anais

Full disclosure - possibly a bit unpolished because I wanted to get it done before S2.

-

You left the grand sept just days after your investiture. 

At noon on the first day of the new month, a royal courier came to fetch you, loading your meagre belongings onto a cart to bring both that and yourself to the castle. To your new home and abode: a chamber with one bed, one table and one little chair, one sconce and one seven-pointed star on the wall. Naturally in the servant’s quarters, but on the highest floor, along with the ladies’ maids, far away from the damp cellars and busy kitchens.

The queen’s household is large, and you are somewhere in the middle of the hierarchy; expected to follow orders, but able to give them, too. You are a septa now, a woman grown, and for the first time in all of your life you have no Mother Superior to answer to, no Septon Alester, and no other girls sharing your bedchamber - which is both a blessing and a curse. It is nice and quiet to be by yourself, free of prying eyes and Sister Sybella’s snoring. But no one pays notice when you slip out at night, and if you run into a maid or steward, they naturally assume that you are headed towards Her Grace or Princess Helaena’s chambers. 

Luckily, Prince Aemond’s rooms are in roughly the same direction. 

When others are near, he is perfectly honourable. Really, his performance is quite impressive. Not too eager, not too distant, perfectly measured when he greets you in the halls, or sits with his mother in her solar. But at night, at night he is different. When the hour grows late and the royal family say their goodnights, he will find a chance to strike, to brush past you and squeeze your wrist, or run his fingers over the small of your back to let you know that he wishes to see you. That he wants you to come to him tonight. 

To his chamber, to his bed, to his arms. 

It is a humiliating plight, and you climb the steps of Maegor’s Holdfast with all the enthusiasm of a convict walking to the scaffold. Weighed down by the guilt of your actions, terrified that someone should know. And resentful, of the prince for making you dishonour your vows, and of the gods for cursing you with beauty - had they made you ugly, Prince Aemond would never have spared you a glance, and you would not be in this predicament. You would not be forced to indulge his lusts and endure the liberties he takes with your body. 

But most of all, worst of all, you feel ashamed. Of all the things you do together, and of the fact that you cannot deny it does sometimes bring you pleasure, too. 

You have permitted him to kiss your mouth, your throat, your chest. Wrapped your hands  around his member and stroked it while he fondled your breasts. Let him lie on top of you and rut against you, still fully clothed, pressing hard between your legs until both of you were sweaty and panting. And once, only once, you let him slip his hand up under your skirts and touch you there, and it felt more wonderful than anything else you have ever experienced. So wonderful that you have not allowed him to do it again, for fear that it should corrupt your soul and spirit. That you will always crave it, the warm press of his fingers, and the way your body suddenly shook and tightened with a pleasure so exquisite you could not help but cry out in ecstasy. 

But he has never had you. Never put any part of himself inside you, never even seen your naked body. It is the strangest thing - there are surely many ladies who would give themselves to him, wholly and fully, yet for some reason, he wants only you.

And he does not waste time with any sort of pleasantries. The joys of night are short, and he can only keep you for so long - you must be back in time to rest, and at the very least before the scullions and kitchen maids rise. You have hardly latched the door before he wraps you in his longing arms, laying you on his bed and parting your legs. The sheets are soft against your back, and his leathers are smooth and cool, and you do not protest when he lays on top of you. You have grown used to the feel of his chest against yours, the heaviness of him, and the hard and lean lines of his body, so different from your own. You have grown used to his kisses too. You like it when he pecks gently at your lips, and when he slides his tongue into your mouth and curls it around your own. When he strokes your body in all sorts of ways, to see what darling little noises he can coax from you this time. 

“Have you ever been touched like this before?” he breathes - a silly question, since he knows the answer well enough already. 

“No,” you whisper. “Never.”

“Say it again,” he commands, closing his eye and breathing in deeply, pressing his nose to your sweet-smelling hair. 

“No other man has ever touched me - only you.” 

It arouses him very much, hearing those words, and he groans softly when he takes your hand and guides it down between your bodies. Knowing what he wants you to do, you hike your skirts up, just enough to run your own fingers along the folds of your womanhood and hold them up for him to taste. Which he does with the most fervent passion, sighing as he licks them clean of any trace of you. He has asked many times to be allowed to taste your sweetness from its source, but you have staunchly refused, appalled at the mere suggestion. He should not press his mouth to such a dirty place. He should not lick something that serves only the body’s most revolting and shameful functions. 

Usually, once he has kissed you like this for a while, and pressed and rubbed against you, he will either reach his end from that alone, or he will make you pleasure him with your hands. But not tonight. 

“Let me feel you,” he pants. “Just this once let me put it inside - ”

“It is a sin,” you gasp, mortified, but nonetheless shivering when he pulls at your sleeve, exposing your shoulder to cover it with kisses. 

“As is this,” he whispers. “And this, and this - ”

His mouth is lovely and warm on your skin, and his teeth are gentle when they scrape along your throat, nibbling softly above your neckline, and biting down hard below it. Making your breathing uneven as you struggle to string your words together. 

“But it is different - you know that it is, please don’t make me do it…”

The prince lifts his head to look at you, propped up on his elbow. 

“It is the movements that are the most sinful part of the act - is it not?” he says, cupping your face and stroking your cheek in the tenderest of ways. When you nod, he adds, “and if I were to not perform them, would that not be a lesser sin?”

His tone is innocent enough, but you know that wicked look in his eyes, the self-assured draw of his mouth. He knows that he is right - it is the movements, not the insertion itself that makes the act of coupling so sinful. And if he showed restraint and did not move in any such manner, then you suppose it would be a lesser sin. Although they did not mention such possible circumventions in your training, naturally. And there are other issues, still. 

“But my maidenhead…” you mutter, looking bashfully to the side when the prince touches his nose to yours. 

“I will be gentle,” he breathes. “I will be so very gentle - my angel, my love - let me at least have you this way… ”

It never really is your choice to make. To be alone with the prince is to balance on a precarious ledge - you can deny him some things, but only so long as you can offer something else that might appease him. And though he never makes overt threats, you are painfully aware that displeasing him could have dire consequences. That he could hurt you in a multitude of ways if he so wished. 

You squirm under his gaze, riddled with so many conflicting emotions; fearful of his intentions, yet blushing at the terms of endearment. Who would not want to hear such lovely words from a prince?

“Just this once,” he whispers, his voice soft and amorous. Just this once…

All you give him is the faintest nod, a slight incline of your head, and his hands are already pushing at your skirts, bunching them up over your parted knees. His breath hitches at the sight of your womanhood, your most intimate parts that you have never bared to him before; wet and inviting, framed by soft curls. Lovelier than he had ever even imagined, that rosy colour of your innermost lips, that little pearl you will not let him touch. And most of all your maidenhead, the delicate tissue that partially covers your entrance, and that he will earnestly try not to damage beyond what is necessary. 

For reasons he could not say, you have quite enchanted him. So much so that he has lavished more patience and tenderness on you than ever before on a woman, and that despite seeing so little return on the investment. For weeks he has contented himself with just your hand and your reluctant kisses, the mere feel of your body beneath him. Many times, he could have taken you by force, and many times he wanted to, yet somehow he could not bring himself to do it, could not bear the thought that you should hate him for it. That your delicate limbs should be hurt in trying to fight him off. 

He has waited long for this, and he does not want to give you time to change your mind, so he only quickly shrugs off his doublet and unbuttons his breeches to free his manhood. Which is painfully hard and in dire need of relief.

It still looks so strange to you, that unholy appendage, with its swollen shaft and its fat, fleshy head. Like the poisonous mushrooms that grow in the Kingswood, though you always keep that thought to yourself - you doubt the prince would appreciate such a childish comparison. He strokes it slowly while his other hand disappears between your legs, brushing over your womanhood and spreading your folds to reveal your little opening. Untried, uncharted by anything or anyone. 

You grit your teeth when the tips of his fingers are replaced by - something else. 

Slowly, steadily, he begins to ease himself inside of you, and you feel your muscles instantly and unwittingly tensing up, startled at the sensation. At the pressure, and at the sound the prince makes when the tip of his member is enveloped by your body, the tight rim of your entrance squeezing its sensitive head. The rest of him will not fit, but he spits into his palm and strokes it along his shaft, and that makes things glide a little better, as do your slow, deliberate breaths. 

It hurts, it really does, only not in the way you expected. You do not so much feel like anything is being torn or ripped - rather, you feel stretched, forcibly split apart and opened far beyond what should be possible. Your insides burn from it, and you wince with pain when he adjusts his position, spreading your thighs wider and driving his hips forward. Pressing in until he is fully seated. 

And he moans from how perfect you feel around him. So soft, so tight. His seeing eye closes and his breathing is hoarse, strained from how badly he needs to move, needs to thrust; his arms trembling by the sides of your head as he struggles to hold himself still. It is a bizarre thing to do, you think, just laying together like this, one on top of the other, completely motionless. Your legs raised over his hips, his chin resting against your forehead. His manhood swelling within you, throbbing with need. You can only hope it means that he will finish quickly and release you from this chore, from the searing pain that scorches your core, and the feeling of being so trapped, so tethered. Much like one of the many-legged creatures on Princess Helaena’s wall; splayed out and nailed down, held in place by a foreign object piercing your body. 

But the prince likes it. You have never heard such heavy sighs from him as just now, never seen such utter bliss on his face. His forehead is damp with sweat, his brows drawn together, his upper lip subtly twitching. One of his hands trails up the back of your naked thigh, lifting your leg to curl it around his back, and he moans from that too, as the slight shift gives him a brief feeling of movement. It is not at all comfortable for you, but you are distracted when he seeks your lips, claiming your mouth with slow, deep kisses. His tongue rolls over yours, pulling back to lick along your lip before plunging into your mouth again, over and over, in a strangely repetitive way. A rhythmic way. As if he is making love to your mouth, since he cannot make love to your body. 

It feels lovely, so lovely that it makes your insides twitch. Which in turn makes the prince curse, and a violent shudder run through his body. 

“Do it again,” he moans, and like always you do your best to please him. Clenching your muscles, squeezing tight around him, then releasing again. Very slowly, and each time feeling his breathy gasp against your face, and the thrum of a heartbeat inside of you - whether his or yours, you cannot say. It is painful with your already sore muscles, and it must be a poor excuse for what it is supposed to mimic, but it is still better than nothing, judging by how the prince moans. How he bites his lip and furrows his brow as your insides twitch and contract, so tight and slick and warm. 

How strange to think that now you have become one. Now you are as close as two people can ever be. Closer still when the prince slithers his arm underneath your body, pressing you hard against him and cradling your head. Your fingers are clenched in the damp material of his shirt, and he unfurls them gently to wrap your arms around his neck, around his shoulders; wanting you to hold him, to embrace him as a woman should her lover. 

It makes your discomfort somewhat more bearable, having something to cling and anchor yourself to. The closeness, and the intimacy of it, how his face is right above yours, your noses touching and breaths mingling. He drags his mouth against your own, from side to side, his lips brushing over yours, then over the rest of your face; your chin, your cheekbones, your temples. So, so gently, and like often before, you are stunned that he can be both so cruel and so tender with you. So selfish, and so soft. 

He has had countless chances to force himself on you, yet he never did. Even now he is keeping his promise, holding back, fighting hard to not succumb to that most powerful and natural instinct of a man, this urge to thrust, to copulate. You can feel that he is shivering with the force of his need, gritting his teeth, unable to keep completely still - there is a gentle, almost imperceptible swaying of his body that he cannot help, an impossibly slow rocking with each of his ragged breaths. 

He really is beautiful, you think, with his striking eyes and thick, silvery hair; pink lips parted in a breathy sigh. You could not say what possessed you to be so bold, but you find yourself reaching up to place a wet, lingering kiss underneath his jaw, right on top of the constellation of freckles that adorns his neck, swiping your tongue across it and tasting the sweat of his skin. To an almost immediate effect - at the feeling of your timid caresses, the prince curses loudly, clenching his fingers in the sheets, arching his back - 

“No!” you exclaim, “not inside me, not inside - ”

But it is too late; he has already shuddered once, and his manhood is already pulsing and spurting when he manages to withdraw from you. So stiff that it flops up against his stomach, a grotesque thing to look upon, the way it just hangs there, squirting out semen as he groans and gasps. At the very end of his rapture he grasps it with one hand, stroking it hard all the way from the base to the tip, as though wanting to squeeze out every last bit of fluid. And once he is spent, he rolls off of you and onto his back, completely unceremoniously. Leaving you raw and hurting inside, and with the sticky feeling of his semen trickling out between your thighs. 

“If it catches,” you whisper, afraid to even speak the words. “If I should be with child…”

The prince runs a hand over his face, panting and still too lightheaded to be thinking clearly, because he stupidly tells you that needn’t worry, he will have a tea brought to you -

“No! please no,” you shriek, panicked. “They would know I broke my vows - ”

“Then I will bring it myself,” he snaps, but rather than reassure you, his harsh tone only makes you tear up.

At the sigh of your quivering mouth, his face softens, and he reaches out to pull you into his arms, hold you against his chest, stroke your hair and rock you gently. Say forgive me, forgive me, I quite forgot myself, you mustn’t cry, my love -

“Why must you torment me,” you sob. “Sooner or later someone will know, they will shame me and ruin me - “

“They wouldn’t dare,” he says. “I would not let them - I will cut off any hand that hurts you - “

You press your ear to his chest to drown out the sound of his voice, for he has said these same words many times before, and with the same fervour and poignancy. He adores you, he reveres you, he will cut off any hand that hurts you, any eye that ogles you, any tongue that slanders your name. 

You haven’t the courage to tell him - the only hand that hurts you is his own. 

Please feel free to come into my asks or DMs with critique of my fics! Constructive is preferred, but not required.

Tags. @ladythornofrivia, @blackswxnn, @hightpwer, @toodlesxcuddles, @arcielee

@targaryen-madness, @qyburnsghost

You don't greet each other when you pass by. The corner of Aemond's lips twitches upward and he lets out a quiet hum when he sees you lift your chin. You would bump his shoulder if you could, but you hold back. It's shameful how you lose your composure around that damn lawyer.

You wanted to be ruthless as always, but as soon as you learned that your case was also his case, you fell into something close to despair. Aemond kept score, as cynical as that sounds. He clicked his tongue, making a sharp sound. Small wrinkles gathered at the corners of his eyes from pleasure. The Targaryen stepped so close, brazenly invading your space. He always leaned on something, as if he didn't know what to do with his hands. His palm would end up dangerously close to your body. "I won again, sweetheart," he almost sang with smugness. It would cost you nothing to grab the edge of his tie and wrap it around his throat. Or better yet, stand on his toes with your sharp lacquered stilettos. You did none of those things, because if you lost control, you would need a lawyer yourself.

You hated him with an inhuman intensity because he made you look like a fool in front of everyone. You wondered if he was like this with everyone or if he only tried to crush you in the most merciless way. Only to you he said, "this will be easy," with an expression as if you were nothing.

But worse was when Aemond tried to be kind to you. On your birthday, he said your dress was cute. You thought you were dreaming, but the Targaryen looked so friendly. You almost died of embarrassment because your colleagues heard it and later teased you about it. What irritated you most was that this scoundrel needed to be in your life so much, constantly reminding you of his existence.

One day he saw you at a bar. It was a difficult case, with little evidence, but every fiber of your being told you that the defendant was guilty. Almost a hopeless case. That guy was a notorious liar and had already won over the jury. Even the judge dismissed your objections with skepticism. A lost case wasn't a tragedy for you when you knew the person behind bars wasn't innocent. But when the opposite happened, you lost all peace of mind. Your sense of justice wouldn't let you just move on and forget that a criminal was walking free.

Aemond wasn't handling that case. He seemed to have his own complicated and tangled case at the time. You tensed when you saw him sit down next to you. It wasn't the best bar, some forgotten dive, and you came there because you wanted silence and solitude. Aemond didn't say hello. He looked unusually cautious, only occasionally throwing you random glances. The soft light fell on his silhouette, making him painfully beautiful. His lips, finely outlined, didn't spit out venomous words.

"Enjoy it while you can, or why are you here?" you took a defensive stance, shifting awkwardly on the bar stool.

"I came for a drink."

"It doesn't seem like you like places like this."

"The places I like tend to attract people I don't want to see right now."

You chuckled quietly. "I don't think I'm on that list. Looks like you picked a pretty bad spot."

The alcohol in your veins was making itself known. You grew bolder, and all your irritation poured out onto Aemond.

"You'd do better to work as hard as you attack me. Lose another case and what? You should be used to it by now." The Targaryen snapped back, and you kicked his leg with yours. Your eyes burned with indignation. There was nothing you needed less right now than his company. It was so outrageously unfair.

"How primitive. You can't come up with anything better than kicking me with your foot, hmm?" Aemond perked up, turning into the most typical version of himself. You wanted to jump off the stool and leave, but he held you back, wrapping his arm around your waist lightly. What affected you much more was the way his hand gently circled your body. He had never allowed himself that before.

"Stay. You were here first. I can leave." You placed your hand over his without knowing why and shook your head. "Stay. Just shut up for once."

Your head was splitting with pain. The alcohol you had consumed in generous amounts wasn't the best quality. It took you a few minutes to realize you were lying in someone else's bed. You never had silk sheets on your own bed. But the man lying on your chest, hugging your waist stickily and insistently, seemed to have them. Aemond's silver hair was loose and spread across the bed. He usually kept it in a ponytail, so the sight left you with a strange, tender feeling. He held you tightly, so you couldn't just escape, throw on your clothes, and pretend you hadn't drunkenly fucked the person you would gladly send to hell.

Worse still, you remembered everything. How you sat in awkward silence at that damn bar, and then he started complaining about his case. He relaxed and became a little more expressive. You joined the conversation. The heat grew, and you both shared things that people in your positions normally wouldn't. You were still keeping secrets that shouldn't leave the boundaries set by you and your client. Perhaps exhaustion overwhelmed you. When you finished your tirade, Aemond could think of nothing better than to press his lips to yours roughly.

Already in the taxi, Aemond pulled off your panties, and you think they stayed on the back seat. He kissed you wildly, leaving pink marks on your skin. He bit your fingers when you tried to cover his mouth with your hand. Despite the alcohol, you still felt terribly awkward in front of the driver, who had become an unwilling witness to your passion.

