from your nose. The inferno sets your skin ablaze. You can’t help but wear your emotion all over your face — or wear your heart on your sleeve, as it were.

Aemond has always been the opposite. 

He’s stoic. Calculated. Taciturn. He rarely lets the facade slip, and now is not one of those times. Not a muscle in his face flickers as the candlelight dances over his sharpened features, glittering in his sapphire eye. You can feel the heat of his own controlled wildfire radiating from his pale skin as he seethes. 

Aegon can feel it, too, it seems, as he giggles boyishly to himself.

“I told you that in confidence,” you say in a steady voice, as soft and as stoic as any princess is allowed to be. “As a friend.”

The word sounds as sweet as honey as it spills from your pretty mouth — like a saccharine venom. Aegon feels the sting of it in his chest, only slightly dulled from the sparkling wine. He clutches at his bleeding heart and flinches playfully backward.

“Ouch… Friend,” Aegon echoes in a slurred drawl before a smile tugs slow on his lips. The rosy expression sits crooked on his mouth as he leans over the bedframe to be nearer to you. “Tell me, Dove. Was I just a friend when you were begging for my tongue after the feast? When you were pleading for me to let you cum like only I can?”

Your soft features harden in Aegon’s direction as the boy’s pale eyes meet Aemond’s, who remains silent and simmering at your side. “Her words, brother,” the king amends, faux-sympathetically. “Not mine.”

Aemond knows his brother well enough to know when the halfwit’s baiting for a response. He’s hardly ever subtle about it — or about anything, for that matter. He wants the fight because he wants the attention. Your attention. And who is he to deny the king of want he so desperately wants?

The bed squeaks under his weight as he rises from the mattress. His feet pad along the floor as he stalks wordlessly across the room. The moonlight spills in rays from the stained glass window and bathes his bare body in glittering shades of silver. He searches very obviously for something, but what, you can’t be sure.

“You talk very proudly, your grace— for someone who could hardly pleasure me that night,” you scoff bitterly, lip snarled in a smirk as you look him up and down. “You were too drunk, if I recall. Too sloppy. Just like you are now.”

Aegon’s smile widens, as though he were pleased by such a cynical response from such a pristine girl. Despite his drunken state, his ringed hand is oddly steady when it reaches out for you. He smooths his palm over the downy silk blanket you clutch to your naked body and runs his thumb over the inside of your knee.

“Perhaps I could make it up to you, then,” he offers in a low and honeyed tone, the exact color of the candlelight he’s bathed in. “If my brother will be so kind as to permit it—”

Aemond reappears from the darkened edges of the bedroom then, still blissfully bare but carrying a sword in his hand. 

The long blade glimmers in the moonlight when he presses it to the side of Aegon’s neck. The freshly sharpened edge idles at the king’s pulse point — one sudden movement to the left would leave him as bloodied and mangled as that deer Aemond can’t seem to get out of his head.

Your heart lurches into your throat at the sight. You gape at the treasonous act before you, wide-eyed and breathless and waiting.

Aegon’s reaction is perhaps slightly delayed by the alcohol. He forgets to be frightened by the blade stinging his skin when he stands to full height again. His pink lips turn softly downward as he gazes at the steel with heavy eyes. 

He blinks once, then shrugs, “Well… Get on with it, then.” 

You can’t be sure if he’s calling his brother’s bluff or if he’s really that big of an idiot. When he lifts his hand to take another hearty swig of grape wine, you figure it must be a bit of both.

“It’s time for bed, Aegon,” Aemond quips in a condescending monotone. He counsels the king as if he were a child, yet holds a sword to his neck as though he were a sheep to slaughter. “His Grace is obviously very tired.”

Aegon’s jaw clenches, hard enough to shift his temples. 

For the first time since he made himself at home in your bedroom, the meaningless masquerade slips. Aegon has perhaps only two weaknesses — two scars that will surely bleed out if prodded: you and being treated like a child. 

He’s coddled enough by his mother and his grandsire, who seem so unintimidated by his authority that they rush to rule over him instead. No one in court ever took him seriously. Only you, perhaps. 