But once you were in Aemond's apartment, you held nothing back. You were afraid that if you backed down, you would never get another chance to bring that bastard down. Literally, because you ended up on top of him in the hallway, on the doormat if you remembered correctly. Clothes lay in an indistinguishable heap around you, and your moans, fueled by alcohol, were unrestrained and loud. You lowered yourself onto him with force, as if each time you were driving the word "hate" into him. You came first and decided he didn't deserve his orgasm at all. You rolled off him, but couldn't get up. Your legs wouldn't hold you. Aemond cursed quietly, and for some reason, it made you so amused to see him so pathetic that you laughed out loud. Then you disappeared again as soon as you caught your breath. The bed creaked under your bodies as if begging you to end this torture. How many times he fucked you or you fucked him, it was hard to say. He fell asleep with his cheek pressed to your chest like a damn kitten. Neither of you had any strength left. You fell asleep as soon as you closed your eyes.

You sighed loudly. You still hated him, and now perhaps even more.

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The first day that the numbers hit double digits in the UK may as well have been a wildlife documentary.

Billy could basically hear it, the slow, posh drawl of Sir David Attenborough observing a pack of zealous lads, dressed in varying shades of the same Zara shorts. A group of girls blubbering gossip between each other like turkeys with a vape in one hand and a Sex on the Beach in the other. All the way down to the 60-odd year old regular who hated all this bollocks and just came for a quiet one like he does any other day, filling it with the illusion of a routine since being newly retired.

That's what he thought as he looked around the Bull's Head Pub. The weather had promised an incredible 18 degrees. In one corner, an underpaid bar staff member delivered a pitcher of Stella Artois to a rowdy group of barely legal lads. Through the doorway to the beer garden, smoke billowed around the glowing, tanned shoulders of the al-fresco types. Conversations and laughter carried by the scent of a barbeque a few doors down the road and the blare of some boy racer's Ford Fiesta churning out a tinny version of Vengaboys.

It was well and truly rammed. He'd half been tempted to invite someone out with him for a quick one, and soon, he would wish he had. Instead he'd chanced it on his own. The bar staff barely looked at him as she laid a pint in front of him, the foam spilled over the edge and soaking his forearm. The head was too thick, but Billy didn't care, or rather was too nervous to call it out. He tapped his card and ventured outside, greeted by the inviting wall of warmth, palming his back pocket for his pack of fags.

There was no chance in hell of getting a seat. With a quick sip to relieve the very brim of his pint glass, he found a standing spot close to the exit, and with a sense of relief, stuck the butt of his cigarette between his lips. The brief sense of ease was soon interrupted.

"Billy! Oh my god!"

He had never been good at schooling his expressions, his mum told him so when she told him how easy it was to tell when he was lying. He knew that voice, that excited, needy cadence he'd rather forget. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if he could convince himself that no, this wasn't happening, he was in fact not in the Bull's Head about to open his eyes to a woman he ghosted after a one night stand.

But alas, his eyes opened to the side and there she was. Practically bouncing with excitement, eyes all wide and hopeful, like he'd come here to see her specifically.

Right now, he wished he was on the moon.

"Oh…hiya," he muttered, pulling the cigarette from his lips unlit to not seem impolite.

"Fancy seeing you here!" she beamed, "god, how long's it been."

Not long enough. "Oh, uh, dunno," he laughed awkwardly. His eyes couldn't stay still. He scanned the beer garden, almost begging for someone else he knew to save him. That's the thing about coming to the pub on your own at risk of seeing the crazy girl you snuck out on months ago. Nobody to be your saviour when she sinks her claws in.

"Must be, what, a few months?" she went on, not waiting for him to answer. "You look well."

"Yeah. Cheers," Billy said, scratching the back of his neck. He glanced down at his pint like it might suddenly offer him an exit strategy, "you an’ all."

Fuck, why did I say that, now she's gonna think—

"Didn’t think I’d ever bump into you again, if I’m honest," she rocked slightly on her heels, hands clasped behind her back like she was trying to look casual.

"Mm," he hummed, taking a sip just to have something to do with his mouth.

At the silence, he expected her to at least make an excuse, but she didn't leave.

"So… you here on your own, yeah?" she asked, tilting her head.

"Yeah. Just—quick one," he said quickly, already half turning his body away like that might end it. "Won’t be long. I'm actually just about to go—"

"You’ve got a full pint," she pointed out.

"Yeah I've just—got work dead early tomorrow morning—"

"I could keep you company if you want!" she offered, "my mates are inside anyway, they’re doing my head in."

She was edging closer to the empty spot beside him.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

"And, I mean," she went on, "after last time… feels a bit rude to just—"

Billy’s entire body tensed. "Yeah, let’s maybe not—"

"—you know," she continued anyway, smiling, "wake up and you’re just gone. Thought I’d scared you off or something."

"You didn’t—" he started, already flustered, running a hand over his face. "It weren’t like that, I just—"

"So I reckon you owe me at least one drink—"

"There you are."

A woman stood there, about his age, maybe even a year or two older, one hand resting lightly on the ledge beside him like she’d always belonged there. She gave him a small smile, then lifted herself to her toes to press a quick kiss to his cheek.

"You were meant to text me when you got here," she said, like it was an ongoing conversation. Like they knew each other, and had done all this time. He just hoped this car crash of an abandoned one night stand didn't see the shock in his eyes.

Billy blinked. "I—"

"Sorry," she said, turning to the other girl with a polite but pointed look, masked with a smile. "Didn’t realise he’d found someone to chat to."

The girl froze, hovering awkwardly. "Oh— I— sorry, I didn’t—"

"It’s alright," the woman said smoothly, her hand brushing against his arm like it was second nature. "He’s terrible for it. Wanders off, forgets he’s got a girlfriend waiting."

Billy stared at her, completely thrown, but she didn’t even look at him, just reached for his pint and took a casual sip. If he weren't so frozen, he'd have been offended. Pints aren't cheap these days.

The girl’s expression shifted, something like embarrassment flickering across her face. "Right. Yeah. I didn’t know."

An awkward silence dropped like a brick.

"Well," the girl said, straightening up quickly, "I’ll… leave you to it then."

"Cheers," Billy muttered automatically, still trying to catch up with what the hell was happening.

She gave him one last look, half annoyed and half sheepish, then turned and made a quick escape back inside. Billy watched her go for a second, then slowly turned his head towards the woman beside him.

"…what…the fuck?" he said.

She finally looked at him, raising an eyebrow, completely unfazed. "You’re welcome."

He let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "Sorry, who are you?"

"Calm down," she said, taking another sip of his drink like she owned it. "You looked like you were about two seconds from jumping the fence."

"…I was considering it," he admitted.

"Yeah, well," she shrugged, nudging the pint back into his hand, "no need now, is there?"

He stood like a pillock, pint rapidly losing its bite in his hand with the condensation running over his knuckles. If he weren't so self aware in this moment his mouth would have been agape, catching flies. Was this a dream, he needed to pinch himself.

"Well, if the weather didn't cure my seasonal depression, that's done the job."

She hummed with a tilted, almost devious smile on her lips. Her head gestured loosely behind, "who was that, then? A failed conquest?"

"Something along those lines," he scoffed lightly.

"Wouldn't pin you for the type."

He drew his brows together, leaning sideways on so he could see her straight on. At this angle, the perfect, glowing orange line of the sun through the fence slid past the side of her face, down her neck.

"What type is that, then?"

Her eyes lit up like he'd taken the bait, "the type to run out on a girl before she's woken up."

Billy felt the small bead of sweat slide down his face from his temple, his lips parted to take in breath as if flustered suddenly by her. Her eyes traced the moist line it left behind on his face briefly, but no disgust passed her features, her eyes simply traced back to his blue ones, a faint lifting of her lips showing him she was delighted in how she made him feel.

"Drink?" she asked with a raised eyebrow, "reckon you owe me one, for saving you and all."

His heart fluttered, and a near-boyish smile threatened to break across his face. Something dipped in his stomach at the cheeky tone of her voice. Like they had known each other for ages.

Ten minutes later, after braving the bar a second time, a cocktail was placed into her hands and he watched her take a short, introductory sip. Conversation continued easily, despite Billy having seen the aforementioned one-night-stand slip away about half an hour ago. He had wanted to say that she didn't have to stay and talk to him anymore, that she didn't have to waste her breath talking to a guy like him. She'd done her good deed. But the more they spoke, and every now and then, when he said something that made her tip her head back and laugh, that little burrow of self-consciousness began to slowly fade away.

And somewhere between pint two and her finishing the cocktail, she became really pretty. Well— she was always pretty, it's just he was only now dwelling on it.

She raised her near-empty glass, "good choice, this. Two more of these and I'll be texting people I shouldn't."

Billy smirked lazily into his pint. "That so?"

"Oh yeah," she nodded solemnly. "Absolutely humiliating behaviour. One time I had this ex blocked, so I actually e-mailed him to tell him I missed him. E-mail! Who does that."

"You did not e-mail him…" he said blankly.

"I know," she groaned, covering her face briefly. There was a faint, hot flush to her cheeks as she hid her expression away for a moment, one Billy was no doubt sharing as he felt the sting of a sunburn under his eyes. Alcohol buzzed through his blood, and whatever pain was beginning to bloom from sun exposure was soon extinguished. Interrupted by her addictive presence.

The moment the sun faltered behind a house in the distance, her eyes snapped up. It was getting dark, and she was clearly surprised how much time had passed since she'd saved his wounded pride. Billy's heart hammered, shit, he didn't want this to end. Not one bit. His lips parted just as hers did. She's gonna say 'I should go home' or 'thanks for tonight, it's been fun' and he couldn't let her. Whatever came out his mouth was so quick his brain didn't even catch up to the words.

"Do you want to come to mine."

A sentence uttered so quick, he was surprised she even understood him. Her eyebrows lifted slightly, and he immediately felt the crawl of heat up the back of his neck. He cleared his throat, blinking away as if he was suddenly unable to look at her directly, more interested in the circle of moisture his glass had left behind on the ledge. "I mean— you don't have to. Obviously." He gave a short, embarrassed laugh at himself, "that sounded a bit—"

"Fast?" she offered, amused, but not mean or teasing.

"Yeah," he breathed, all the confidence suddenly evaporating.

The beer garden had thinned out around them. Now instead of loud chatter he could hide within, he could only hear the rustle of the warm, summer wind against the grass, and the low music easing through the outdoor speakers.

"I just meant," he started, talking too much because it was better than suffering in silence he immediately perceived as rejection, "we could carry on talking. If you wanted to."

Her grin widened, "thought you 'had work early' tomorrow."

Billy shut his eyes briefly. "Right."

She let out a breathy laugh, "you're a terrible liar, you know. She saw right through that."

His blue eyes sparkled, alcohol fuelling his boyish cheek, "well, good job my schedule freed up when you came along, eh."

The teasing in her expression flickered slightly at that. Dangerous territory now. He could see it in her eyes, the slight dilation of her pupils. She grabbed her bag, slinging the strap over one shoulder.

"Suppose I should make sure you don’t get cornered by any more emotionally attached women."

"Very noble of you."

She winked, and if he were sat down, his knees would have buckled. He even righted too quickly, banging his elbow against the ledge and sending the glasses rattling. But she didn't comment, she'd done plenty of teasing tonight. She followed him at his side out the beer garden and he was suddenly unsure what to do with his hands, so he simply shoved them in his pockets, heat rising up his neck to his ears.

It was mercifully a short walk to his flat. Had anyone seen his face, they'd think she was leading him to the back to the firing squad.

"You suddenly look terrified again."

His head whipped to her, caught out. At his full height he had to look down at her a fair bit. Think of something, Billy, quick. "Just trying to work out if my flat’s clean."

"Ah." She nodded sympathetically. "A universal male experience."

"It’s tidy-ish."

She crossed her arms across her chest. With the sun beginning to set, the chill caught her shoulders a bit. "How tidy we talking."

"There may be clothes on a chair."

"One chair or the chair?"

"Do women have the chair too?"

By the time they reached his building, talking had become effortless again. Easy smiles. Gentle nudges of shoulders. The kind of warmth that made him feel lighter than he had in months. At the front door, Billy fumbled his keys twice before getting the right one in. The nervous energy was quite sweet. Like it was his first day on earth.

He immediately regretted his confidence in telling her his flat was 'tidy-ish' the moment he stepped in. Billy was suddenly hyper-aware of the toppled pile of shoes near his door, the dirty plates in the sink, and the way the floor leading into the living room seemed cluttered with charging cables and a few wayward socks. Embarrassed heat rose further up the nape of his neck, he half-thought of sacking it off altogether, but she was already inside, politely pulling off her trainers as he presumed she did entering any stranger's home.

He rubbed the back of his neck, so high strung that he forgot to even take off his own shoes as he turned to the small kitchen, frantically trying to stack the dirty tea mugs into the sink without breaking one of them. She tried not to watch, but couldn't help but pull her lips together to stop smiling, seeing that her presence had the same effect on him as it had several hours ago. She leaned against the kitchen doorway, looking around. She’d seen plenty of lads’ places, some absolute dives. This one wasn’t bad, all things considered. A bit messy, lived-in, but not grim.

"You can breathe, you know. I’m not gonna bite…unless you ask nicely."

Billy froze mid-reach for another mug, ears going pink. He let out a breathy laugh that was more nerves than humour. "Yeah, sorry. I’m shit at this. Been a while since I brought anyone back here. Can I… get you a drink or something? I’ve got beer. Or tea. Or— fuck, I don’t even know if I’ve got milk."

There was something strangely endearing about how undone he was. Most lads at the pub had been loud, cocky, trying too hard. And here Billy was, all broad shoulders and barely-contained panic in his own kitchen, and she found herself liking it more than she expected.

She laughed through her nose and pushed off the wall, picking a piece of fluff off his shirt that wasn't even there, just an excuse to get closer to him. She could smell some sort of Lynx on him. No doubt he'd doused himself in it before coming out.

"I don’t want a drink, Billy," she whispered, watching the confusion spread across his face for a moment before leaning up on her tip toes, not giving him time to blurt out an answer, and slid her hand to the back of his neck to pull him down to her lips. At first it was slow, as if she was testing how much he'd be into it, but slowly her lips moulded against his so perfectly that she felt his shoulders relax, a shaky exhale and his hands raising from his sides to hover over her body. A low, broken sound rumbled in Billy’s throat as he melted instantly, all that nervous energy dissolving under the slow press of her mouth.

Her lips were skilled as she worked his to her own rhythm, her gentle tongue easing his apart to taste the remnants of beer, malty and deep, and right now, indulgent. Her fingers curled into the damp strands of dark blonde at his neck, and she smirked against his lips at the barely contained whimper he couldn't quite keep to himself. Confidence soared through Billy's blood, assisted by Dutch courage, and his hands splayed against her waist, pulling her towards him slightly to feel the soft press of her breasts against his chest.

Her other hand on his chest twisted into his shirt, encouraging his body towards her as she walked backwards, her back meeting the wall of the kitchen with a soft thud. She kept Billy close to her, mouths moving more insistently now as their need spiked.

She inhaled sharply as she felt his fingers at the hem of her skirt, feeling electric against the bare skin of her thigh.

Their lips broke briefly for Billy to whisper, 'this alright?'. And she felt her cheeks flush at the gentle charm of him simply asking. She nodded eagerly, her hand coming down to his to encourage this behaviour she enjoyed so much.

Billy's foot nudged hers, widening her legs so his knee could slip between them, and she exhaled softly as she craned her neck for his lips to graze the sensitive skin there. With her eyes fluttering shut, his hand slid beneath the hem and found her warm centre.

He was slow, almost gentle in his approach, his fingers coaxing her core to life through her underwear. She could feel that tightening in her gut and the rush of arousal heading south where he was so perfectly touching her, right as he captured her lips again to swallow her quiet whine. The thick pads of his fingers teased her entrance before hooking through the gusset, pulling it aside so he could feel her bare slickness against his skin. Billy almost groaned into her mouth, she was so wet. And she met that needy sound with a small, breathy smirk.

"You're being so gentle…" she teased breathily.

Billy pulled back just enough to look at her. A crooked, half-shy smile tugged at his lips, but his voice was rough when he answered. "Yeah? You want me to stop being gentle?"

A spark of excitement ran through her at that. She rather liked this tipsy, slightly confident side of him. A half-shocked, breathy laugh escaped her lips, but it cut off instantly as two thick fingers slid into her effortlessly, stretching her open in one smooth, deliberate push. The sudden fullness pulled a soft, needy gasp from her throat. "Oh fuck…" she breathed, eyes fluttering.

He held them deep for a long moment, savouring the way she pulsed around him, before he began to move. She could tell his mind was on his movements the entire time, as if wondering when he'd fuck it up. But like this, she's not sure he ever could have. Tentatively, his thumb grazed her small bundle of nerves, by accident at first, but when he felt the velvet of her walls pull him in every time he did, he doubled his efforts, building that delicious pressure higher and higher.

His own breath hitched when he felt her bold fingers at the zipper of his jeans, not wanting to make him feel left out of course. The bulge there was unmistakable, straining against the denim. She palmed him through the fabric first, squeezing gently, feeling him twitch under her touch.

With a small, wicked smile, she tugged at the zip, slipped her hand inside and past the waistband of his boxers, and wrapped her fingers around his cock. He was hot and heavy in her grip as she began to stroke him confidently from base to tip, twisting her wrist on the upstroke in a move that sent electricity right up his spine.

"Jesus Christ…" Billy muttered, voice strained, forehead dropping to rest against hers. His fingers faltered inside her for a second as she pumped him with long, sensual strokes, spreading the wetness at his tip down his length. Their hips rolled into each others touch, chasing that delicious sensation over and over.

She kept stroking him steadily, matching the pace of his fingers inside her, squeezing a little tighter when his thumb pressed firmer against her clit. Billy’s hips jerked forward into her fist, a low, guttural sound rumbling in his chest, one that made her smile knowingly that she was driving him to the brink, insane.

She felt his stomach muscles clench, his breathing grow ragged as she stroked him more insistently, throbbing in her palm. He was close and she could feel it. But before she could relish in the wicked thrill of making him cum before her, his other hand grabbed her wrist to stop her.

"Fuck— wait," he gasped, voice tight with restraint.

He didn’t explain. He didn’t pull her hand away completely either. He simply held her wrist firmly against his lower stomach, her fingers still curled loosely around the base of his cock, feeling every frantic throb while he kept her there.

A flicker of confusion passed her until Billy prodded a third finger into her. The stretch was instant but welcome, and she near melted at the feeling, impossibly full. His palm pressed firmly against her clit with every slow thrust, grinding in tight, slick circles that sent sparks across her vision.

"Billy…" she whimpered, the sound broken and needy.

The wet, obscene sounds of his hand working between her thighs grew louder, slick and filthy in the quiet flat. The pleasure built fast and heavy, coiling tight in her belly. Her thighs started to shake around his knee, her free hand clutching desperately at his shoulder. She couldn’t protest. She couldn’t even think. All she could do was moan softly against his shoulder as the orgasm crashed over her without warning.

She clenched violently around his fingers as he rode the wave with her, her lips parted with a broken cry, muffled into his shirt. She grinded against every curve of his fingers, drawing it out as long as she could until her vision blurred and her knees felt like nothing.

Billy groaned low at the feeling as if it were giving him just as much satisfaction, his grip on her wrist tightened as he held her close, savouring every gasp and tremble like it was his reward. Only when her body finally began to relax, slick walls still fluttering around him, did he slowly ease his three fingers out of her.

She let out a shaky exhale at the loss, her body still buzzing. For a moment she just leaned against the wall, trying to catch her breath, cheeks burning hot.

"Why didn’t you let me…" she asked breathily, her voice husky and a little dazed, glancing down at where her hand still rested against him.

Billy swallowed hard, perspiration shimmered against his temples, turning his sandy blonde hair darker. "I was gonna come."

So matter of fact.

She let out a soft, breathless laugh, "that's kind of the point, Billy?"

He gave her a crooked smile, looking almost shy and disarmingly sweet. "Yeah, but if I did… then I can’t… after," he mumbled, ears going red.

"Oh? So there’s an after, is there?"

Billy huffed, half embarrassed and turned on at the same time as the colour of his cheeks joined the one at the tips of his ears.

"…Yeah?" he said, hopeful and a little uncertain, like he was still half-expecting her to change her mind.

She grinned, sliding her hand up to rest against his chest. "Good. Because I’m in your flat this time, so you can’t slip out on me like you probably do after a pint and a chat."

His face lit up, baby blue eyes turning a shade brighter with the relief and genuine happiness. He looked younger like that, all sweet and excited like he'd won the lottery by keeping her here with him.

Without another word, he bent slightly, slid one arm under her thighs and the other around her back, and lifted her effortlessly. She let out a surprised little laugh as her legs wrapped around his waist, her arms looping around his neck. He carried her out of the kitchen and down the short hallway, his mouth brushing lazy kisses along her jaw the whole way.

He nudged the bedroom door open with his shoulder and gently deposited her onto the bed, following her down so his body hovered over hers. The mattress dipped under their combined weight, sheets cool against her heated skin.

Her eyes met his above her, hair fanned out against his bedsheets. Billy couldn't have come up with a better view if he'd tried.

A proper smile broke across Billy's face, warm and boyish. He leaned in and kissed her once, slow and tender, before murmuring against her lips, "as if I ever would."

Your stomach feels in knots, churning the heavy pit you feel each step you take, worsening each step into the night- feeling more like you are stepping to execution rather than the familiar fields you frolicked as a girl.

The stables come into view and you swither in your steps, feet digging into the ground as shame builds and works its way up your neck, so sickening that you have clench your eyes shut and pinch your forearms till it marks your wind whipped skin. A feeble attempt at best to to get the wicked thoughts from your head. 

Just some proof is all, an inkling that even one part of what Cathy saw rings true, then you can go, back where it’s warm, where you can wake your wretched sister and tell Nelly all about her filthy lies. The satisfaction warms your chest enough to quicken your steps. Thats why. It will be to prove her wrong. That’s why you’ve ventured in the cold, her stupid childish stories. Lying to ones own sister like this. What does she take you for. 

You’re women grown but just the sort of thing she’d lie about to tease you, just like when you were girls. So vulgar and far fetched, just something she conjured up to redden your cheeks and scandalise your affections for such an innocent man.

A working man. 

Joseph. Our Joseph.

and Zillah? 

Whips and chains and horse tackle? 

The thought has you huffing with an incredulous smirk as you shove the door open to the darkened stables.

The stable door creaks echoingly loud and you stupidly attempt to shush it as you tiptoe inside. The intrusion has the horses startled - their hooves scuffling against the gates, nickering disapprovingly amongst themselves. A lantern has been left burning, practically near snuffed by the tack wall. Bingo

Padding across the hay littered ground, bare feet scuffing along the hardened cement till you reach the horse tackling, it’s strewn along the wall, hung perfectly but no coherent organisation that you could decipher. In the low light you kneel on the dirty ground to inspect the each part of roughened leather bridles, working left to right along the wall, your knees aching and likely covered in filth when you stand.

Once checked over you carelessly drop them, letting them reverberate back against the hollow stable walls, rattling the chains with a shrill booming shudder till there is just one left to inspect. 

Shivering you pick it up, narrowing your eyes to hold the cheekpiece up to the dimming light again, eyes lazily scanning, feeling foolish for leaving the warmth of your bed for this, thinking of the scolding that you’ll give your sister on the morrow and-

Hold on. 

There it is. 

Bite marks. Distinct and human. 

Your stomach lurches uncomfortably. 

Surely not. You wipe your dirtied hands on your white nightgown, a scattering of dust and filth marking the lace carelessly as you move closer to the lamp, leaning as close as you can, not wanting to believe what you see. 

Then- the wind changes. The stable door flying open with the gust- snuffing out the lamp and completely enveloping you in a shroud of darkness, leaving you isolated with just the pull of worry and something else still churning in your abdomen.

You drop the bridle- the chains ricocheting against the rest with a loud clang. The sound thrumming for a second as your eyes adjust to the darkness. You feel for the wall closest to your left, using it to guide your way back to where the door is, squinting in the dark for the familiar arch. It comes into view but not down to the skill of your own eyesight, it is a light that appears, getting closer along with the sound of humming, out of tune and oh so familiar. 

Joseph bustles his way inside, heavy boots thumping across to where the horses rest, blissfully unaware of your trembling presence hidden in the dark corner. He hangs his lantern and looks over the horses with a furrowed brow, the light reflecting over his angled features so it’s all you can see in the room.

“That you making all that racket in here eh?” he tuts, sucking the air through his teeth disapprovingly.

“Just a bit a’ wind that’s all. you know that.” 

He scoffs, petting the horses with a gentle kind hand before picking up the lantern to head out again, taking a singular step forward toward before he locks eyes with you. 

Your heart is in your throat and you can scarcely exhale, your eyes so wide that you feel the cold wind nipping and drying them, completely frozen to the spot.

The teeth. 

The reigns.

 Zillah. 

The whip. 

The sounds.

All the things Cathy told you hammering in your skull, mocking you right now as you look at him where he stands a foot away. 

He is still completely dressed in his work gear, strange despite the hour and it makes you wonder for a half second if he ever sleeps, how does he find the time with all this? Your head is spinning in fear and shame, eyeing the door like you are ready to bolt.

He edges forward keeping his voice a low slow timbre when he speaks, careful not to spook you like he’d approach a frightened mare. 

“Miss Earnshaw?”

When he draws closer, you instinctively step back, your back hitting the wooden support beam behind you.

When you do not respond, he speaks again, “Was that you making all that noise in here?”

He looks amused, brows furrowed but eyes full of mirth despite his gentle concern. Drawing his gaze downwards, taking in your nightdress. Your filthy nightdress.

“M’ sorry Joseph I could not rest, I was just taking a walk to tire me that’s all. Came in to see the horses.”

You mumble hurriedly under your breath, sweetening your voice for him like you always do when you want something, big eyes blinking up at him. 

Your breath fogs in the cold air, your own lies visible in the air of the dark stable.

He regards you for a moment, gauging the truth of it. Even in the low light, your features are drawn and pale, clearly distressed.

“Restless?" he repeats, his voice crackling gently. “And you didn’t think so put on a pair of proper shoes before your little walk?"

His tone is gently reprimanding—like a disapproving adult to a child. 

"You're shivering," he states matter-of-factly, gaze flicking to your bare feet and to the the damp shawl wrapped tightly around you.

“and I don’t believe you Miss Earnshaw.”

His sneering tone surprises you, despite being scarcely a year younger than him he has always spoken to you with gentle respect, the tone befitting your relationship, nothing more.

But he isn’t working now and the accusation puts fire in your belly, enraging you to be disregarded and caught in your own lies. It stumps you to silence.

He can see your shifting eyes, your attempt to think of a way out, the way you won't hold his gaze. It only reinforces his belief that something is deeply amiss.

His expression doesn't falter, still gentle but unyielding. In a voice laced with quiet authority, he coos,

“No lying now Miss. Why are you in here?”

There is a finality in it that brooks no further argument. His tone ragged and disapproving. 

He steps closer but stops just shy of the tack wall, forcing you to shrink against it even more. 

This he regards with a barely there smug smirk, his stance relaxed yet dominating in the small space. He is deceptively lazy, an act of calculated patience likely chosen to bait you into enlightening him with the truth.

Your blood boils, straightening your back and balancing on the balls of your scuffed feet in a feeble attempt in trying to assert him, shuffling closer to him in the murk, ignoring the heat pooling in your abdomen under his smug holier-than-thou gaze. 

Fists clenching on the dirtied fabric of your nightgown, you sneer. 

“It’s none of your concern what I do. You forget yourself and are being inappropriate Joseph. I’m no liar. you wait till I tell Fath-“

He cuts you off with a stern look before you can finish your snarky attempt to rebuff him. His brows drawn and mouth turned to a frown- unfamiliar and biting on his usually kind face.

“Oh? Inappropriate?”

He repeats the word as though tasting it, a dark eyebrow lifting faintly as he looks you up and down. A ghost of amusement flickers through his expression. You're trying to reassert authority, remind him that you're a young lady of status compared to him. It's an attempt to gain leverage and it falls flat instantaneously. 

He tilts his head slightly, one side of his mouth curving up to a crooked smile, faint yet fond in it’s condescension.

"You seem to have wandered out into the open moor at night in little more than your shift. I'm not sure what is appropriate holds any sway over either of us at the moment.”

He points out towards the open stable door- towards your home as it sits in the fog.

"And just what will you tell your father then? That I caught you out here half-naked? Perhaps hiding a lover….hm?” 

He peers behind you in the shadow of the stable just to irk you further, as if really checking for some fiend to be hiding in the hay with you. 

Your body burns from the tips of your toes to the flush of your cheeks with pure scandalised horror, outraged you spin on your heel and stomp out into the night air. 

He doesn’t follow right away. Lets you go. An amused huff parting his mouth as he watches you distance from the stable. Not for long though, slow and deliberate, he steps after you, letting the heavy barn door creak shut behind him.

The lantern light faraway and darkness shrouding him as he moves deeper into the shadows, unfazed by your little tantrum.

His steps are quiet, catching up with you with ease while you catch your breath in the doorway of the kitchen you had left swinging open before.

From behind, his voice comes low and even,

“I won’t tell your father a word. Not if you tell me the truth girl.”

He steps closer, you hear the scuffle of his mucky boots. 

“Now. Miss Earnshaw.”

His stern voice sends a shiver through you that has little to do with the cold wind. A familiar ache in the pit of your abdomen overcomes you so suddenly you fear if you turn around it will be written all over your face.

A sharp retort wells up as you turn but it dies under his piercing gaze.

This close, it's almost impossible to look away,  his eyes an enchanting blue, glimmering in the moonlight, if those eyes weren’t gazing at you with such disapproval you’d be likely to stand there frozen in the sapphire depths all night. 

His stance, though not oppressive, dominates the moor- even in the open field you feel just as you did when he cornered you in the stable, like an animal, ready to bite and scratch your way out.

But you don’t. You find yourself explaining, however irritated and sheepish you sound.

“Cathy told me some story.. she saw you and Zillah in there..doin’.. things.” 

You nod towards the barn half heartedly, unable to meet his eyes. 

He catches it immediately, interest peaked. 

“Hey! Fweet!” he whistles like he would to a disobedient mare, tipping your chin up with his leather clad hand to meet his furrowed eyeline.

His touch doesn’t linger but you feel it’s authority even as it’s gone- the whistle straightened your back immediately- frustratingly so that he could work you just like one of his animals. 

“Look at me when you’re talking eh? Manners..What’s that Cathy sayin’ about me then eh?” 

The corner of his mouth tightens slightly, surprise mingled with wariness. Peering into every micro-expression you give him, his eyes flickering with something, a smug kind of cockiness as he awaits your response. He studies you, the defiant tilt of your chin, the set of your jaw. 

It's as though your resolve only spurs his questions, his interest piqued by your defiance. 

His eyes sparkle as they hold yours. 

"What things were we doing?” 

His tone is gentler now- like it was when he found you in the darkness. Cooing and leading you into this temporary sense of ease.

It excites you, the way he could manipulate your feelings.

Your words. Your attitude. It equally terrified and aroused you.

“You were- um. Playing with the tack.”

You fail to suppress a smirk as the words leave your mouth. Your voice wavering on a half laugh. You couldn't help it, it felt so serious before in your own head but verbalising it to him felt childish. The words fizzle out of your mouth with that coy smile.

But when you look up once again to meet his gaze he’s not impressed.

“Oh? S’funny is it?”

He crowds you- his breath warming your weather battered cheeks.

His scent filling your lungs, the smoky scent of hay and dirt mixed with the sweat and grime from his long days work. It should repulse you. It should make you sick but you hang onto his every word- wide eyed eyes stinging, afraid to blink even as the wind pricks at them.

“You found it so funny you wanted to come out and see for yourself? Dressed like a fucking..whore. What? to laugh?”

He nips at you. Lazing over his words because he knows he has you right in his clutches anyway, his curses slow and dripping with (false?) contempt.

It’s as if someone has poured ice into your veins.

All leverage you thought you had of the situation out the door. Or more appropriately out into the biting cold of the moor. He’s not as dense as you were hoping.

You have to clench your thighs hard under your skirt, the pulsing between your legs crying for the barest pressure as he scolds you.

He’s right of course. You were hoping you’d find him out here. Part of you hoped Cathy hadn’t lied. That Joseph wasn’t the pious working man everyone thought he was. Not only did you hit the bingo you’ve summoned your very own wicked & perverted dreams into fruition.

You stare at him unable to work up a single syllable, clearly surprised by his outburst but waiting patiently for what? more? This seems to irk him further.

He grabs your wrist. Hard. Yanking you forward, trailing you back into the darkened stables while you can only follow dizzily.

Eyes trained on his broadened strong back. Your steps are clumsy in your desperation, your depraved mind already trailing off to your sweetened memories of how this view differs in the height of summer, as he is throwing hay bales across the barn…bare- his sweat and muscle rippling in the heat.

He manhandles you into the centre of the tack wall once again, scowling once he realises he still hasn’t shocked you into a response.

Your eyes just as dreamily unfocused as before. Looking at him with that same expectant half smirking look- he’s not happy.

"Stay there." he spits, stalking off behind you to fetch the tack- returning with the same bite imprinted bridle you found before.

When he turns back to you- running the leather through his fingers he regards you greedily- your pert nipples through your nightgown, your oh-so-soft thighs on display.

You feel sick with your impatience but still unwilling to stoop so low to beg for his affections.

Yet.

He broaches into your space now, while you stand obediently- exactly how he told you to- cold feet shifting on the solid ground. The whistle of the wind rattling through the stable is the only noise you can hear- the only thing you can try to focus on besides him.

“Chilly? Poor thing.” he murmurs, nosing around you- observing you with clinical precision in the murk.

His voice has that soft coo to it again- he’s so hot and cold that you don’t quite know where you stand- the way he’s fiddling with the tack like it’s a threat yet talking so softly. So sweetly.

“Yeah..s’cold Joseph. What are you doing?” you mumble at last, eyeing the door like you’d be discovered- by who- Nelly? Cathy?

You haven’t done anything to be ashamed of but the arousal burning in your belly makes you feel dirty all the same.

“What am I doing?” He laughs like the answer is obvious.

“This is what you wanted isn’t it?” He leans down to your level- close enough to feel his warmth- for you to see the sprinkling of chest hair peeking through his neckline, the curve of his angled mouth as he leans closer.

And closer.

His nose grazing yours now.

The breath leaves your lungs in a flurry of excitement- standing on your toes to meet his mouth when he suddenly pulls back with a cruel laugh.

“Kisses? Tut Tut. No I don’t quite think so Miss Earnshaw.”

With a sudden Thwack he slaps the meat of your thigh with the tough leather bridle making you gasp in indignant disbelief.

“Joseph!” you squeal, biting your cheek to suppress the pleased smile that creeps on your face, the sting of the smack setting your blood aflame- your pearl fluttering and pulsing immediately.

He repeats the action in the exact same spot with a self satisfied grin, making you cry out again.

“You want me to stop?” he teases- gently rubbing his warm hand over the nipping reddened skin. His words have you dumbfounded and quiet again.

“Tell me what you want then hm? Tell me how inappropriate I am. Where’s that attitude gone from earlier?”

He sounds disappointed and if it weren’t for that smile on his face you’d believe it.

“Don’t know...”

You gulp, looking back down at the curve of his mouth with hazy- poorly disguised need.

Another Thwack- higher up this time, the pained sound that escapes your mouth sounding closer to a whorish whine.

This seems to amuse him enough for his teeth to peek out when he smiles cruelly. His canines sharp, reflecting prominently in the lamplight. How you wish you could feel the scrape of them on your tongue. Your neck. Your thigh..

“I think you do know baby. I think if I felt under that filthy dress of yours you’d be fucking soaked. Sound about right?”

Caught.

You’re too caught up and needy to keep lying and you nod instantaneously. The pet name doing nothing to help ease your want for him.

“Oh such a good girl. Finally being honest. Give me your hands Baby. Keep being good and listen.”

Doing as you are told he takes your outstretched hands and fastens them into the bridle at the wrists, barely moment of realisation passes through you before he hooks you onto the ceiling beam with expert precision, effectively holding you in the spot.

“Och’t so pretty!”

He rubs his hands together to heat them before cupping your cheeks and pressing a kiss to your gaped surprised mouth. The kiss is achingly slow and wet- intentionally teasing, straining your raised arms in desperation to wrap around him, keep him close. The chains rattle when you instinctively try and he pulls back immediately.

He circles you a couple times before slowly lifting the hem of your skirts- grazing his warm hands over your arse, now bared for him. He doesn’t comment on your lack of underclothes but you can hear the hitch in his breathing from behind you.

His hands so so fucking close to where you need him.

“Joseph..”

You whine, desperate for attention, desperate for anything he will give you.

And what you get is a hard smack right on your arse.

Another to follow for good measure.

“Be patient.”

He sucks the air through his teeth when you moan. Angling his strong arm around your middle to hold you steady before sliding his other hand through your backside and down towards your aching wetness. He feels his way through your folds with precision- soaking his hand with what he finds.

His hips press against your arse at the angle and you can feel the unmistakable pressure of his hardness through his breeches. It has you throbbing right where he can feel, pulsing right on his fingers as little whimpers leave your mouth in your vulnerable desperation. Completely at his mercy.

He seems to take pity on you, circling his fingers on your pearl with the pressure you’ve been needing. Shushing you gently and talking you through the sharp pleasure.