“You’ve got the temperament of a court jester, Aegon,” you told him once, painfully honest, but smiling as you cupped his teary face in your hands. “But you are kind. Maybe the kindest to ever seat the Iron Throne. And that’s what makes a good king.”

Aegon swallows hard, then fakes another smile as he gestures to you with his chalice. “But the princess has yet to answer my question, dear brother. I’ll let her bid my leave, if you don’t mind—”

“Do it, Aemond,” you command sharply into the honey-lit room. 

You sit like a painting in the center of an unmade bed, naked but dripping in silk, with your features still softened from an earlier orgasm. Despite your petaled softness, a harsher venom spits from your lips.

There’s a brief flicker in Aegon’s eyes, though perhaps it’s only the candlelight. 

His smile ebbs a moment later, and his contrite is unmistakable then. His face floods with a quiet sort of concern, as though he were actually worried that his throat would be slit before you — or worse, that you wouldn’t even cry for him if it were.

He’s quick to cover his momentary woe as he turns on the heel of his boot to face his brother, the opposite way of where his longsword sits in wait against his pulse. 

“Tell me, brother— Have you ever fucked her like a hound?” he blurts with a lopsided smile and a mischievous squint. “Have you ever pinned her to the bed and just— made a proper whore out of her?”

Aegon’s boyish giggling fills the room, still mostly quiet, save for the crackling of candle wicks and the summer wind rushing through a partially cracked window.

Aemond’s face doesn’t waver. His sharp features are set in stone, neither scowling nor smiling, but a sinister in-between thing. “You’d do well not to call my wife a whore, brother. Especially with my sword to your neck. ’Tis not very wise.”

“You haven’t, have you?” Aegon laughs, so hard he clutches his stomach to keep from doubling over. “Well, it’s no wonder you can’t make her cum! She goes wild for it, brother. Truly. She does. I have never heard someone scream so loudly from pleasure before— Not even in a brothel!”

Your features twist with a quiet anguish. Your teary eyes flit from Aemond’s hardened face, to the sword in his right hand, and to his face again. You wait for him to look at you — so that he might look upon your disdain and find you equally hurt by Aegon’s words. 

He never does. He doesn’t even blink. He just lets his eldest brother talk himself into a bigger hole while his burning anger builds.

Aegon fights hard to swallow his laughter. He clears his throat and tries to be serious, furrowing his brow and tilting his chin in a playfully solemn look. “Let me guess— You only fuck her how the Maester instructs?” 

Aemond remains silent. Deafeningly so.

Aegon shakes his head and smacks his lips against his teeth, looking genuinely sympathetic. 

“You poor, poor things… No wonder you’re always so irritable,” he quips and pokes his brother hard in the chest. When Aemond doesn’t flinch, Aegon twists the knife. “And no wonder your wife comes to me for a proper fucking—”

Aemond reaches for his brother with his free hand, shoving him unforgivingly on the shoulder. Aegon stumbles over his feet for a moment before toppling to the cobbles. He falls hard and laughs the entire way down. Dark wine stains the stone like blood as the chalice rolls out of his hand.

With Aegon finally out of his tunnel vision, Aemond’s able to see you more clearly. His icy gaze hardens as he eyes you like prey. He stalks towards you on long limbs just the same. A menacing bear to a harmless doe. 

You flinch when his sword clatters harshly to the ground. You tilt your chin to meet the boy’s eyes when he towers over you. “Turn over,” Aemond commands, still soft in his way but leaving very little room for argument.

You try to, anyway, as you blink at him with wide eyes. You swallow through the lump in your throat and try to make out the words. “Aemond— I—”

He lifts his chin in a dismissive look that quietens you immediately. “It wasn’t a question, I’m afraid.”

Your anxious hands grip tighter at the sheets covering your naked body. Your eyes flash with panic and distant arousal as they flit away from him and to his brother. Aegon, still chuckling quietly at nothing, has a hard go of lifting himself off the ground.

“Don’t look at him,” Aemond taunts. 