“There she is. Take what I give you. Good girl- oh good girl.” his voice is a near rasp now. Circling his own hips so slightly onto you to relieve his own pressure.

Instinctively you buck your hips, a girlish whine escaping your mouth as you work yourself through the pressure of his fingers and back to press onto his aching cock.

Bad decision.

He pulls his hand away just to spank you directly onto your aching cunt and you wail in frustration.

“Don’t be greedy!”

He snaps. letting you go completely for a moment- your arms rattling above your head- the wind seeping between your legs and cooling your heat.

He grabs your chin, forcing his wet fingers into your mouth- fucking them into your throat- the tang of your own arousal coating your tongue and there’s not much you can do but take it. Gladly.

Once he’s satisfied he releases them from your mouth with a questioning look.

“You gonna listen this time?”

“Mhmmm!”

The immediate way you agree seems to charm him and he returns his hand between your legs- front facing this time so he can watch the needy expressions on your face.

His hand strokes and rocks between your legs, coaxing your pleasure from you slowly, building you back up to that tight pressure he had you feeling moments ago. His long lithe middle finger slipping further down and filling you sudden and unexpectedly- his ring finger soon joining.

The sensation of being filled while the heel of his palm rocks against your sensitive pearl is almost too much, your bottom lip is red raw from biting back all your needy moans but you don’t waste your energy on feeling ashamed anymore.

Needy little uh..uh..uh’s are slipping from your slacked jaw, accompanying the wet sounds of your own slick arousal as he fills you.

“Look at me baby? Keep that pretty mouth open.” he smirks- giving you a moment before spitting straight into your mouth- the wetness dripping down your chin despite your attempts to swallow it down. Your lips glossy with it in your efforts.

“Messy girl..” he laughs taking his free hand to palm and rub against his aching cock shamelessly over his clothes as he fingers into you.

Your eyes follow the movement greedily and the desperation to be filled- properly filled by him comes over you feral and more than you can take.

“Please Joseph..”

You whine looking at it desperately, you can practically feel it already- every ridge and vein as he’d notch his way inside you- filling you up. Making him feel so good. You’re so close, vision blurring as you beg.

The pleasure drunk look on his face twists.

He takes his hand away completely and you squeal- the sound echoing through the barn- probably out in the fields too. Being dropped from such pleasure when it had just began to peak makes your cunt clench rhythmically into itself- aching.

“Bad girl.” he huffs.

He cups your jaw- the wet scent of your arousal mocking you now so close to your face.

“Greedy girls get nothing.”

He unbuckles your wrists from the restrains leaving you stood sheepish, thighs trembling, eyes burning in frustration and shock.

“No no no wait please I’m sorry!”

In a moment of desperation you clutch his shirt in your sweaty palms. Lip quivering.

Heartbroken he thinks. To not get your own way for once.

Spoilt thing.

He almost feels bad. Giving you a slow kiss on your pouting lips before turning his back and walking out. Leaving you standing at the tack wall right where he found you.

—

Your stomach feels in knots, churning the heavy pit you feel each step you take, worsening each step into the night- feeling more like you are stepping to execution rather than the familiar fields you frolicked as a girl.

The stables come into view and you swither in your steps, feet digging into the ground as shame builds and works its way up your neck, so sickening that you have clench your eyes shut and pinch your forearms till it marks your wind whipped skin. A feeble attempt at best to to get the wicked thoughts from your head. 

Just some proof is all, an inkling that even one part of what Cathy saw rings true, then you can go, back where it’s warm, where you can wake your wretched sister and tell Nelly all about her filthy lies. The satisfaction warms your chest enough to quicken your steps. Thats why. It will be to prove her wrong. That’s why you’ve ventured in the cold, her stupid childish stories. Lying to ones own sister like this. What does she take you for. 

You’re women grown but just the sort of thing she’d lie about to tease you, just like when you were girls. So vulgar and far fetched, just something she conjured up to redden your cheeks and scandalise your affections for such an innocent man.

A working man. 

Joseph. Our Joseph.

and Zillah? 

Whips and chains and horse tackle? 

The thought has you huffing with an incredulous smirk as you shove the door open to the darkened stables.

The stable door creaks echoingly loud and you stupidly attempt to shush it as you tiptoe inside. The intrusion has the horses startled - their hooves scuffling against the gates, nickering disapprovingly amongst themselves. A lantern has been left burning, practically near snuffed by the tack wall. Bingo

Padding across the hay littered ground, bare feet scuffing along the hardened cement till you reach the horse tackling, it’s strewn along the wall, hung perfectly but no coherent organisation that you could decipher. In the low light you kneel on the dirty ground to inspect the each part of roughened leather bridles, working left to right along the wall, your knees aching and likely covered in filth when you stand.

Once checked over you carelessly drop them, letting them reverberate back against the hollow stable walls, rattling the chains with a shrill booming shudder till there is just one left to inspect. 

Shivering you pick it up, narrowing your eyes to hold the cheekpiece up to the dimming light again, eyes lazily scanning, feeling foolish for leaving the warmth of your bed for this, thinking of the scolding that you’ll give your sister on the morrow and-

Hold on. 

There it is. 

Bite marks. Distinct and human. 

Your stomach lurches uncomfortably. 

Surely not. You wipe your dirtied hands on your white nightgown, a scattering of dust and filth marking the lace carelessly as you move closer to the lamp, leaning as close as you can, not wanting to believe what you see. 

Then- the wind changes. The stable door flying open with the gust- snuffing out the lamp and completely enveloping you in a shroud of darkness, leaving you isolated with just the pull of worry and something else still churning in your abdomen.

You drop the bridle- the chains ricocheting against the rest with a loud clang. The sound thrumming for a second as your eyes adjust to the darkness. You feel for the wall closest to your left, using it to guide your way back to where the door is, squinting in the dark for the familiar arch. It comes into view but not down to the skill of your own eyesight, it is a light that appears, getting closer along with the sound of humming, out of tune and oh so familiar. 

Joseph bustles his way inside, heavy boots thumping across to where the horses rest, blissfully unaware of your trembling presence hidden in the dark corner. He hangs his lantern and looks over the horses with a furrowed brow, the light reflecting over his angled features so it’s all you can see in the room.

“That you making all that racket in here eh?” he tuts, sucking the air through his teeth disapprovingly.

“Just a bit a’ wind that’s all. you know that.” 

He scoffs, petting the horses with a gentle kind hand before picking up the lantern to head out again, taking a singular step forward toward before he locks eyes with you. 

Your heart is in your throat and you can scarcely exhale, your eyes so wide that you feel the cold wind nipping and drying them, completely frozen to the spot.

The teeth. 

The reigns.

 Zillah. 

The whip. 

The sounds.

All the things Cathy told you hammering in your skull, mocking you right now as you look at him where he stands a foot away. 

He is still completely dressed in his work gear, strange despite the hour and it makes you wonder for a half second if he ever sleeps, how does he find the time with all this? Your head is spinning in fear and shame, eyeing the door like you are ready to bolt.

He edges forward keeping his voice a low slow timbre when he speaks, careful not to spook you like he’d approach a frightened mare. 

“Miss Earnshaw?”

When he draws closer, you instinctively step back, your back hitting the wooden support beam behind you.

When you do not respond, he speaks again, “Was that you making all that noise in here?”

He looks amused, brows furrowed but eyes full of mirth despite his gentle concern. Drawing his gaze downwards, taking in your nightdress. Your filthy nightdress.

“M’ sorry Joseph I could not rest, I was just taking a walk to tire me that’s all. Came in to see the horses.”

You mumble hurriedly under your breath, sweetening your voice for him like you always do when you want something, big eyes blinking up at him. 

Your breath fogs in the cold air, your own lies visible in the air of the dark stable.

He regards you for a moment, gauging the truth of it. Even in the low light, your features are drawn and pale, clearly distressed.

“Restless?" he repeats, his voice crackling gently. “And you didn’t think so put on a pair of proper shoes before your little walk?"

His tone is gently reprimanding—like a disapproving adult to a child. 

"You're shivering," he states matter-of-factly, gaze flicking to your bare feet and to the the damp shawl wrapped tightly around you.

“and I don’t believe you Miss Earnshaw.”

His sneering tone surprises you, despite being scarcely a year younger than him he has always spoken to you with gentle respect, the tone befitting your relationship, nothing more.

But he isn’t working now and the accusation puts fire in your belly, enraging you to be disregarded and caught in your own lies. It stumps you to silence.

He can see your shifting eyes, your attempt to think of a way out, the way you won't hold his gaze. It only reinforces his belief that something is deeply amiss.

His expression doesn't falter, still gentle but unyielding. In a voice laced with quiet authority, he coos,

“No lying now Miss. Why are you in here?”

There is a finality in it that brooks no further argument. His tone ragged and disapproving. 

He steps closer but stops just shy of the tack wall, forcing you to shrink against it even more. 

This he regards with a barely there smug smirk, his stance relaxed yet dominating in the small space. He is deceptively lazy, an act of calculated patience likely chosen to bait you into enlightening him with the truth.

Your blood boils, straightening your back and balancing on the balls of your scuffed feet in a feeble attempt in trying to assert him, shuffling closer to him in the murk, ignoring the heat pooling in your abdomen under his smug holier-than-thou gaze. 

Fists clenching on the dirtied fabric of your nightgown, you sneer. 

“It’s none of your concern what I do. You forget yourself and are being inappropriate Joseph. I’m no liar. you wait till I tell Fath-“

He cuts you off with a stern look before you can finish your snarky attempt to rebuff him. His brows drawn and mouth turned to a frown- unfamiliar and biting on his usually kind face.

“Oh? Inappropriate?”

He repeats the word as though tasting it, a dark eyebrow lifting faintly as he looks you up and down. A ghost of amusement flickers through his expression. You're trying to reassert authority, remind him that you're a young lady of status compared to him. It's an attempt to gain leverage and it falls flat instantaneously. 

He tilts his head slightly, one side of his mouth curving up to a crooked smile, faint yet fond in it’s condescension.

"You seem to have wandered out into the open moor at night in little more than your shift. I'm not sure what is appropriate holds any sway over either of us at the moment.”

He points out towards the open stable door- towards your home as it sits in the fog.

"And just what will you tell your father then? That I caught you out here half-naked? Perhaps hiding a lover….hm?” 

He peers behind you in the shadow of the stable just to irk you further, as if really checking for some fiend to be hiding in the hay with you. 

Your body burns from the tips of your toes to the flush of your cheeks with pure scandalised horror, outraged you spin on your heel and stomp out into the night air. 

He doesn’t follow right away. Lets you go. An amused huff parting his mouth as he watches you distance from the stable. Not for long though, slow and deliberate, he steps after you, letting the heavy barn door creak shut behind him.

The lantern light faraway and darkness shrouding him as he moves deeper into the shadows, unfazed by your little tantrum.

His steps are quiet, catching up with you with ease while you catch your breath in the doorway of the kitchen you had left swinging open before.

From behind, his voice comes low and even,

“I won’t tell your father a word. Not if you tell me the truth girl.”

He steps closer, you hear the scuffle of his mucky boots. 

“Now. Miss Earnshaw.”

His stern voice sends a shiver through you that has little to do with the cold wind. A familiar ache in the pit of your abdomen overcomes you so suddenly you fear if you turn around it will be written all over your face.

A sharp retort wells up as you turn but it dies under his piercing gaze.

This close, it's almost impossible to look away,  his eyes an enchanting blue, glimmering in the moonlight, if those eyes weren’t gazing at you with such disapproval you’d be likely to stand there frozen in the sapphire depths all night. 

His stance, though not oppressive, dominates the moor- even in the open field you feel just as you did when he cornered you in the stable, like an animal, ready to bite and scratch your way out.

But you don’t. You find yourself explaining, however irritated and sheepish you sound.

“Cathy told me some story.. she saw you and Zillah in there..doin’.. things.” 

You nod towards the barn half heartedly, unable to meet his eyes. 

He catches it immediately, interest peaked. 

“Hey! Fweet!” he whistles like he would to a disobedient mare, tipping your chin up with his leather clad hand to meet his furrowed eyeline.

His touch doesn’t linger but you feel it’s authority even as it’s gone- the whistle straightened your back immediately- frustratingly so that he could work you just like one of his animals. 

“Look at me when you’re talking eh? Manners..What’s that Cathy sayin’ about me then eh?” 

The corner of his mouth tightens slightly, surprise mingled with wariness. Peering into every micro-expression you give him, his eyes flickering with something, a smug kind of cockiness as he awaits your response. He studies you, the defiant tilt of your chin, the set of your jaw. 

It's as though your resolve only spurs his questions, his interest piqued by your defiance. 

His eyes sparkle as they hold yours. 

"What things were we doing?” 

His tone is gentler now- like it was when he found you in the darkness. Cooing and leading you into this temporary sense of ease.

It excites you, the way he could manipulate your feelings.

Your words. Your attitude. It equally terrified and aroused you.

“You were- um. Playing with the tack.”

You fail to suppress a smirk as the words leave your mouth. Your voice wavering on a half laugh. You couldn't help it, it felt so serious before in your own head but verbalising it to him felt childish. The words fizzle out of your mouth with that coy smile.

But when you look up once again to meet his gaze he’s not impressed.

“Oh? S’funny is it?”

He crowds you- his breath warming your weather battered cheeks.

His scent filling your lungs, the smoky scent of hay and dirt mixed with the sweat and grime from his long days work. It should repulse you. It should make you sick but you hang onto his every word- wide eyed eyes stinging, afraid to blink even as the wind pricks at them.

“You found it so funny you wanted to come out and see for yourself? Dressed like a fucking..whore. What? to laugh?”

He nips at you. Lazing over his words because he knows he has you right in his clutches anyway, his curses slow and dripping with (false?) contempt.

It’s as if someone has poured ice into your veins.

All leverage you thought you had of the situation out the door. Or more appropriately out into the biting cold of the moor. He’s not as dense as you were hoping.

You have to clench your thighs hard under your skirt, the pulsing between your legs crying for the barest pressure as he scolds you.

He’s right of course. You were hoping you’d find him out here. Part of you hoped Cathy hadn’t lied. That Joseph wasn’t the pious working man everyone thought he was. Not only did you hit the bingo you’ve summoned your very own wicked & perverted dreams into fruition.

You stare at him unable to work up a single syllable, clearly surprised by his outburst but waiting patiently for what? more? This seems to irk him further.

He grabs your wrist. Hard. Yanking you forward, trailing you back into the darkened stables while you can only follow dizzily.

Eyes trained on his broadened strong back. Your steps are clumsy in your desperation, your depraved mind already trailing off to your sweetened memories of how this view differs in the height of summer, as he is throwing hay bales across the barn…bare- his sweat and muscle rippling in the heat.

He manhandles you into the centre of the tack wall once again, scowling once he realises he still hasn’t shocked you into a response.

Your eyes just as dreamily unfocused as before. Looking at him with that same expectant half smirking look- he’s not happy.

"Stay there." he spits, stalking off behind you to fetch the tack- returning with the same bite imprinted bridle you found before.

When he turns back to you- running the leather through his fingers he regards you greedily- your pert nipples through your nightgown, your oh-so-soft thighs on display.

You feel sick with your impatience but still unwilling to stoop so low to beg for his affections.

Yet.

He broaches into your space now, while you stand obediently- exactly how he told you to- cold feet shifting on the solid ground. The whistle of the wind rattling through the stable is the only noise you can hear- the only thing you can try to focus on besides him.

“Chilly? Poor thing.” he murmurs, nosing around you- observing you with clinical precision in the murk.

His voice has that soft coo to it again- he’s so hot and cold that you don’t quite know where you stand- the way he’s fiddling with the tack like it’s a threat yet talking so softly. So sweetly.

“Yeah..s’cold Joseph. What are you doing?” you mumble at last, eyeing the door like you’d be discovered- by who- Nelly? Cathy?

You haven’t done anything to be ashamed of but the arousal burning in your belly makes you feel dirty all the same.

“What am I doing?” He laughs like the answer is obvious.

“This is what you wanted isn’t it?” He leans down to your level- close enough to feel his warmth- for you to see the sprinkling of chest hair peeking through his neckline, the curve of his angled mouth as he leans closer.

And closer.

His nose grazing yours now.

The breath leaves your lungs in a flurry of excitement- standing on your toes to meet his mouth when he suddenly pulls back with a cruel laugh.

“Kisses? Tut Tut. No I don’t quite think so Miss Earnshaw.”

With a sudden Thwack he slaps the meat of your thigh with the tough leather bridle making you gasp in indignant disbelief.

“Joseph!” you squeal, biting your cheek to suppress the pleased smile that creeps on your face, the sting of the smack setting your blood aflame- your pearl fluttering and pulsing immediately.

He repeats the action in the exact same spot with a self satisfied grin, making you cry out again.

“You want me to stop?” he teases- gently rubbing his warm hand over the nipping reddened skin. His words have you dumbfounded and quiet again.

“Tell me what you want then hm? Tell me how inappropriate I am. Where’s that attitude gone from earlier?”

He sounds disappointed and if it weren’t for that smile on his face you’d believe it.

“Don’t know...”

You gulp, looking back down at the curve of his mouth with hazy- poorly disguised need.

Another Thwack- higher up this time, the pained sound that escapes your mouth sounding closer to a whorish whine.

This seems to amuse him enough for his teeth to peek out when he smiles cruelly. His canines sharp, reflecting prominently in the lamplight. How you wish you could feel the scrape of them on your tongue. Your neck. Your thigh..

“I think you do know baby. I think if I felt under that filthy dress of yours you’d be fucking soaked. Sound about right?”

Caught.

You’re too caught up and needy to keep lying and you nod instantaneously. The pet name doing nothing to help ease your want for him.

“Oh such a good girl. Finally being honest. Give me your hands Baby. Keep being good and listen.”

Doing as you are told he takes your outstretched hands and fastens them into the bridle at the wrists, barely moment of realisation passes through you before he hooks you onto the ceiling beam with expert precision, effectively holding you in the spot.

“Och’t so pretty!”

He rubs his hands together to heat them before cupping your cheeks and pressing a kiss to your gaped surprised mouth. The kiss is achingly slow and wet- intentionally teasing, straining your raised arms in desperation to wrap around him, keep him close. The chains rattle when you instinctively try and he pulls back immediately.

He circles you a couple times before slowly lifting the hem of your skirts- grazing his warm hands over your arse, now bared for him. He doesn’t comment on your lack of underclothes but you can hear the hitch in his breathing from behind you.

His hands so so fucking close to where you need him.

“Joseph..”

You whine, desperate for attention, desperate for anything he will give you.

And what you get is a hard smack right on your arse.

Another to follow for good measure.

“Be patient.”

He sucks the air through his teeth when you moan. Angling his strong arm around your middle to hold you steady before sliding his other hand through your backside and down towards your aching wetness. He feels his way through your folds with precision- soaking his hand with what he finds.

His hips press against your arse at the angle and you can feel the unmistakable pressure of his hardness through his breeches. It has you throbbing right where he can feel, pulsing right on his fingers as little whimpers leave your mouth in your vulnerable desperation. Completely at his mercy.

He seems to take pity on you, circling his fingers on your pearl with the pressure you’ve been needing. Shushing you gently and talking you through the sharp pleasure.

“There she is. Take what I give you. Good girl- oh good girl.” his voice is a near rasp now. Circling his own hips so slightly onto you to relieve his own pressure.

Instinctively you buck your hips, a girlish whine escaping your mouth as you work yourself through the pressure of his fingers and back to press onto his aching cock.

Bad decision.

He pulls his hand away just to spank you directly onto your aching cunt and you wail in frustration.

“Don’t be greedy!”

He snaps. letting you go completely for a moment- your arms rattling above your head- the wind seeping between your legs and cooling your heat.

He grabs your chin, forcing his wet fingers into your mouth- fucking them into your throat- the tang of your own arousal coating your tongue and there’s not much you can do but take it. Gladly.

Once he’s satisfied he releases them from your mouth with a questioning look.

“You gonna listen this time?”

“Mhmmm!”

The immediate way you agree seems to charm him and he returns his hand between your legs- front facing this time so he can watch the needy expressions on your face.

His hand strokes and rocks between your legs, coaxing your pleasure from you slowly, building you back up to that tight pressure he had you feeling moments ago. His long lithe middle finger slipping further down and filling you sudden and unexpectedly- his ring finger soon joining.

The sensation of being filled while the heel of his palm rocks against your sensitive pearl is almost too much, your bottom lip is red raw from biting back all your needy moans but you don’t waste your energy on feeling ashamed anymore.

Needy little uh..uh..uh’s are slipping from your slacked jaw, accompanying the wet sounds of your own slick arousal as he fills you.

“Look at me baby? Keep that pretty mouth open.” he smirks- giving you a moment before spitting straight into your mouth- the wetness dripping down your chin despite your attempts to swallow it down. Your lips glossy with it in your efforts.

“Messy girl..” he laughs taking his free hand to palm and rub against his aching cock shamelessly over his clothes as he fingers into you.

Your eyes follow the movement greedily and the desperation to be filled- properly filled by him comes over you feral and more than you can take.

“Please Joseph..”

You whine looking at it desperately, you can practically feel it already- every ridge and vein as he’d notch his way inside you- filling you up. Making him feel so good. You’re so close, vision blurring as you beg.

The pleasure drunk look on his face twists.

He takes his hand away completely and you squeal- the sound echoing through the barn- probably out in the fields too. Being dropped from such pleasure when it had just began to peak makes your cunt clench rhythmically into itself- aching.

“Bad girl.” he huffs.

He cups your jaw- the wet scent of your arousal mocking you now so close to your face.

“Greedy girls get nothing.”

He unbuckles your wrists from the restrains leaving you stood sheepish, thighs trembling, eyes burning in frustration and shock.

“No no no wait please I’m sorry!”

In a moment of desperation you clutch his shirt in your sweaty palms. Lip quivering.

Heartbroken he thinks. To not get your own way for once.

Spoilt thing.

He almost feels bad. Giving you a slow kiss on your pouting lips before turning his back and walking out. Leaving you standing at the tack wall right where he found you.

—

Your stomach feels in knots, churning the heavy pit you feel each step you take, worsening each step into the night- feeling more like you are stepping to execution rather than the familiar fields you frolicked as a girl.

The stables come into view and you swither in your steps, feet digging into the ground as shame builds and works its way up your neck, so sickening that you have clench your eyes shut and pinch your forearms till it marks your wind whipped skin. A feeble attempt at best to to get the wicked thoughts from your head. 

Just some proof is all, an inkling that even one part of what Cathy saw rings true, then you can go, back where it’s warm, where you can wake your wretched sister and tell Nelly all about her filthy lies. The satisfaction warms your chest enough to quicken your steps. Thats why. It will be to prove her wrong. That’s why you’ve ventured in the cold, her stupid childish stories. Lying to ones own sister like this. What does she take you for. 

You’re women grown but just the sort of thing she’d lie about to tease you, just like when you were girls. So vulgar and far fetched, just something she conjured up to redden your cheeks and scandalise your affections for such an innocent man.

A working man. 

Joseph. Our Joseph.

and Zillah? 

Whips and chains and horse tackle? 

The thought has you huffing with an incredulous smirk as you shove the door open to the darkened stables.

The stable door creaks echoingly loud and you stupidly attempt to shush it as you tiptoe inside. The intrusion has the horses startled - their hooves scuffling against the gates, nickering disapprovingly amongst themselves. A lantern has been left burning, practically near snuffed by the tack wall. Bingo

Padding across the hay littered ground, bare feet scuffing along the hardened cement till you reach the horse tackling, it’s strewn along the wall, hung perfectly but no coherent organisation that you could decipher. In the low light you kneel on the dirty ground to inspect the each part of roughened leather bridles, working left to right along the wall, your knees aching and likely covered in filth when you stand.

Once checked over you carelessly drop them, letting them reverberate back against the hollow stable walls, rattling the chains with a shrill booming shudder till there is just one left to inspect. 

Shivering you pick it up, narrowing your eyes to hold the cheekpiece up to the dimming light again, eyes lazily scanning, feeling foolish for leaving the warmth of your bed for this, thinking of the scolding that you’ll give your sister on the morrow and-

Hold on. 

There it is. 

Bite marks. Distinct and human. 

Your stomach lurches uncomfortably. 

Surely not. You wipe your dirtied hands on your white nightgown, a scattering of dust and filth marking the lace carelessly as you move closer to the lamp, leaning as close as you can, not wanting to believe what you see. 

Then- the wind changes. The stable door flying open with the gust- snuffing out the lamp and completely enveloping you in a shroud of darkness, leaving you isolated with just the pull of worry and something else still churning in your abdomen.

You drop the bridle- the chains ricocheting against the rest with a loud clang. The sound thrumming for a second as your eyes adjust to the darkness. You feel for the wall closest to your left, using it to guide your way back to where the door is, squinting in the dark for the familiar arch. It comes into view but not down to the skill of your own eyesight, it is a light that appears, getting closer along with the sound of humming, out of tune and oh so familiar. 

Joseph bustles his way inside, heavy boots thumping across to where the horses rest, blissfully unaware of your trembling presence hidden in the dark corner. He hangs his lantern and looks over the horses with a furrowed brow, the light reflecting over his angled features so it’s all you can see in the room.

“That you making all that racket in here eh?” he tuts, sucking the air through his teeth disapprovingly.

“Just a bit a’ wind that’s all. you know that.” 

He scoffs, petting the horses with a gentle kind hand before picking up the lantern to head out again, taking a singular step forward toward before he locks eyes with you. 

Your heart is in your throat and you can scarcely exhale, your eyes so wide that you feel the cold wind nipping and drying them, completely frozen to the spot.

The teeth. 

The reigns.

 Zillah. 

The whip. 

The sounds.

All the things Cathy told you hammering in your skull, mocking you right now as you look at him where he stands a foot away. 

He is still completely dressed in his work gear, strange despite the hour and it makes you wonder for a half second if he ever sleeps, how does he find the time with all this? Your head is spinning in fear and shame, eyeing the door like you are ready to bolt.

He edges forward keeping his voice a low slow timbre when he speaks, careful not to spook you like he’d approach a frightened mare. 

“Miss Earnshaw?”

When he draws closer, you instinctively step back, your back hitting the wooden support beam behind you.

When you do not respond, he speaks again, “Was that you making all that noise in here?”

He looks amused, brows furrowed but eyes full of mirth despite his gentle concern. Drawing his gaze downwards, taking in your nightdress. Your filthy nightdress.

“M’ sorry Joseph I could not rest, I was just taking a walk to tire me that’s all. Came in to see the horses.”

You mumble hurriedly under your breath, sweetening your voice for him like you always do when you want something, big eyes blinking up at him. 

Your breath fogs in the cold air, your own lies visible in the air of the dark stable.

He regards you for a moment, gauging the truth of it. Even in the low light, your features are drawn and pale, clearly distressed.

“Restless?" he repeats, his voice crackling gently. “And you didn’t think so put on a pair of proper shoes before your little walk?"

His tone is gently reprimanding—like a disapproving adult to a child. 

"You're shivering," he states matter-of-factly, gaze flicking to your bare feet and to the the damp shawl wrapped tightly around you.

“and I don’t believe you Miss Earnshaw.”

His sneering tone surprises you, despite being scarcely a year younger than him he has always spoken to you with gentle respect, the tone befitting your relationship, nothing more.

But he isn’t working now and the accusation puts fire in your belly, enraging you to be disregarded and caught in your own lies. It stumps you to silence.

He can see your shifting eyes, your attempt to think of a way out, the way you won't hold his gaze. It only reinforces his belief that something is deeply amiss.

His expression doesn't falter, still gentle but unyielding. In a voice laced with quiet authority, he coos,

“No lying now Miss. Why are you in here?”

There is a finality in it that brooks no further argument. His tone ragged and disapproving. 

He steps closer but stops just shy of the tack wall, forcing you to shrink against it even more. 

This he regards with a barely there smug smirk, his stance relaxed yet dominating in the small space. He is deceptively lazy, an act of calculated patience likely chosen to bait you into enlightening him with the truth.

Your blood boils, straightening your back and balancing on the balls of your scuffed feet in a feeble attempt in trying to assert him, shuffling closer to him in the murk, ignoring the heat pooling in your abdomen under his smug holier-than-thou gaze. 

Fists clenching on the dirtied fabric of your nightgown, you sneer. 

“It’s none of your concern what I do. You forget yourself and are being inappropriate Joseph. I’m no liar. you wait till I tell Fath-“

He cuts you off with a stern look before you can finish your snarky attempt to rebuff him. His brows drawn and mouth turned to a frown- unfamiliar and biting on his usually kind face.

“Oh? Inappropriate?”

He repeats the word as though tasting it, a dark eyebrow lifting faintly as he looks you up and down. A ghost of amusement flickers through his expression. You're trying to reassert authority, remind him that you're a young lady of status compared to him. It's an attempt to gain leverage and it falls flat instantaneously. 

He tilts his head slightly, one side of his mouth curving up to a crooked smile, faint yet fond in it’s condescension.

"You seem to have wandered out into the open moor at night in little more than your shift. I'm not sure what is appropriate holds any sway over either of us at the moment.”

He points out towards the open stable door- towards your home as it sits in the fog.

"And just what will you tell your father then? That I caught you out here half-naked? Perhaps hiding a lover….hm?” 

He peers behind you in the shadow of the stable just to irk you further, as if really checking for some fiend to be hiding in the hay with you. 

Your body burns from the tips of your toes to the flush of your cheeks with pure scandalised horror, outraged you spin on your heel and stomp out into the night air. 

He doesn’t follow right away. Lets you go. An amused huff parting his mouth as he watches you distance from the stable. Not for long though, slow and deliberate, he steps after you, letting the heavy barn door creak shut behind him.

The lantern light faraway and darkness shrouding him as he moves deeper into the shadows, unfazed by your little tantrum.

His steps are quiet, catching up with you with ease while you catch your breath in the doorway of the kitchen you had left swinging open before.

From behind, his voice comes low and even,

“I won’t tell your father a word. Not if you tell me the truth girl.”

He steps closer, you hear the scuffle of his mucky boots. 

“Now. Miss Earnshaw.”

His stern voice sends a shiver through you that has little to do with the cold wind. A familiar ache in the pit of your abdomen overcomes you so suddenly you fear if you turn around it will be written all over your face.

A sharp retort wells up as you turn but it dies under his piercing gaze.

This close, it's almost impossible to look away,  his eyes an enchanting blue, glimmering in the moonlight, if those eyes weren’t gazing at you with such disapproval you’d be likely to stand there frozen in the sapphire depths all night. 

His stance, though not oppressive, dominates the moor- even in the open field you feel just as you did when he cornered you in the stable, like an animal, ready to bite and scratch your way out.

But you don’t. You find yourself explaining, however irritated and sheepish you sound.

“Cathy told me some story.. she saw you and Zillah in there..doin’.. things.” 

You nod towards the barn half heartedly, unable to meet his eyes. 

He catches it immediately, interest peaked. 

“Hey! Fweet!” he whistles like he would to a disobedient mare, tipping your chin up with his leather clad hand to meet his furrowed eyeline.

His touch doesn’t linger but you feel it’s authority even as it’s gone- the whistle straightened your back immediately- frustratingly so that he could work you just like one of his animals. 

“Look at me when you’re talking eh? Manners..What’s that Cathy sayin’ about me then eh?” 

The corner of his mouth tightens slightly, surprise mingled with wariness. Peering into every micro-expression you give him, his eyes flickering with something, a smug kind of cockiness as he awaits your response. He studies you, the defiant tilt of your chin, the set of your jaw. 

It's as though your resolve only spurs his questions, his interest piqued by your defiance. 

His eyes sparkle as they hold yours. 

"What things were we doing?” 

His tone is gentler now- like it was when he found you in the darkness. Cooing and leading you into this temporary sense of ease.

It excites you, the way he could manipulate your feelings.

Your words. Your attitude. It equally terrified and aroused you.

“You were- um. Playing with the tack.”

You fail to suppress a smirk as the words leave your mouth. Your voice wavering on a half laugh. You couldn't help it, it felt so serious before in your own head but verbalising it to him felt childish. The words fizzle out of your mouth with that coy smile.

But when you look up once again to meet his gaze he’s not impressed.

“Oh? S’funny is it?”

He crowds you- his breath warming your weather battered cheeks.

His scent filling your lungs, the smoky scent of hay and dirt mixed with the sweat and grime from his long days work. It should repulse you. It should make you sick but you hang onto his every word- wide eyed eyes stinging, afraid to blink even as the wind pricks at them.

“You found it so funny you wanted to come out and see for yourself? Dressed like a fucking..whore. What? to laugh?”

He nips at you. Lazing over his words because he knows he has you right in his clutches anyway, his curses slow and dripping with (false?) contempt.

It’s as if someone has poured ice into your veins.

All leverage you thought you had of the situation out the door. Or more appropriately out into the biting cold of the moor. He’s not as dense as you were hoping.

You have to clench your thighs hard under your skirt, the pulsing between your legs crying for the barest pressure as he scolds you.

He’s right of course. You were hoping you’d find him out here. Part of you hoped Cathy hadn’t lied. That Joseph wasn’t the pious working man everyone thought he was. Not only did you hit the bingo you’ve summoned your very own wicked & perverted dreams into fruition.

You stare at him unable to work up a single syllable, clearly surprised by his outburst but waiting patiently for what? more? This seems to irk him further.

He grabs your wrist. Hard. Yanking you forward, trailing you back into the darkened stables while you can only follow dizzily.

Eyes trained on his broadened strong back. Your steps are clumsy in your desperation, your depraved mind already trailing off to your sweetened memories of how this view differs in the height of summer, as he is throwing hay bales across the barn…bare- his sweat and muscle rippling in the heat.

He manhandles you into the centre of the tack wall once again, scowling once he realises he still hasn’t shocked you into a response.

Your eyes just as dreamily unfocused as before. Looking at him with that same expectant half smirking look- he’s not happy.

"Stay there." he spits, stalking off behind you to fetch the tack- returning with the same bite imprinted bridle you found before.

When he turns back to you- running the leather through his fingers he regards you greedily- your pert nipples through your nightgown, your oh-so-soft thighs on display.

You feel sick with your impatience but still unwilling to stoop so low to beg for his affections.

Yet.

He broaches into your space now, while you stand obediently- exactly how he told you to- cold feet shifting on the solid ground. The whistle of the wind rattling through the stable is the only noise you can hear- the only thing you can try to focus on besides him.

“Chilly? Poor thing.” he murmurs, nosing around you- observing you with clinical precision in the murk.

His voice has that soft coo to it again- he’s so hot and cold that you don’t quite know where you stand- the way he’s fiddling with the tack like it’s a threat yet talking so softly. So sweetly.

“Yeah..s’cold Joseph. What are you doing?” you mumble at last, eyeing the door like you’d be discovered- by who- Nelly? Cathy?

You haven’t done anything to be ashamed of but the arousal burning in your belly makes you feel dirty all the same.

“What am I doing?” He laughs like the answer is obvious.

“This is what you wanted isn’t it?” He leans down to your level- close enough to feel his warmth- for you to see the sprinkling of chest hair peeking through his neckline, the curve of his angled mouth as he leans closer.

And closer.

His nose grazing yours now.

The breath leaves your lungs in a flurry of excitement- standing on your toes to meet his mouth when he suddenly pulls back with a cruel laugh.

“Kisses? Tut Tut. No I don’t quite think so Miss Earnshaw.”

With a sudden Thwack he slaps the meat of your thigh with the tough leather bridle making you gasp in indignant disbelief.

“Joseph!” you squeal, biting your cheek to suppress the pleased smile that creeps on your face, the sting of the smack setting your blood aflame- your pearl fluttering and pulsing immediately.

He repeats the action in the exact same spot with a self satisfied grin, making you cry out again.

“You want me to stop?” he teases- gently rubbing his warm hand over the nipping reddened skin. His words have you dumbfounded and quiet again.

“Tell me what you want then hm? Tell me how inappropriate I am. Where’s that attitude gone from earlier?”

He sounds disappointed and if it weren’t for that smile on his face you’d believe it.

“Don’t know...”

You gulp, looking back down at the curve of his mouth with hazy- poorly disguised need.

Another Thwack- higher up this time, the pained sound that escapes your mouth sounding closer to a whorish whine.

This seems to amuse him enough for his teeth to peek out when he smiles cruelly. His canines sharp, reflecting prominently in the lamplight. How you wish you could feel the scrape of them on your tongue. Your neck. Your thigh..

“I think you do know baby. I think if I felt under that filthy dress of yours you’d be fucking soaked. Sound about right?”

Caught.

You’re too caught up and needy to keep lying and you nod instantaneously. The pet name doing nothing to help ease your want for him.

“Oh such a good girl. Finally being honest. Give me your hands Baby. Keep being good and listen.”

Doing as you are told he takes your outstretched hands and fastens them into the bridle at the wrists, barely moment of realisation passes through you before he hooks you onto the ceiling beam with expert precision, effectively holding you in the spot.

“Och’t so pretty!”