Your heart stops when you look back at him. His cock hangs heavy between his thighs as he grips it in a pale fist, jerking it slowly stiff with lanky fingers. Pearly pre-cum dribbles from the tip of it, which glows softly red with his arousal. His hand rises and falls in steady motions, punctuated by each of his commands for you. 

“Turn around… On your knees… Head to the pillows… I won’t repeat myself again.”

Something warm blooms in the pit of your stomach at the apathetic look he gives you. You clench your thighs together, distantly ashamed of the throbbing arousal between them.

You swallow down any remaining feelings of trepidation when you shift on the bed. The wooden frame creaks under your weight as you twist into the instructed position. Your knees dig into the mattress. Your cheek rubs against the silk pillow like a cat.

Aemond snatchers the blankets from your body with a cruel hand when you try to hide beneath them. You fight back a shiver when you’re exposed to the cool air. The slick between your thighs glitters more obviously in the candlelight. The sight of your sparkling pussy makes his cock twitch.

“That’s the spirit, brother!” Aegon commends with a bout of childish laughter. 

He staggers to the side of the bed when he’s finally off the ground, boots scuffing along the stone floor. He sways in place as he stands at your side, brows furrowed in concentration as he eyes your naked body. You try not to squirm at the attention.

Aemond pays the boy king no mind as he kneels on the mattress behind you. He slides two of his fingers into your drooling cunt with ease, already stretched out from his cock before Aegon’s sudden intrusion. 

You sigh hard through your nose when his middle and ring fingers wet themselves in your satiny walls. You try not to whimper when Aemond pulls them abruptly out again, using your honey to lubricate his cock.

“She’s absolutely dripping for it, isn’t she?” Aegon muses with his gaze locked on your ass, arched obediently into the air. His eyes go far away in thought as he imagines your waiting pussy clenching around nothing, just begging to be filled. 

“I told you she liked it,” he boasts, then murmurs more curiously to himself. “I didn’t know she liked to be watched, though…”

He tilts his head to the side to gaze upon you in a quiet sort of wonderment, like he’s seeing you for the very first time. 

You avert your gaze when you accidentally lock eyes. You find a spot on the wall to stare at instead, a jewel glittering in one of the tapestries across the room. You needed to distract yourself from Aegon’s prying eyes — needed to distract yourself from how much you liked having him look at you like this.

“Neither did I,” Aemond mutters distantly as he lines his weeping cock at your entrance. 

He slams into you without warning. Buries himself to the hilt inside you and lets you revel in the burn of being pierced so ardently. If you liked being fucked like a whore, he’ll treat you like one. He’ll use you like you used him. He’ll ravage you completely. He’ll rip your throat out and lick at the gaping wound.

A whimper sounds in your throat when the burning gives way to a warmer feeling in the pit of your stomach. Aemond’s cock was much thinner than his brother’s, but what he lacked in girth, he made up for tenfold in length. It was easy for him to penetrate you completely — to leave you writhing beneath him without moving.

But Aemond was usually much more careful with you than this. You were often on your back with him— always on your back with him— and his thrusts were always calculated. The goal was never to make love to you but to produce a child, which was your shared duty as members of court. His orgasm was more important than yours, in that regard, so you rarely ever had one of your own with him. Not that Aemond cared, anyway.

He did not care about your pleasure. Did not care that you spent most nights playing house with his brother. Did not care that you had your own separate bedroom that you often shared with Aegon — a sanctuary wherein the holy vows you made in the eyes of the Seven meant nothing. 

Aemond didn’t care about any of it because it was always easier to hallucinate your holiness. But he understands, now, that you have always been the demon. The demon of his dreams. The death-touched witch he carries like a burden. Somewhere deep in the enemy he made of you, he found the lover.

And as his brother idles some feet away — watching him fuck you, mocking him, giving him something to prove — Aemond realizes they’re bound by the same sin.

You.

“You’ll have to do better than that, brother,” Aegon instructs with a shake of his wild head. He furrows his brows in a pinched look of concentration, like he’s really analyzing each of Aemond’s thrusts, visibly disappointed to find the boy still holding back. 