He rubs his hands together to heat them before cupping your cheeks and pressing a kiss to your gaped surprised mouth. The kiss is achingly slow and wet- intentionally teasing, straining your raised arms in desperation to wrap around him, keep him close. The chains rattle when you instinctively try and he pulls back immediately.

He circles you a couple times before slowly lifting the hem of your skirts- grazing his warm hands over your arse, now bared for him. He doesn’t comment on your lack of underclothes but you can hear the hitch in his breathing from behind you.

His hands so so fucking close to where you need him.

“Joseph..”

You whine, desperate for attention, desperate for anything he will give you.

And what you get is a hard smack right on your arse.

Another to follow for good measure.

“Be patient.”

He sucks the air through his teeth when you moan. Angling his strong arm around your middle to hold you steady before sliding his other hand through your backside and down towards your aching wetness. He feels his way through your folds with precision- soaking his hand with what he finds.

His hips press against your arse at the angle and you can feel the unmistakable pressure of his hardness through his breeches. It has you throbbing right where he can feel, pulsing right on his fingers as little whimpers leave your mouth in your vulnerable desperation. Completely at his mercy.

He seems to take pity on you, circling his fingers on your pearl with the pressure you’ve been needing. Shushing you gently and talking you through the sharp pleasure.

“There she is. Take what I give you. Good girl- oh good girl.” his voice is a near rasp now. Circling his own hips so slightly onto you to relieve his own pressure.

Instinctively you buck your hips, a girlish whine escaping your mouth as you work yourself through the pressure of his fingers and back to press onto his aching cock.

Bad decision.

He pulls his hand away just to spank you directly onto your aching cunt and you wail in frustration.

“Don’t be greedy!”

He snaps. letting you go completely for a moment- your arms rattling above your head- the wind seeping between your legs and cooling your heat.

He grabs your chin, forcing his wet fingers into your mouth- fucking them into your throat- the tang of your own arousal coating your tongue and there’s not much you can do but take it. Gladly.

Once he’s satisfied he releases them from your mouth with a questioning look.

“You gonna listen this time?”

“Mhmmm!”

The immediate way you agree seems to charm him and he returns his hand between your legs- front facing this time so he can watch the needy expressions on your face.

His hand strokes and rocks between your legs, coaxing your pleasure from you slowly, building you back up to that tight pressure he had you feeling moments ago. His long lithe middle finger slipping further down and filling you sudden and unexpectedly- his ring finger soon joining.

The sensation of being filled while the heel of his palm rocks against your sensitive pearl is almost too much, your bottom lip is red raw from biting back all your needy moans but you don’t waste your energy on feeling ashamed anymore.

Needy little uh..uh..uh’s are slipping from your slacked jaw, accompanying the wet sounds of your own slick arousal as he fills you.

“Look at me baby? Keep that pretty mouth open.” he smirks- giving you a moment before spitting straight into your mouth- the wetness dripping down your chin despite your attempts to swallow it down. Your lips glossy with it in your efforts.

“Messy girl..” he laughs taking his free hand to palm and rub against his aching cock shamelessly over his clothes as he fingers into you.

Your eyes follow the movement greedily and the desperation to be filled- properly filled by him comes over you feral and more than you can take.

“Please Joseph..”

You whine looking at it desperately, you can practically feel it already- every ridge and vein as he’d notch his way inside you- filling you up. Making him feel so good. You’re so close, vision blurring as you beg.

The pleasure drunk look on his face twists.

He takes his hand away completely and you squeal- the sound echoing through the barn- probably out in the fields too. Being dropped from such pleasure when it had just began to peak makes your cunt clench rhythmically into itself- aching.

“Bad girl.” he huffs.

He cups your jaw- the wet scent of your arousal mocking you now so close to your face.

“Greedy girls get nothing.”

He unbuckles your wrists from the restrains leaving you stood sheepish, thighs trembling, eyes burning in frustration and shock.

“No no no wait please I’m sorry!”

In a moment of desperation you clutch his shirt in your sweaty palms. Lip quivering.

Heartbroken he thinks. To not get your own way for once.

Spoilt thing.

He almost feels bad. Giving you a slow kiss on your pouting lips before turning his back and walking out. Leaving you standing at the tack wall right where he found you.

—

Your stomach feels in knots, churning the heavy pit you feel each step you take, worsening each step into the night- feeling more like you are stepping to execution rather than the familiar fields you frolicked as a girl.

The stables come into view and you swither in your steps, feet digging into the ground as shame builds and works its way up your neck, so sickening that you have clench your eyes shut and pinch your forearms till it marks your wind whipped skin. A feeble attempt at best to to get the wicked thoughts from your head. 

Just some proof is all, an inkling that even one part of what Cathy saw rings true, then you can go, back where it’s warm, where you can wake your wretched sister and tell Nelly all about her filthy lies. The satisfaction warms your chest enough to quicken your steps. Thats why. It will be to prove her wrong. That’s why you’ve ventured in the cold, her stupid childish stories. Lying to ones own sister like this. What does she take you for. 

You’re women grown but just the sort of thing she’d lie about to tease you, just like when you were girls. So vulgar and far fetched, just something she conjured up to redden your cheeks and scandalise your affections for such an innocent man.

A working man. 

Joseph. Our Joseph.

and Zillah? 

Whips and chains and horse tackle? 

The thought has you huffing with an incredulous smirk as you shove the door open to the darkened stables.

The stable door creaks echoingly loud and you stupidly attempt to shush it as you tiptoe inside. The intrusion has the horses startled - their hooves scuffling against the gates, nickering disapprovingly amongst themselves. A lantern has been left burning, practically near snuffed by the tack wall. Bingo

Padding across the hay littered ground, bare feet scuffing along the hardened cement till you reach the horse tackling, it’s strewn along the wall, hung perfectly but no coherent organisation that you could decipher. In the low light you kneel on the dirty ground to inspect the each part of roughened leather bridles, working left to right along the wall, your knees aching and likely covered in filth when you stand.

Once checked over you carelessly drop them, letting them reverberate back against the hollow stable walls, rattling the chains with a shrill booming shudder till there is just one left to inspect. 

Shivering you pick it up, narrowing your eyes to hold the cheekpiece up to the dimming light again, eyes lazily scanning, feeling foolish for leaving the warmth of your bed for this, thinking of the scolding that you’ll give your sister on the morrow and-

Hold on. 

There it is. 

Bite marks. Distinct and human. 

Your stomach lurches uncomfortably. 

Surely not. You wipe your dirtied hands on your white nightgown, a scattering of dust and filth marking the lace carelessly as you move closer to the lamp, leaning as close as you can, not wanting to believe what you see. 

Then- the wind changes. The stable door flying open with the gust- snuffing out the lamp and completely enveloping you in a shroud of darkness, leaving you isolated with just the pull of worry and something else still churning in your abdomen.

You drop the bridle- the chains ricocheting against the rest with a loud clang. The sound thrumming for a second as your eyes adjust to the darkness. You feel for the wall closest to your left, using it to guide your way back to where the door is, squinting in the dark for the familiar arch. It comes into view but not down to the skill of your own eyesight, it is a light that appears, getting closer along with the sound of humming, out of tune and oh so familiar. 

Joseph bustles his way inside, heavy boots thumping across to where the horses rest, blissfully unaware of your trembling presence hidden in the dark corner. He hangs his lantern and looks over the horses with a furrowed brow, the light reflecting over his angled features so it’s all you can see in the room.

“That you making all that racket in here eh?” he tuts, sucking the air through his teeth disapprovingly.

“Just a bit a’ wind that’s all. you know that.” 

He scoffs, petting the horses with a gentle kind hand before picking up the lantern to head out again, taking a singular step forward toward before he locks eyes with you. 

Your heart is in your throat and you can scarcely exhale, your eyes so wide that you feel the cold wind nipping and drying them, completely frozen to the spot.

The teeth. 

The reigns.

 Zillah. 

The whip. 

The sounds.

All the things Cathy told you hammering in your skull, mocking you right now as you look at him where he stands a foot away. 

He is still completely dressed in his work gear, strange despite the hour and it makes you wonder for a half second if he ever sleeps, how does he find the time with all this? Your head is spinning in fear and shame, eyeing the door like you are ready to bolt.

He edges forward keeping his voice a low slow timbre when he speaks, careful not to spook you like he’d approach a frightened mare. 

“Miss Earnshaw?”

When he draws closer, you instinctively step back, your back hitting the wooden support beam behind you.

When you do not respond, he speaks again, “Was that you making all that noise in here?”

He looks amused, brows furrowed but eyes full of mirth despite his gentle concern. Drawing his gaze downwards, taking in your nightdress. Your filthy nightdress.

“M’ sorry Joseph I could not rest, I was just taking a walk to tire me that’s all. Came in to see the horses.”

You mumble hurriedly under your breath, sweetening your voice for him like you always do when you want something, big eyes blinking up at him. 

Your breath fogs in the cold air, your own lies visible in the air of the dark stable.

He regards you for a moment, gauging the truth of it. Even in the low light, your features are drawn and pale, clearly distressed.

“Restless?" he repeats, his voice crackling gently. “And you didn’t think so put on a pair of proper shoes before your little walk?"

His tone is gently reprimanding—like a disapproving adult to a child. 

"You're shivering," he states matter-of-factly, gaze flicking to your bare feet and to the the damp shawl wrapped tightly around you.

“and I don’t believe you Miss Earnshaw.”

His sneering tone surprises you, despite being scarcely a year younger than him he has always spoken to you with gentle respect, the tone befitting your relationship, nothing more.

But he isn’t working now and the accusation puts fire in your belly, enraging you to be disregarded and caught in your own lies. It stumps you to silence.

He can see your shifting eyes, your attempt to think of a way out, the way you won't hold his gaze. It only reinforces his belief that something is deeply amiss.

His expression doesn't falter, still gentle but unyielding. In a voice laced with quiet authority, he coos,

“No lying now Miss. Why are you in here?”

There is a finality in it that brooks no further argument. His tone ragged and disapproving. 

He steps closer but stops just shy of the tack wall, forcing you to shrink against it even more. 

This he regards with a barely there smug smirk, his stance relaxed yet dominating in the small space. He is deceptively lazy, an act of calculated patience likely chosen to bait you into enlightening him with the truth.

Your blood boils, straightening your back and balancing on the balls of your scuffed feet in a feeble attempt in trying to assert him, shuffling closer to him in the murk, ignoring the heat pooling in your abdomen under his smug holier-than-thou gaze. 

Fists clenching on the dirtied fabric of your nightgown, you sneer. 

“It’s none of your concern what I do. You forget yourself and are being inappropriate Joseph. I’m no liar. you wait till I tell Fath-“

He cuts you off with a stern look before you can finish your snarky attempt to rebuff him. His brows drawn and mouth turned to a frown- unfamiliar and biting on his usually kind face.

“Oh? Inappropriate?”

He repeats the word as though tasting it, a dark eyebrow lifting faintly as he looks you up and down. A ghost of amusement flickers through his expression. You're trying to reassert authority, remind him that you're a young lady of status compared to him. It's an attempt to gain leverage and it falls flat instantaneously. 

He tilts his head slightly, one side of his mouth curving up to a crooked smile, faint yet fond in it’s condescension.

"You seem to have wandered out into the open moor at night in little more than your shift. I'm not sure what is appropriate holds any sway over either of us at the moment.”

He points out towards the open stable door- towards your home as it sits in the fog.

"And just what will you tell your father then? That I caught you out here half-naked? Perhaps hiding a lover….hm?” 

He peers behind you in the shadow of the stable just to irk you further, as if really checking for some fiend to be hiding in the hay with you. 

Your body burns from the tips of your toes to the flush of your cheeks with pure scandalised horror, outraged you spin on your heel and stomp out into the night air. 

He doesn’t follow right away. Lets you go. An amused huff parting his mouth as he watches you distance from the stable. Not for long though, slow and deliberate, he steps after you, letting the heavy barn door creak shut behind him.

The lantern light faraway and darkness shrouding him as he moves deeper into the shadows, unfazed by your little tantrum.

His steps are quiet, catching up with you with ease while you catch your breath in the doorway of the kitchen you had left swinging open before.

From behind, his voice comes low and even,

“I won’t tell your father a word. Not if you tell me the truth girl.”

He steps closer, you hear the scuffle of his mucky boots. 

“Now. Miss Earnshaw.”

His stern voice sends a shiver through you that has little to do with the cold wind. A familiar ache in the pit of your abdomen overcomes you so suddenly you fear if you turn around it will be written all over your face.

A sharp retort wells up as you turn but it dies under his piercing gaze.

This close, it's almost impossible to look away,  his eyes an enchanting blue, glimmering in the moonlight, if those eyes weren’t gazing at you with such disapproval you’d be likely to stand there frozen in the sapphire depths all night. 

His stance, though not oppressive, dominates the moor- even in the open field you feel just as you did when he cornered you in the stable, like an animal, ready to bite and scratch your way out.

But you don’t. You find yourself explaining, however irritated and sheepish you sound.

“Cathy told me some story.. she saw you and Zillah in there..doin’.. things.” 

You nod towards the barn half heartedly, unable to meet his eyes. 

He catches it immediately, interest peaked. 

“Hey! Fweet!” he whistles like he would to a disobedient mare, tipping your chin up with his leather clad hand to meet his furrowed eyeline.

His touch doesn’t linger but you feel it’s authority even as it’s gone- the whistle straightened your back immediately- frustratingly so that he could work you just like one of his animals. 

“Look at me when you’re talking eh? Manners..What’s that Cathy sayin’ about me then eh?” 

The corner of his mouth tightens slightly, surprise mingled with wariness. Peering into every micro-expression you give him, his eyes flickering with something, a smug kind of cockiness as he awaits your response. He studies you, the defiant tilt of your chin, the set of your jaw. 

It's as though your resolve only spurs his questions, his interest piqued by your defiance. 

His eyes sparkle as they hold yours. 

"What things were we doing?” 

His tone is gentler now- like it was when he found you in the darkness. Cooing and leading you into this temporary sense of ease.

It excites you, the way he could manipulate your feelings.

Your words. Your attitude. It equally terrified and aroused you.

“You were- um. Playing with the tack.”

You fail to suppress a smirk as the words leave your mouth. Your voice wavering on a half laugh. You couldn't help it, it felt so serious before in your own head but verbalising it to him felt childish. The words fizzle out of your mouth with that coy smile.

But when you look up once again to meet his gaze he’s not impressed.

“Oh? S’funny is it?”

He crowds you- his breath warming your weather battered cheeks.

His scent filling your lungs, the smoky scent of hay and dirt mixed with the sweat and grime from his long days work. It should repulse you. It should make you sick but you hang onto his every word- wide eyed eyes stinging, afraid to blink even as the wind pricks at them.

“You found it so funny you wanted to come out and see for yourself? Dressed like a fucking..whore. What? to laugh?”

He nips at you. Lazing over his words because he knows he has you right in his clutches anyway, his curses slow and dripping with (false?) contempt.

It’s as if someone has poured ice into your veins.

All leverage you thought you had of the situation out the door. Or more appropriately out into the biting cold of the moor. He’s not as dense as you were hoping.

You have to clench your thighs hard under your skirt, the pulsing between your legs crying for the barest pressure as he scolds you.

He’s right of course. You were hoping you’d find him out here. Part of you hoped Cathy hadn’t lied. That Joseph wasn’t the pious working man everyone thought he was. Not only did you hit the bingo you’ve summoned your very own wicked & perverted dreams into fruition.

You stare at him unable to work up a single syllable, clearly surprised by his outburst but waiting patiently for what? more? This seems to irk him further.

He grabs your wrist. Hard. Yanking you forward, trailing you back into the darkened stables while you can only follow dizzily.

Eyes trained on his broadened strong back. Your steps are clumsy in your desperation, your depraved mind already trailing off to your sweetened memories of how this view differs in the height of summer, as he is throwing hay bales across the barn…bare- his sweat and muscle rippling in the heat.

He manhandles you into the centre of the tack wall once again, scowling once he realises he still hasn’t shocked you into a response.

Your eyes just as dreamily unfocused as before. Looking at him with that same expectant half smirking look- he’s not happy.

"Stay there." he spits, stalking off behind you to fetch the tack- returning with the same bite imprinted bridle you found before.

When he turns back to you- running the leather through his fingers he regards you greedily- your pert nipples through your nightgown, your oh-so-soft thighs on display.

You feel sick with your impatience but still unwilling to stoop so low to beg for his affections.

Yet.

He broaches into your space now, while you stand obediently- exactly how he told you to- cold feet shifting on the solid ground. The whistle of the wind rattling through the stable is the only noise you can hear- the only thing you can try to focus on besides him.

“Chilly? Poor thing.” he murmurs, nosing around you- observing you with clinical precision in the murk.

His voice has that soft coo to it again- he’s so hot and cold that you don’t quite know where you stand- the way he’s fiddling with the tack like it’s a threat yet talking so softly. So sweetly.

“Yeah..s’cold Joseph. What are you doing?” you mumble at last, eyeing the door like you’d be discovered- by who- Nelly? Cathy?

You haven’t done anything to be ashamed of but the arousal burning in your belly makes you feel dirty all the same.

“What am I doing?” He laughs like the answer is obvious.

“This is what you wanted isn’t it?” He leans down to your level- close enough to feel his warmth- for you to see the sprinkling of chest hair peeking through his neckline, the curve of his angled mouth as he leans closer.

And closer.

His nose grazing yours now.

The breath leaves your lungs in a flurry of excitement- standing on your toes to meet his mouth when he suddenly pulls back with a cruel laugh.

“Kisses? Tut Tut. No I don’t quite think so Miss Earnshaw.”

With a sudden Thwack he slaps the meat of your thigh with the tough leather bridle making you gasp in indignant disbelief.

“Joseph!” you squeal, biting your cheek to suppress the pleased smile that creeps on your face, the sting of the smack setting your blood aflame- your pearl fluttering and pulsing immediately.

He repeats the action in the exact same spot with a self satisfied grin, making you cry out again.

“You want me to stop?” he teases- gently rubbing his warm hand over the nipping reddened skin. His words have you dumbfounded and quiet again.

“Tell me what you want then hm? Tell me how inappropriate I am. Where’s that attitude gone from earlier?”

He sounds disappointed and if it weren’t for that smile on his face you’d believe it.

“Don’t know...”

You gulp, looking back down at the curve of his mouth with hazy- poorly disguised need.

Another Thwack- higher up this time, the pained sound that escapes your mouth sounding closer to a whorish whine.

This seems to amuse him enough for his teeth to peek out when he smiles cruelly. His canines sharp, reflecting prominently in the lamplight. How you wish you could feel the scrape of them on your tongue. Your neck. Your thigh..

“I think you do know baby. I think if I felt under that filthy dress of yours you’d be fucking soaked. Sound about right?”

Caught.

You’re too caught up and needy to keep lying and you nod instantaneously. The pet name doing nothing to help ease your want for him.

“Oh such a good girl. Finally being honest. Give me your hands Baby. Keep being good and listen.”

Doing as you are told he takes your outstretched hands and fastens them into the bridle at the wrists, barely moment of realisation passes through you before he hooks you onto the ceiling beam with expert precision, effectively holding you in the spot.

“Och’t so pretty!”

He rubs his hands together to heat them before cupping your cheeks and pressing a kiss to your gaped surprised mouth. The kiss is achingly slow and wet- intentionally teasing, straining your raised arms in desperation to wrap around him, keep him close. The chains rattle when you instinctively try and he pulls back immediately.

He circles you a couple times before slowly lifting the hem of your skirts- grazing his warm hands over your arse, now bared for him. He doesn’t comment on your lack of underclothes but you can hear the hitch in his breathing from behind you.

His hands so so fucking close to where you need him.

“Joseph..”

You whine, desperate for attention, desperate for anything he will give you.

And what you get is a hard smack right on your arse.

Another to follow for good measure.

“Be patient.”

He sucks the air through his teeth when you moan. Angling his strong arm around your middle to hold you steady before sliding his other hand through your backside and down towards your aching wetness. He feels his way through your folds with precision- soaking his hand with what he finds.

His hips press against your arse at the angle and you can feel the unmistakable pressure of his hardness through his breeches. It has you throbbing right where he can feel, pulsing right on his fingers as little whimpers leave your mouth in your vulnerable desperation. Completely at his mercy.

He seems to take pity on you, circling his fingers on your pearl with the pressure you’ve been needing. Shushing you gently and talking you through the sharp pleasure.

“There she is. Take what I give you. Good girl- oh good girl.” his voice is a near rasp now. Circling his own hips so slightly onto you to relieve his own pressure.

Instinctively you buck your hips, a girlish whine escaping your mouth as you work yourself through the pressure of his fingers and back to press onto his aching cock.

Bad decision.

He pulls his hand away just to spank you directly onto your aching cunt and you wail in frustration.

“Don’t be greedy!”

He snaps. letting you go completely for a moment- your arms rattling above your head- the wind seeping between your legs and cooling your heat.

He grabs your chin, forcing his wet fingers into your mouth- fucking them into your throat- the tang of your own arousal coating your tongue and there’s not much you can do but take it. Gladly.

Once he’s satisfied he releases them from your mouth with a questioning look.

“You gonna listen this time?”

“Mhmmm!”

The immediate way you agree seems to charm him and he returns his hand between your legs- front facing this time so he can watch the needy expressions on your face.

His hand strokes and rocks between your legs, coaxing your pleasure from you slowly, building you back up to that tight pressure he had you feeling moments ago. His long lithe middle finger slipping further down and filling you sudden and unexpectedly- his ring finger soon joining.

The sensation of being filled while the heel of his palm rocks against your sensitive pearl is almost too much, your bottom lip is red raw from biting back all your needy moans but you don’t waste your energy on feeling ashamed anymore.

Needy little uh..uh..uh’s are slipping from your slacked jaw, accompanying the wet sounds of your own slick arousal as he fills you.

“Look at me baby? Keep that pretty mouth open.” he smirks- giving you a moment before spitting straight into your mouth- the wetness dripping down your chin despite your attempts to swallow it down. Your lips glossy with it in your efforts.

“Messy girl..” he laughs taking his free hand to palm and rub against his aching cock shamelessly over his clothes as he fingers into you.

Your eyes follow the movement greedily and the desperation to be filled- properly filled by him comes over you feral and more than you can take.

“Please Joseph..”

You whine looking at it desperately, you can practically feel it already- every ridge and vein as he’d notch his way inside you- filling you up. Making him feel so good. You’re so close, vision blurring as you beg.

The pleasure drunk look on his face twists.

He takes his hand away completely and you squeal- the sound echoing through the barn- probably out in the fields too. Being dropped from such pleasure when it had just began to peak makes your cunt clench rhythmically into itself- aching.

“Bad girl.” he huffs.

He cups your jaw- the wet scent of your arousal mocking you now so close to your face.

“Greedy girls get nothing.”

He unbuckles your wrists from the restrains leaving you stood sheepish, thighs trembling, eyes burning in frustration and shock.

“No no no wait please I’m sorry!”

In a moment of desperation you clutch his shirt in your sweaty palms. Lip quivering.

Heartbroken he thinks. To not get your own way for once.

Spoilt thing.

He almost feels bad. Giving you a slow kiss on your pouting lips before turning his back and walking out. Leaving you standing at the tack wall right where he found you.

—

The moonlight filtered through the thin curtains of the massive arched windows that belonged to the royal bedchamber to cast long, distorted shadows across the stone floor. The sickly silver of the moon sparkles in your tear soaked eyes but you aren't looking at the moon, you can't even look at the city, you can't look at anything but him.

Your world has narrowed down to the stifling heat of the King's body and the terrifying but beautiful weight of his hands.

Aegon has already claimed you with how deep he is, his movements frantic and jagged, driven by a desperate sort of hunger that feels less like desire and more like he was trying to devoir you. He's braced over you, pale hair disheveled and damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead like a crooked halo. He looks every bit of the dissolute king the histories would whisper about long after his death.

The sensation of his cock moving within your slick walls is overwhelming, a relentless rhythm that makes the silk sheets bunch and slide beneath your sweat slicked skin. But it's his hand that is truly commanding your soul.

His fingers are wrapped firmly around the column of your throat.

You've spent years watching those hands. You've memorized the way they looked trembling around a heavy silver goblet during a feast, the way the knuckles turned white when his mother reprimanded him, and the way they looked resting with bored arrogance upon the heaviness of his crown. There is a cruel, Valyrian grace to his hands; the hands of a man born to hold a dragon's reins, now reduced to seeking power in the soft submission of your skin.

His grip wasn't tight enough to stop your breathing, but enough to make them shaky and not fill your brain enough to think clearly on what you're doing. The cold metals of his rings were biting into your skin, a sharp and stinging contrast to the heat of his palm.

"Look at me," he rasps, his voice a low growl that vibrates against your collarbone from where he buried his face into.

He shrifts, driving his cock into you with a sudden, forceful depth that draws a choked gasp from your lungs. His thumb presses into the soft dip beneath your jaw, tilting your head back until you are forced to meet his blue gaze. In the darkness, his eyes are practically black, swimming with a volatile mix of insecurity and possession.

"The Gods are cruel bastards," he mutters, breath hot and smelling of wine as he leans down till his nose brushes yours, "they give me a crown that hurts me and a throne made of literal blades. They gave me a kingdom that hates me."

He sneers, his grip on your throat tightening just a fraction as he picks up the pace, his hips slamming against yours with a bruising force. The friction is electric, a spiraling heat that threatens to shatter you.

"But then," he whispers, his voice dropping almost to a purr, "they made you. They made you so soft, so perfect, just so I could have one thing I'm allowed to ruin. They made you just for me to destroy in our bed, in front of an open window, so the whole city can hear me taking what's mine."

He lets out a shaky, breathless laugh, his fingers splaying wider across your neck, his palm flat against your windpipe as he watches your eyes filled with lust and love for your king. He's looking past you for a fleeting second, seeing how the flickering lights of King's Landing seem to challenge him, threatening to take you from him.

"You're my Queen," he gasps, his composure finally fracturing. His movements becoming blind as he's losing himself in the sensation of your body yielding to him, "tell me. Tell me you're mine. Not the realm's. Not the Seven's. Mine."

You try to speak, but the words catch. Your breath is hitching in short, jagged bursts, and your head is light from the sensory overload of him. You wanted to tell him, but the sheer overwhelming pleasure he's wringing out of you has kept the admission locked behind your teeth. You just shake your head weakly against the pillow, a soft and small sound of protest escaping your lips.

Aegon's eyes narrow. He doesn't pull out, but he stops his hips completely, going perfectly still, pinning you to the mattress, his cock still buried within your greedy cunt that's fluttering and practically pleading him to continue.

"No?" He whispers, and there's that dangerous, playful edge to it that you loved so much, "the King commands a simple truth, and you're going to refuse it? After I've been so generous?"

He lets out the huff of a laugh as he leans down, his lips brushing against the reddened skin of your neck where his palm is still firmly planted, "fine, we'll play your game. I have all night and the Small Council doesn't meet till after dinner. My grandfather can wait, my mother can pray, but you..."

He shifts his weight slightly, freeing his free elegant hand from the bedsheets. You watch, practically transfixed, as his long fingers - the ones that made you squeeze your thighs together seeing trace the rims of cups - slide between your bodies. He moves slowly, eyes locked onto yours, forcing you to watch the smirk grow on his face.

When he finds your sensitive and swollen clit above where you're joined, your entire body jolts underneath him. You try to arch up, to find that pleasure again, but he holds you down with the hand at your throat, his grip just firm enough to remind you who was in control.

"Don't move," he commands.

He begins to move his fingers, his thumb circling that sensitive spot with a devastating precision, a slow torture. He knows exactly what he's doing, he's spent enough nights in the Silk Streets brothels to know the mechanics of pleasure, but here with you, it's not just pleasure, it's a kind of petulance. He isn't just proving that you're his, he's trying to break your will to disobey.

"Tell me," he coaxes, his thumb picking up the speed as he presses just enough pressure to make your vision blur, "tell me you belong to your King. Tell me you're the only thing in this gods-forsaken city that I don't have to share."

The pleasure was building, a white hot coil of tension tightening in your stomach. You're close, so close that it hurts, but every time you feel yourself reach that peak, he slows down, his touch becoming light and teasing, a ghost of the sensation that leaves you whimpering.

"Say it," he murmurs, his lips ghosting over your cheek, "it's a small price to pay, isn't it? Just a few words, and I'll give you everything. I'll let you come so hard you forget your own name. I'll stop being the monster they say I am, just for you."

He drives his hips forward just once, a sharp and deep thrust that stays seated deep within you as his thumb resumes its relentless, circling pleasure.

"Whose are you?" He asks again, his voice falsely soft. He watches the way your eyes roll back, the way your fingers claw at the sheets and at his hand around your throat. He looked satisfied, a man who finally found a throne he enjoyed sitting on, "give it to me. Give me the only thing I've ever asked for from you."

He leans in, biting softly at the cord of your neck. his hand at your throat loosening just enough for you find the breath to moan his name, yet he keeps his thumb moving, driving you right to the jagged edge of the world.

"Look at how you tremble," Aegon murmurs, his voice thick with a never satisfied sort of wonder. He leans down, his blonde hair falling like a curtain around your faces, his blue eyes wide, searching yours with a feverish intensity, "you're so close, aren't you? I can feel it."

He lets out a shaky breath, his own restraint clearly fraying at the edges. His jaw is tight, the muscles corded in his neck jumping as he fights the urge to simply lose himself in you. But he is a King who has been told what to do his entire life - by his mother, by his grandfather, by the ghost of a father who never looked at him - and this is the one moment of pure, unyielding submission he has ever seen, and he wasn't having to force it out of you either. He wasn't going to let go of this opportunity too easily.

"One word," he whispers, his thumb pressing down just enough to make you arch your back, heels digging into the silk sheets as a choked whimper left your throat, "that's all the tribute I require. Agree to it. Admit that you aren't just some lady of the court or my fleeting distraction. Admit that you were made for this, made for me."

You feel like you weigh hundreds of pounds, the white hot coil in your gut twisting tighter and tighter. Your vision was swimming in blurs, the moonlight through the window blurring into the golden firelight. Every time he stops the motion of his thumb, the drop off is sickening; every time he resumes, the rush is so violent that your head is spinning like you're drowning.

"Tell me," he coaxes, his lips brushing against your ear in a seductive rasp, "tell me you belong to the King. Tell me you're mine to keep, mine to break, mine to hide away from the eyes of others. Say it, and I'll give you everything. I'll let you go so hard that you'll only ever want my cock."

He gives one sharp, sudden flick of his thumb, and the sensation is so intense you nearly black out. Your pride, your resistance, your very name - to all has dissolved.

"I'm yours," you finally gasp out, the words breathless, "I'm yours...I belong to you, Aegon. I'm the King's. Only yours."

The effect on him is instant. The tension in his shoulders snaps, and a low guttural sound escapes his chest, half a growl and half a moan. He doesn't just resume his hips movements, he's bruising against you, his thumb still moving on your swollen and sensitive clit while his cock continues to hit that beautiful spot inside of you.

Your world becomes small, Aegon being the only thing tethering you to the bed. You find yourself crying out his name, not caring who would hear, your fingers clawing at his shoulders, legs locking around his waist as the waves of your release crash through you. He doesn't give you any sort of mercy as he watches you through it, his eyes wide and hungrily focusing on the way your face contorts, the way your body shudders under his touch. He drinks in your undoing like it's the finest wine in the Seven Kingdoms.

As you are still reeling, lost in the pulsing aftermath, Aegon finally lets go of his own control. He drives into you one last time, deep as he can force himself inside of your cunt, head falling back as a raw, echoing groan leaves his throat. He collapses against you, his forehead resting against the crook of your shoulder, his breath coming in ragged, broken gasps.

The hand at your throat softens, his fingers sliding up to tangle in your hair, pulling you closer as if he's trying to merge his souls with yours. For a moment, he isn't the corrupt and cruel king or the disappointing son; he's just a man who has finally found his spot where he's enough.

The silence that followed was deafening, thick with the scent of sweat and the fading heat of his skin. Aegon remained draped across you for a long, heavy moment, his forehead pressed into the crook of your shoulder. You can feel the frantic beating of his heart against your body, his hand sliding out of your hand to trace the soft bruising on your windpipe from his fingers.

Then, he shifts. It's sudden, chilling the air as he pulls out of you, a withdrawal that starts in his mind before it reaches his body.

With a sharp and ungraceful grunt, Aegon pulls himself off of you. The loss of his weight and heat is like a slap, leaving you shivering on the damp silk sheets. He doesn't offer you a hand to steady you; he doesn't even look at your face. He rolls to the edge of the sprawling bed, his feet hitting the cold stone floor with a heavy thud. He sits there with his back to you, his spine curved, his hair clinging to the back of his neck.

You watch him, your throat still aching, your body still humming with the pleasure he just wrung out of you that you could feel dripping from your thighs. The sight of him, so small and slumped despite the crown waiting on the bedside table had made the words bubble up before you could stop them.

"You don't have to go back to being him yet," you whisper, voice thin and slightly raspy from the night's exertions, "not right this second, Aegon. The sun isn't even up."

He stiffens. His shoulders tense, the muscles cording under his pale skin. He doesn't turn around. Instead, he reaches for the silk of his robe, yanking it off the floor with a violent jerk and throwing it over his shoulders.

"Being who?" He asked, voice devoid of the dark, honeyed passion from the moment before. It's flat now, hollow, "the King? Or the disappointment? Because they're the same person, in case you haven't noticed."

"You know what I mean," you say, pushing yourself up on your elbows, grabbing the sheets to cover yourself as you reached out, your fingers just barely grazing the silk of his robe, "here...in the dark...you weren't either of those things. You were just mine, you said it yourself."

Aegon lets out a sharp laugh. He finally stands, turning just enough so you could see the cruel, mocking curl of his lip. The blue in his eyes has gone cold, shuttered behind the mask of his mother's son who would rather burn the Red Keep down than rule it.

"I say a lot of things when I'm drunk or half mad with lust," he says, crossing the room to the sideboard. He doesn't look at you as he pours a fresh goblet of Arbor Gold, the silver of his rings clinking against the glass with a shaky metallic ring, "don't go mistaking some lust filled words for a coronation, girl. I've got enough people trying to make me things I don't want."

"I'm not mistaking anything," you counter, voice holding some steel, "I saw the way you looked at me. You weren't performing for Alicent or her wretched father. You were actually there."

Aegon stops as he downs the wine in one long, desperate swallow. When he turns back to you, his silhouette is framed by the massive window, the moonlight casting him in shades of bruised silver. He looks like a ghost haunting his own life.

"And now I'm here," he mutters, his gaze flickering to the marks on your neck - the marks that he left behind, physical proof of the words he forced from you and you let him - before darting away as if the sight burned him, "and 'here' is a room that smells of sweat and a castle of people who would be happier if I stopped breathing. MY mother will be at the door soon with a list of all the sins I haven't committed yet, and my grandfather will stare at me like I'm a stain on his precious family line."

He walks back towards the bed, but he doesn't sit. He looms over you, the scent of expensive wine and dragon smoke clinging to him. He reaches down, his hand gripping your chin and tilting your face up. His touch is no longer sweet, its a claim made in spite of himself.

"You said you were mine," he whispers, his eyes darkened with that Targaryen fire, "and I'll hold you to that. But don't expect me to be the hero of your little story. I'm the King, and I'm going to go drink until I forget the sounds of what just happened here."

He lets go of your chin, his fingers lingering a fraction of a second too long before he pulls away entirely. He walks to the far side of the room, leaning his forehead against the cold of the window, staring out at the Blackwater Bay as the first light of dawn began to bleed over the horizon.

"Go," he says, his back to you once more, "before the Kingsguard comes to wake 'his Majesty'. I'm finished with you for tonight."

The dismissal is cold, calculated to hurt you, but you see the way his hand tremble as he raises the goblet to his lips again. You gather your discarded dress from the floor, the rustle of the silk being the only sound in the suffocating silence as you leave him there; leaving him in the cage of his own making, already drinking away the memory of the one thing that made him feel alive.

──── ୨୧ ────

To Be Added, Dm Me

She could hear the soft movements of the maids walking around, how they opened the windows, and such. He could hear the voice of the Valet asking Aemond if he will go training today, to prepare his attire. 

Lady Corbray noticed that she was far more lazy when sleeping in Aemond’s bed. She had no issue waking up before, she usually took a bath and had a relaxed day. Not that she had lots to do, not without any kids of her own.

Not that she hated her routine, but perhaps being closer to her husband would be far better. She doesn’t want him to take her for a clingy wife, so she doesn’t push her luck.

“Just any bloody doublet will do” Aemond’s voice is strong and annoyed. 

Lady Corbray stirs from sleep and opens her eyes, yet she doesn’t move her head. With her face half buried in the pillow, she’d able to see the exposed chest of her lord husband. Or at least, his back. 

She knew that he trains by mornings, getting up as soon as the sun rises. If she wakes up after him, she won’t meet him unless he decides to join her to break his fast, or if she invites him beforehand. 