The thought of pinning you down is rather strange, Aemond realizes, when you’ve always given yourself to him so willingly. Despite your arrangements with the king, you were always waiting for him after a long day of counsel — with spread legs and a flagon of wine— ready to be bred because you knew the prince’s work was never truly finished until then. 

It was somehow stranger to be rough with you, when you were made of something more delicate than flower petals. 

Aemond struggles to find a rhythm with his thrusts accordingly. They’re sharp and merciless — two words that describe the boy rather well — but he can’t decide between burying himself inside you completely or sparing you a gentler inch or two. It leaves him fumbling foreignly in his body.

“She’s not made of glass! You won’t break her!” Aegon chuckles loudly, gesturing to your petaled body with a ringed hand, which now trembles with the anticipation of being ruined. 

Aemond hasn’t yet realized that you, his petaled bride, revel in the cruelty. He hasn’t understood the great relief of giving into destruction, either. Aegon feels like it’s his job to show him, as his older brother and all.

“Go on, then! Fuck her like you hate her!” he shouts brazenly into the quiet room.

Aemond stills completely. You feel him staring down at you. His eyes, both made of striking sapphire, are wide and attentive as they dart over your profile. He searches for any sign of hesitation in your features, because even despite his simmering anger, he won’t hurt you unless you tell him to. Until you beg to be fucked like a whore with his brother watching you.

Your chin brushes your bare shoulder when you glance at the boy behind you. Your gaze swims with orange candlelight as you blink at him with big, wet eyes. He finds a distant fear pinching your pretty face. 

It is not Aemond that frightens you, nor his brother who’s still swaying in place beside you — drunk on the wine, the sight of you, and the hankering to watch you be ravished. It is, instead, the enormity of your desire that scares you. The crushing weight of your craving for both of them. 

Aemond sees the eyes of the dying stag in your own. The wide-eyed gape of an innocent thing that has no idea what’s happening to it. A thing that knows it’s going to be ripped apart but can’t do anything to stop it. 

The only real difference is you don’t want him to stop. You want him to open you up, to ravage you completely, to leave you for scraps.

“Do it, Aemond,” you beg in a breathy whisper. “Please.”

He takes a moment to look at you, to really look at you, and feels like he’s seeing you for the first time. His fragile and unholy wife, commanding him now to sin, with those bad and beautiful eyes beneath him. The embers swimming in Aemond’s chest burst into an all-out flame. He wants to devour you in a similar way — burn you, eat you, love you into dragonfire.

Aemond slams into you again. His hips make a dull clapping sound when they collide with the plush of your ass. His cock reaches a spongy depth inside of you and your velvet walls hug him tight, like you don’t want him to leave. A pained noise sounds in the back of your throat despite that. You arch into him in a silent plea for more.

He gives you exactly what you want.

He finds a steady rhythm with ease — burying himself to the hilt, pulling out before you have time to adjust, then punching back into you again. His lean hips angle forward to thrust into you deeper. His long fingers pull you into each of them, creating new bruises on the prints already blooming there. 

Aegon chuckles loudly. A boyish giggling that echoes over the sounds of a creaking bed and slapping skin — over Aemond’s low grunts and your pitiful whines. 

“There you are, brother! Fuck her like a hound!” he shouts between giddy laughter as he staggers back to the table. His boots splash in the wine he spilled earlier as he steps over the fallen goblet. He retrieves another golden cup and pours himself another.

“Reach under her hip— touch between her legs. She lovesthat. Don’t you, Dove?” Aegon coaches over his shoulder as he empties the flagon of wine.

Aemond could hardly stomach authority. He rarely took direction because he long understood that he was the wisest in any given room. But here, now, he knows his brother is far more familiar with your body than perhaps anyone in Westeros. So Aemond, for the first time maybe ever, decides to obey. 

He does everything his brother tells him to. He pins you to the mattress with a wide hand fisting your hair. Brings his free one between your legs to massage your clit with calloused fingers. He does everything he’s told to do, but better. 

You make noises for him he’s never heard before. Tiny whimpers are forced from your lips every time he punches inside of you. His fingers find your swollen clit and you writhe, whining all pretty underneath him as a coil in your belly starts to tighten.

Aemond watches you take pleasure in his subtle cruelty. Something short of pride sparkles in his chest. “Do you like being fucked like a whore?” he spits between bated breaths.

It’s hard to tell if he’s being genuine when he speaks in such a monotone. You nod for him anyway, warm cheek grazing the soft silk pillow. His pointer and middle finger press hard to your clit, and you keen.

“Say it,” he commands sharply, bending at the waist to lean over your back. His sweat-slick chest presses flush to your spine. His breaths fans over the shell of your ear as he tells you, “Tell me you like being fucked like this.”

It’s hard to make the words out when it’s taking everything in you not to scream. You try for him, anyway. “I love when you fuck me like this,” you whimper between heavy pants.

Aemond rises to his knees again. He releases your hair from his fist and holds you tightly by the plush of your hips, pulling you into his thrusts and fucking you that much harder. 

You hear yourself bellow a feeble cry at the assault on your delicate pussy. The stinging of his cock punching into you combines with a warmer pleasure that drools like honey from your cunt. You clench around him despite yourself, swallowing him further inside. 

His fingers are merciless as they rub at your clit. The sensitive button swells for him as your pleasure builds, overwhelmingly so.

“Do you hear that?” Aegon wonders aloud when you sob. The pitiful sound is strikingly familiar to him. He saunters back towards the bed and brings the chalice to his mouth. “That means she’s close,” he murmurs into the cup.

Your eyes are squeezed shut, but you can feel Aegon when he’s near. You grip the pillow in your fist and struggle to find the will to open your eyes. Through the haze of looming pleasure, you find the face of your first-ever love gazing upon you with a cynical sort of smile. 

Aegon crouches beside the mattress so his face is level with yours. He smooths a sympathetic hand over your cheeks, fiery to the touch, and pushes rogue strands of hair behind your ear. His touch is much softer compared to Aemond’s — less calloused, less bruising. The contrast is dizzying.

“Are you close, Dove?” 

You answer with a strangled moan. 

“It’s okay. I know you are,” he murmurs in a honeyed voice, lips jutted in a pitying pout. “I bet you’re going to make such a mess for him, aren’t you?”

Your pussy weeps around Aemond’s cock at his words — the faux-sympathetic tone of them, more so. The youngest Targaryen grits his teeth when the walls of your velvety cunt tighten around him. A wet schlick schlick schlick sound fills the air. You swallow down a feeble whine in response.

Aemond’s fingers push hard on your sensitive clit. “Answer him,” he tells you.

“Yes,” you squeak obediently.

Aegon smiles into his wine. The bitter-sweet grape shines on his pink lips until he licks it away again. He catches your lidded eyes on his mouth, and his grin grows. He’d kiss you if he could, but he knows you want it too badly. He knew there was very little gained from getting what you wanted without making a little fuss about it first.

“Say my name when you cum, will you?” he murmurs softly as the fingers of his free hand scratch gently at your scalp. “I know you’re surely thinking of me, anyway.”

Aemond falters. His hips stutter against your ass and his hands grip you noticeably tighter, as though physically affected by his brother’s words. The pinch in his chest is only partly relieved when you shake your head against Aegon’s palm.

“You’re so pretty, Dove. Do you know that?” Aegon smiles. “Even when you lie.”

You hear yourself whine before you can help it. Your back arches as your thighs start to tremble. Aemond feels you clench somehow tighter around him, hugging mercilessly at his cock and making it harder to move inside you. Your orgasm swells up from the pit of your stomach, held by a fraying rope that’s bound to snap. The inevitability of your pleasure startles you.

“Aemond,” you whimper quietly, as though looking for an ounce of comfort from the boy fucking you so brutally.

“Cum for me,” he instructs without a shred of sympathy. The words come out slightly choppy from the strength of his thrusts. “Cum for me now.”

The pressure in your stomach builds, like a dam about to burst. A scream rises in your throat and escapes just the same. The pretty sound scratches at the back of your throat, which Aegon cradles in his gentle hand. 