And she has never seen his back bare. He was wearing breeches, but it seems his valet can’t find the proper doublet he refers to. Perhaps he has already trained…? She has no idea what time it is in the morning. 

“The eyepatch, my prince…” The maid says meekly, and Lady Corbray pipes up. She had never — or rather he has never allowed her to see him without it. 

She feels flustered by the sight of him, watching the hardness of his back, how the muscles give it a nice form she had never properly seen in a man. Her back wasn’t like his, hers was soft, almost smooth compared to how his muscles formed his figure. She wonders what the front is like. 

As he turns around, she closes her eyes, a bit scared of him finding out and berating her for staring. She bothers him enough— occupating his chambers as the workers fix hers. 

Lady Corbray hopes he would press a kiss as a goodbye. She had never woken up so early to see him before he parted with his duties. She has read of it in many novels, the tenderness in some subtle acts that it would mean something more. 

Yet still, he simply dismisses the servants as he puts on his eyepatch, grabbing the dagger he carries everywhere without it. 

And with that he leaves, and her day starts.

Myara and Alice were quiet as they dressed her. Lady Corbray was unused to being dressed up so thoroughly, but it was part of her position. 

“Did you like Lady Cheslted?” Her voice is soft, trying to break the ice between them all three. 

Lady Foote, in the middle of searching the right shade of balm for her lips, hums softly, her eyes searching Alice’s as if they shared a secret. 

“Is she not pleasant?”

“Not at all, my lady” Lady Plumm says as if trying to do damage control. “She is simply… unused to court life” 

“Very naïve” Myara says. 

She knew that the three of them were older, and sometimes tried her with caution, as if she was a porcelain doll. Just as her lord husband did. 

“Lady Foote, could you… ask the servants to prepare some pastries? Perhaps we could break our fast in the garden” 

“Very well. We shall”

“I need Lady Plumm to help me fetch my cards, in my chambers” Lady Corbray stops them, and tries to add casually “Can’t go there alone. We’ll bring other things to keep us entertained. Maybe even ask Mushroom to join us”

There it is, another glance between them too that spoke of something they did not share. Lady Corbray was a bit nervous, because she had never had to face someone to tell her the truth. She had eyes, and she could see her ladies not liking Bess. 

She was a tad bit excited? Yes. But she had grown fond of her, in a way, because she saw herself in little Lady Bess Chelsted. Once alone with Alice, walking side to side, they remain in silence. She hates having to start these difficult tasks. 

“Alice… Can I ask you honestly?”

“About Lady Chelsted, my lady?” 

Lady Corbray bites her lower lip and nods softly, as she knows that it was plain and obvious why she wanted to speak alone with her. 

“I just… All I want for the five of us is…to get along.” 

Perhaps it was a childish dream, to want all of them to be close, like friends. She remembers that back in Heart’s Home, she would have a maid or two, since her house wasn’t the richest. Everything was different here in King’s Landing, as it made her uneasy not to know how to act in these situations. 

“I know” 

She feels the same feeling that she gets whenever she speaks with Aemond; trying to find a common ground as they speak, trying to get him to engage, to pay attention, to at least respond. 

It’s hopeless, and it makes her miss her home. 

“Truthfully. You’re the one I trust the most to ask this” she says, trying to imitate that tone that Queen Alicent so often uses with her. It’s something between sweetness and that underlying tone of ‘tell me what i need of you’.

Alice seems a bit tired, sighing as she leaves her brush in the dresser and moves to pull a chair closer. She knows Lady Plumm to be quite honest, she had some problems with Lady Reyne because of it which she had to meekly fix. She had asked Aemond for help, and he simply shrugged and told her to ask Helaena. 

“May I be… honest, my lady?” 

That makes her perk up slightly as Alice sits close to her. She sits a bit straighter, hopeful at the option someone might finally be blunt. 

“Lady Chelsted is… delusional, at best” she says, as if threading carefully towards the topic. 

This surprises Lady Corbray, as she sees Bess as a sweet lady. She was sweet to her at least, but again, people always were fake sweet with her, due to being married to Aemond. 

“She’s still a child.”

“She’s old enough. You.. you should all give her a chance…” Lady Corbray says a bit defensively. 

“My lady, are you…” Alice says, trying to be delicate, rubbing her forehead “Are you not aware what she has… been saying?”

The lack of expression in Lady Corbray’s face gives away the answer. She looks a bit confused, the corners of her mouth still in somewhat a clueless smile, as she shakes her head softly. 

“I didn’t want to be the one…” she sighs, before accommodating in her seat and watching at the door “You asked me to speak freely so will I…” she says watching the window before speaking again. “Some days ago, when we had tea and you left with Queen Alicent to the sept… well, She told us that you and the prince had an unsuccessful and unloving marriage. That prince Aemond was cold and rude to you both, which is no… no surprise why you haven’t… My lady, I cannot keep saying it. It is insulting” 

Lady Corbray remains still for a moment, as she takes in the hurtful words. She had not taken Bess for a gossipy girl, to be honest. She welcomed her in Aemond’s chambers, encouraged her for marriage as she herself would have liked in the moment, and promised to secure her a good match. 

It pains her heart, because she tried to be kind. She knew King’s Landing was foreign to her, as if she had to learn a new language and to walk once again. In her home, at least, everyone was kind to her, even the servants and highborns. 

“She’s a child, my lady.” Alice adds, leaning closer to grab her hand “And we told her to never say such things again. Lady Reyne, well, Rella, told her to not spread meaningful and false words if she likes her tongue” She says, trying to lighten her up. “No one believes such foolishness” 

It brings a small smile to her face, since Rella was much the gossip lady among them all. She would always have the latest gossip, and repeat it, it was her own thing. She thought that maybe she was the one feeding the rumours against her and her marriage with Aemond, since her nature seems close to a frivolous one but she misjudged her severely. 

“You said you were honest”

Lady Alice Plumm seems to hesitate a moment, as her mouth twitches slightly. “I am”

“What do you know about that? My marriage?”

If she speaks with so much disdain about those gossips, perhaps she’ll be discreet.  She thinks, as she considers her the more discreet and less judging. 

“I… I don’t think much of it, my lady. I have been married longer than you, and twice too. I have no offspring with either of my husbands. And it doesn’t mean I don’t do my duty.”

“And what do the rest say about my marriage? Is it really that different from what Lady Bess Chelsted says?” She asks, trying to catch the reaction closely. 

“No, my lady.”

She remembers her wedding night, as Aemond turned her away. She had felt awful, because in the feast he wasn’t the most affectionate with her either. She had seen men with the women they fancy, like her brother Leowyn with his mistress, or Corwyn and his late wife. They certainly did not care for appearances as a prince would do, but it was still evident their feelings… maybe not love, but lust.

“How do you do it?” Lady Corbray asks “Your duty?”

“My lady?” Alice says confused. 

“How do you… get your husband to…” she tries to explain. “Do your duty”

Alice frowns slightly, and says “I do not have to ask him for it.”

“Why not?”

“It comes in the moment”

At the moment? She thinks, as nothing ever comes in the moment. She always thought ahead, and it went wrong. Except, maybe, when they kissed. The only time they did. And it was Aemond’s choice.

She remembers being all lovey dovey, giggling as she tried to read the book in the library. Aemond was not so much, he was stoic as always, checking the books as if he was alone. And when she tried to take his hand, he pulled away. Nothing came at that moment for them.

She seems puzzled, and Lady Alice sighs softly. 

“You… You know what… consuming the marriage is, my lady?”

Her brothers had explained, yet she didn't fully understand. She knew that she had to follow Aemond’s lead, and make sure his seed was in her womb to get pregnant. She knew too that he had to insert himself and, in words of her septa, it would hurt. Yet only one time was enough to get pregnant. 

“I do know”  she says, almost in a whiny tone, because everyone overlooked her.

“And you… My lady,  I do not wish to be impertinent, but do you do it frequently?”

“Once is necessary,” she shrugs. 

“Yes, but not always it’s… fruitful. And besides, you might… enjoy it. Some people do”  

“Have you?”

“Yes” she shrugs. Alice wasn't like Lady Foote, who even speaking of her marriage would put her in a bad mood— she didn’t know if it was because of prudeness or because her husband wasn’t as caring. 

“… how?” 

Perhaps it is pity in the look on Alice Plumm’s face. She was older, and knew better of life than her. But Lady Corbray was a bit desperate, for she did not understand the ways of marriage. 

She had hoped that at least, by now, it would grow into fondness. She was not a bad wife; she did not gossip about him, she did not spend much money on dresses or jewelry, she spent time with his family, and she prayed in the sept most evenings. She did not push him; even if she wanted to hug him or press a kiss on his cheek. 

She knew that men were mostly creatures of base desires, like her brothers. Her septa told her she was lucky to escape the cruelness of bedding, but it didn’t feel like a mercy.

“Let me think of it a bit, how to help you” Lady Plumm says softly, as she nods a bit.  

The rest of the day, she bites her index finger thinking about it. When she’s reunited with her ladies in waiting, she can only think about it instead of playing cards properly.  

She was kneeling in the Sept that very same afternoon. Lady Myara Foote by her side, praying more fervously than her, the seven pointed star in her hands as she seemed deep in prayer.

She lightens another candle, unsure what she will pray about. Usually, it clears her mind about decisions, about what she has to do. It gives her a sense of purpose, and she feels fulfilled. She had prayer for almost everything, and she felt comforted in her faith. 

Lady Corbray was naïve, but not stupid. She thinks for a while how to order her prayer. 

«O Mother above…Look with kindness upon me and soften my husband’s heart. Bless the union as you did before, for our bond might be fruitful and loving.

Maiden, forgive my unseemly thoughts and desires, for my vain attempts of trying to lewdly convince my husband to consummate.  

Crone, lend me wisely counsel in my duty as a lady married to a prince

Warrior, shield me from the carrions crows of King’s landing court, whisper and slander, guard me from the vice in the tongue of the rest.

Father, may you help me weigh good and ill, to walk through righteousness…»

She sighs, softly, her heart soft as she finishes her prayer as she tends to do more these days, asking for protection for her husband’s people, which was now hers too. Before, it was the village in Heart’s home, but now, all the seven Kingdoms. 

She doesn’t mind waiting for Lady Foote to finish, as before her brothers would wait a lot more for her, to the point where she ended up going either alone or with a lady in waiting. 

That night, Aemond hadn’t arrived yet after her last food of the day. She never thought of him going to brothels, because she didn’t think of him as a lustful man. He hadn’t even consummated the marriage, as even if he disliked her, if he was lustful, he would have. 

Maybe, and perhaps he was devoted to another lady… but she doubts it. Men weren’t subtle about it, at least her brother Leowyn wasn’t. 

“May you seek my husband?” She asks a maid, who finished warming up her side of the bed. 

Lady Corbray likes linen nightgowns, and she brushes her own hair, preparing herself for bed. She doesn’t like getting in bed before Aemond, mostly because it is his bed, and she was convinced that he wouldn’t like the sight. 

She hasn't seen the small envelope in the writing table, and she takes it after she leaves her brush there. It was her family’s sigil, and so she knew it was directed to her. 

More than often, she would send letters. To her brothers, to her nieces. She had sent Aemond lots of letters too, when they were betrothed, but she doubts he had read them all, if he ever took the time in the first place.

«Dear sister… Hoping that this letter finds you well…» Blah blah blah «Everything is fine here..» Blah blah blah… «I have heard your marriage has problems, of coldness and unpleasanties.» Blah blah blah…

She knows Corwyn means well, probably. He was more like her, a bit more romantic and loveful. He was the one who sang with his lute to her and her friends, making them all giggle and ask for more. He was the one who brought her love books, of courtly love between maidens and knights. 

That, along with her brother, was in the past now. In Heart’s home, back with her illusions and hopes in a world she was not prepared for. 

She bites her index finger as she reads of how her brother, far in the Vale, knows about her problems with Aemond. It was rather humiliating than pleasant, to have everyone know across the seven kingdoms.  

Perhaps she must take Lady Plumm’s word, and learn how to please her husband. And letting himself be pleased. While she had no idea how to do so, she could barely imagine how a male member was. She had seen it, but by far, and with his baby nephew. But other than that… never. 

She could barely understand her own anatomy, and she wonders if Aemond was faced by the same difficulties. What if he was?  She thinks, holding the paper in her hands. He can’t be. He’s older and men are not known for holding back on carnal pleasures.

She bites her index softly, trying to come up with a solution. She can only pray and ask for lightening in the situation, and hope she can do something. 

Aemond hasn’t seen his wife since a day ago. She fell asleep before he arrived, and she woke up after he was gone. 

Not that he particularly was looking forward to being with her. Nothing against her, but he couldn’t entertain her now. He just needed quiet, after feeling so stressed that he had no time to indulge her. 

He was not used to having a wife. It had always been him in the world. His mother fussed over Aegon and Helaena, but he and Daeron were more forgotten. He tried to use all his energy on his duties, so he doesn't give his mother a reason to worry. Aemond did it so well, that now she has been fussing over his marriage. 

It drove him mad. And it made his feelings for his wife more complicated. 

Aemond spends the morning in the training yard, engaged in a fierce sparring match with one of his guards. He hated having guards following him around, as if he was helpless like a maiden. Yet he likes sparring with them, it varies a bit from Ser Criston.. even if he is right there watching too. 

As the guard lunges at him, Aemond sidesteps effortlessly, countering with a quick strike. Ser Criston helped him by being able to spar fiercely despite his blind spots, and his mother had nearly fainted when he trained after his accident.

“Very good” Aemond says as he feels sweaty. Some of the hairs in his braid are loose, and it sticks onto his damp forehead. 

“You have an audience, my prince” Ser Criston says as he takes Aemond’s sword. 

Aemond looks up to where the castle his lady wife was, with one of her friends. She locked eyes with him, and clapped softly with a faint smile on her face. 

To that, he awkwardly waved back to her, cringing almost immediately at that. He must look like a lovestruck fool, he thinks. 

Even when he sparred with Ser Criston, Aemond cannot stop thinking about her. Not even when he notices that she leaves. 

She was busy, the maids told him when he entered his chambers after eating. That his wife was with his ladies in waiting, per usual. Sometimes it bugs him how perfect she manages the court. Entertaining his ladies in waiting, where they all would adore her because she was so perfect. 

He lets all the maids leave, his jaw is set tight as he thinks about his wife. He knew he had been avoiding her, but again… what if she truly leaves? If she doesn’t like him? If the letter from her brother was truly a way out?

“You know if my wife will arrive soon?” He asks her handmaid before she leaves.

“The lady goes to the sept at this hour, my prince.” 

He serves himself a bit of Mead. He knows his wife also likes the taste of it, so he tries to drink it more, so he can enjoy the same things. 

Aemond rarely drank anything other than wine, especially more than one cup of anything else. All because he would start thinking, and reflecting about things… before it was okay, but now? All he thinks about is his wife. 

And after a while, his thoughts would trail to the same thing he suppresses; his carnal need for his Lady Corbray. He hates how it makes his cock throb on his pants, and how he has to accommodate on the chair to spread his legs slightly. 

A hand runs over his face, as he undoes his braid. He needs to get a grip over his feelings, he was not an animal to let his lust dominate his actions over his rational thinking. 

He stands up to undo his breeches, just to calm the fat bulge on it. Even as he does so, he knows he’s lying to himself. He knows his intentions are up to no good. 

“Gods forgive me…” he murmurs as his hand finds his already hard dick, which only grows harder and harder at the contact. 

Aemond sighs, he was like a barely contained beast when it came to his wife. He is scared of what he will do if he is alone in the same room with her for more than ten minutes. And worst of all, perhaps she will be willing to. And that terrifies him. 

He knows she’s eager to consummate, but Aemond knows that the naive sweet Lady Corbray doesn’t understand what that entails. Especially with him and his wicked cravings. 

His grip is firm, stroking his already hard cock as he places his other hand on the edge of the dresser (‘). He can feel his cheeks already getting flushed, and he strokes from base to the tip. 

“Yesss…” He hisses softly as he applies more pressure to his dick “Just like that…” he says lowly. 

Aemond wishes he could say those things to his wife, when they were intimate. He’d praise her, he figured, when they do it, he would make sure she knows how appreciated she is. He must tell her, because most of the time, his urges were anything but kind. 

It made him feel dirty and depraved, but he craved to see his wife kneeled on the ground, placing his cock on her mouth and pleasuring him eagerly. Most of the time, he thinks of how she would take him, and how he would pleasure her the best he could. Other times, he would simply think of how he would take her until she cries of pleasure, making her cum again and again until he decides it is enough. 

He’ll pray for forgiveness later. 

Now, at least, he can feel his balls tightening as he continues stroking his cock, his eye closed and his grip strong on the edge of the dresser, whereas his hips hesitate as he rocks his hand softly. He needed this so badly…

He can hear the soft lewd sound of his hand against his cock, and how his own hand is sticky from the precum on his tip. He tries not to groan too loudly, a bit embarrassed and ashamed if anyone found out, even the guards outside. 

Aemond only thinks of his wife, the few times he would catch a glimpse of her body. And when she came to his chambers, baring herself in front of him and demanding to be bred…

“Fuck, fuck” he moans loudly at the memory, pumping his cock as he feels coming closer to his own release. Not yet, he thinks, he likes to savour the pleasure boiling in his belly, as his strokes become more aggressive. 

He was about to let out another curse out of his mouth, when he hears the doors swinging open and his whole body becomes rigid and the pleasure dissipates.

“Oh, Gods” 

Aemond turns his head before he can hide himself, seeing both his lady wife and Lady Foote standing horrified in the door frame. He can hear how the lady-in-waiting muses a horrified apology, turning around and escaping. 

But he worries more about seeing his wife’s face. He cannot decipher what she thinks, she seems stunned, as he covers himself, ashamed and horrified from it all.

Aemond doesn’t dare to look at her face as he tries to compose himself, turning away from her and tucking his now soft cock in his breeches. He had never gotten so flaccid so quickly, but again, this was probably the most horrifying moment in his life. 

“Husband, I…”

He doesn’t dare to look at her face, he simply grabs the sword hilt that he had placed against the cushions. Aemond feels his face still burning red, he feels like a maid that had been caught stealing. 

He escapes, like a craven. He simply walks past his wife and her horrified lady in waiting, practically running away from that. 

Aemond feels himself shaking, knowing damn well his marriage is definitely over. He had frightened her, and now she would find him disgusting. She would ask for their marriage to dissolve on the grounds of depravity, and she would be away, back in her tower in Heart’s Home. And her brothers would demand a duel for her honour if anyone else knew. 

He curses himself, not knowing what to do. For the first time in his life, he has no idea what to do. Aemond wishes for anything but to lose his marriage, and he knows he has only himself to blame.