His thumb rests just over your pulse while his fingers curl around the back of your neck. He lifts your chin in a silent command to look at him. A crooked smile tugs at his mouth when you blink at him with glassy eyes.

“Say my name, Dove. Go on,” he guides with a soft nod. 

Your face pinches as you grit your teeth, fighting the urge to scream once more. Aegon’s gentle features harden into something sterner. If there was anything he couldn’t stand, it was not getting his way. 

His pretty eyes lose any ounce of empathy as he repeats, “Say my name when you cum for my brother.”

You crack. The dam bursts. His name swells in our throat and tumbles from your lips. “Aegon!” you moan in a strangled cry as your orgasm racks through your body in merciless waves. 

Your pussy flutters as you leak around Aemond’s cock. He struggles to move with your satiny cunt embracing him so ardently. His hips stutter against you when his own orgasm overtakes his body. A moan grumbles in his chest, bitten back with a clenched jaw, while his cock jerks within your pulsing velvet confines. 

Aemond leaves bruises on your petaled skin with how tightly he holds you. He brings his chin to his chest and pulls you into his sharp thrusts, each of them punctuated by a growl and a load of his cum. Your rippling cunt milks him dry. You sigh at the warm and tingly feeling of being so full of him.

“There you go!” Aegon praises as he watches both of you tremble with the aftershocks of your orgasms. He rises to full height again and takes another sip of wine. He talks in jumbled slurs into his goblet. “That wasn’t so hard, was it, brother? Just takes a little… communication, is all. You’ll breed her in no time, no doubt.”

The haze of honeyed pleasure is slow to pass. Aemond tilts his head back as the remains of it ebb like a low tide. He smiles bitterly and glances at his brother with his one remaining eye. “I thank you for your service, your grace. Truly,” he mocks.

Aegon smiles obliviously, swaying softly in place. He bends at the waist to whisper in your ear. The heavy alcohol on his breath makes you flinch.

“Come visit me soon, won’t you?” he mutters, equal parts playful and meaning it, as the pad of his thumb brushes the apple of your cheek. “Bed’s much too cold without you, Dove.”

You glare at him in response, knowing he’s putting on a show for his brother. Aegon only grins as he rises once more, giggling to himself the entire way out of your room.

When the heavy wooden door creaks open and shut again, you take your first good breath all night. Your lashes brush your cheek as your tired eyes flutter slowly shut.

“How much of that did you hear?” Aegon asks Criston Cole, muffled from the other side of the entrance.

“Not a word, your grace,” the knight answers obediently.

The king snickers. “Good boy…”

Aegon’s footsteps scuff the floor as he walks away on unsteady legs. Metal armor clunks softly together as Ser Criston shifts outside your door. The bedroom, otherwise, grows eerily quiet — quelled only by crackling candles and whipping wind. 

The notion that you and Aemond are alone again together weighs heavily upon you. You’re still reeling with the disbelief that any of it had happened at all.

“Are you… Are you alright?” the boy stammers as his cock softens inside of you. 

Aemond often found it hard to make small talk with you — or anyone, for that matter. He cared little for conversation and less for meaningless ones. He enjoyed keeping to himself most of all, which was a difficult feat for a married man.

You nod wordlessly against the satin pillow.

“Tell me.”

You swallow hard. “I’m alright.”

Aemond’s hands tremble with the urge to comfort you despite having bruised you moments ago. He guides himself out of you and balls them into fists instead. You bite back a whimper at the empty feeling, relaxing slowly on the mattress as Aemond pads across the room.

“I am sorry about my brother,” he says to fill the silence as he reaches for the flagon of ale. He finds it lighter than usual and scoffs when he realizes Aegon has emptied its contents. The king only came around to drink his wine and fuck his wife, it seems — the only two things he appears to be good for. “His Grace quite fancies himself a scene, I believe.”

You exhale hard through your nose in place of a laugh. “I’m used to it, husband. I assure you,” you hum tiredly, twirling your finger around the golden tassel of the pillow.

“I’m sure you are,” Aemond lilts as he steps into his breeches.

You huff and roll onto your back. Your naked body stretches in the sheets like a cat as you languish on the crimson silk. You possess a demoniacal sort of beauty that Aemond struggles to look away from. You seem to know this, too, as you flash him a quiet smirk. 

“You don’t have to be so jealous, my love,” you tease. “Your cum is still leaking out of me, if you’ve forgotten.”

He flashes you a cynical glance that loses its playfulness when he swipes his leather patch over his sapphire eye. A hint of a smile quirks the edges of his thin lips. “Along with my brother’s leftovers, I’m sure.”

“Aemond—”

“Don’t,” he interjects sharply before tugging his undershirt over his head. The baggy white fabric drips over his pale torso. He tucks the hem of it into his pants with an absentminded hand. “I can’t abide by petty conversations. I’ve grown used to receiving Aegon’s hand-me-downs, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

He flashes you a knowing glance, as if to say you were the hand-me-down in question — the princess who was meant to be Aegon’s bride, doomed to belong to his youngest brother.

“You say that like I’m some kind of doll,” you scoff.

“You are, aren’t you?” Aemond humors in a monotone, walking back to the bed as he ties the string of his breeches. “Is that not what you wanted to be before? A whore to be played with?”

He looms over the foot of the mattress. You sit up to be nearer to him, propping your weight on your hands. “A whore?” you repeat with a quirked brow. “Or yours?” 

Aemond ponders the question for a moment. He spots a rogue tendril of hair clinging to your jaw and gets the sudden urge to move it for you. He decides not to deprive himself of touching you this time as his knuckles graze your skin, tucking the strand behind your ear. The act of softness is obviously foreign to the two of you.

“As my dear brother always said… ‘A whore is a whore is a whore,’” Aemond recites indifferently. “They’re all the same, aren’t they? One is as good as another.”

Your chest pinches at his words, though you figure you have no real right to be angered by them. Aemond bends at the waist to brush a chaste kiss to your cheek, pink lips chapped as they graze your skin. You buzz for more as soon as he’s gone.

“Where are you going?” you call to him when he stalks to the door on long legs.

“To the brothel,” he lies without missing a beat. He wraps a hand around the golden door handle and spares you a mischievous look. “Perhaps you should go visit the king whilst I’m gone. He’ll need someone to turn him on his side when he vomits on himself.” 

You blink at Aemond with a knowing glint in your eye, like you can see right through him. He decides to blame it on the flickering candlelight instead, which paints your bare skin in flaxen shades of amber as you slide off the bed and saunter toward him.

“Perhaps I will,” you muse with a shrug when you stand before him. You smooth your hands over his cotton shirt, running your palms up his torso and resting them finally on his chest — just over his heart, where your claw marks are red and welting. “I supposed it’ll help me pass the time while you’re off whoring.”

The corner of your lip quirks in an evil smile that Aemond meets with a hardened scowl. 

You know exactly the game he’s trying to play. You are, perhaps, an expert in it yourself. The notion makes him seethe. 

He finds himself quickly missing having you pinned underneath him, falling apart and pleading.

“Best hurry off to the brothel, my love. Before all the good whore’s are taken,” you tell him with a faux-innocent twinkle in your eye. 

You rise to the tips of your toes to press your lips to his, balling his tunic in your fists to pull him down the rest of the way. You stamp a quick kiss to his mouth and ignore any urge to deepen it as you step back from him. 

Aemond watches with clenched fists as you stroll away, headed towards the looking glass at the far edge of the room, where your gown hangs on the back of a chair. The see-through cotton drapes over your skin like summer rain. He swallows hard, feeling suddenly like his heart’s in his throat — like you’ve ripped a tendon or more out with your teeth and sucked the weeping wound dry.

There was no fighting here, Aemond realizes quickly. There was no winning here, either. He has long been the mangled stag, wailing to the gods for mercy, and you have always been the bear taking chunks from his flesh — the only one around to hear his prayer.

You love him in the only way Aemond understands. Cruelly. With his blood staining your teeth as you gnaw him to the bone. 

You’re going to kill him. 

And he’s going to let you.

yes hes my comfort character, and yes he does beat the shit out of people. he multitasks idk