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fan-goddess · 4 months

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The decay of marital flesh

Authors Note: This has taken months to complete, and I am so happy that people have taken time to ask me about this and have wanted to have a part two of my original oneshot that I didn’t know would get so popular. So here’s the depressive thing that took me months to compete cause I needed to be in an angsty mood to write. Here’s my blood and angst

Summary: A part two of this piece here. This is the depressing version of it and the other happy part will be linked to this part here.

Warnings: Angst, mentions of miscarriage, mentions of p in v sex, mentions of f oral, self harm, blood, kinslaying, cheating on partner (I’ve probably no doubt missed warnings so if you see any you think I should add then let me know!)

Taglist: @ietss, @papichulo120627, @rorawinters, @introverbatim, @alicentswife, @brie-annwyl, @victoriagaunt, @kyla44, @pax-2735, @omgbcat @bellameshipper, @coolsiaisaqueenstuff, @snh96, @devils-blackrose, @blue-serendipity, @dahlias-and-marigolds, @glame, @jennifer0305, @humanpurposes, @valeskafics, @aemondwhoresworld @leiakim99

Whenever you slept, somehow the weight of the letter always found a way to haunt you. Whenever your hand managed to sweep under and made direct contact with the paper, it practically burned to the touch with no explanation how.

Klarissa had soon became one of your trusted, friends? She would come into your chambers to place your food in the morn and look at you intently and with questions she herself knew would remain unanswered. You never spoke to her again of the contents of the original letter, nor did she ever thankfully attempt to ever bring it up. It was thing about her you found yourself grateful for.

Though it seemed Klarissas silence on the topic may soon be broken. As recently, more letters, similar to the original, were beginning to make themselves known to you.

Though this time, you cannot bring yourself to read them. You can only stare at them while they burn into nothing in your fireplace. You can only watch as whatever words and meaning they once possessed become ash and soot. Maybe they were letters asking for forgiveness? Or asking for a conference where he begged for you to not spill his blood just as you instructed him that you would? Either way, you held firm belief that nothing of that sort would be happening.

Not while Aemond continued to breathe, and to live.

Aemond does not believe that you are reading any of his letters any more. The maid who had given to you his first letter, whose eyes once held fear of his position, now hold only sympathy and sadness. She doesn’t need to say what he had been fearing. It’s written plain and clearly all over her face.

Still, he can’t help but wish to cry at the realisation, even though he knew it would happen some time or later. An act he does not even think he’s done since he was robbed of his eye. Yet his sudden loss of you, the one person who he should have protected and been with, brings to him more emotion throughout his entire body than he’s felt in his entire life. Even when his sorrow begins to spread through out him, throughout his soul, the tears do not fall. He cannot dare let them. He cannot appear weak in front of the court. He cannot dare appear to be weak in front of you.

His chambers seem all too empty when he enters them. The bed appears stiff and uninviting. The books appear meaningless and empty. Even the fire seems too cold. Even when he begins edging closer and closer to the flames until he’s practically face to face with them.

“Aemond, what are you doing?!” His mothers frantic voice breaks him from his trance before he could fully put his arm in the fire. Only hearing the sudden frantic sound of his mother’s voice does he begin feeling the heat of the flames against his skin. It’s an addictive feeling, as for the first time in months he feels alive. It feels like your fiery touch is caressing him again.

“It does not matter mother… why are you here?” Aemond curtly says, begrudgingly stepping away from the flames to look at her with a soulless eye.

“Aemond, my son, I’m afraid that the court are beginning to talk. They question your marriage, they question your-“

“I do not care about what the people question mother!” Aemond shouts. Raw emotion and anger overflowing from his skin in waves as he stalks to his mother and grips her arms roughly in emphasis of his frustration. He can feel his unkempt nails digging into her arms, and he can even see the slight fear that slowly envelopes her. Yet still, he does not relent on his hold of her, even when she tries to escape from him. “The people do not know how it is I have suffered! How much my wife has suffered! I will not have those insufferable cunts dictating things about my own marriage!”

His nails unknowingly leave small dents in his mother’s arms. His nails which have grown long from neglect begin to draw into her skin so deeply that even with the clothing between the two, he nearly manages draws blood. It’s not even until she begins to wince and voice her pain does Aemond notice what he’s doing to her. What he’s doing to his own mother.

“M-mother I-“

“Save it Aemond. I know you are mourning in your own way. I know that your wife is mourning. She is mourning my son because it was you who betrayed the scared vows the two of you spoke together, and insisted that you drew blood for. It is well within her right to burst down these doors and draw that same blood from you with her own blade. I will not let you drag that girl down with you my son, just because you wish to cling to a long rotted away life that you yourself threw away, all for a fucking bastard wet nurse belonging to house strong!”

Aemond does not move when his mother shouts as him. He does not even blink when his mother’s passionate anger leaves small spit trails on his face. For everything she just said is true. It was him who broke the scared marital bond between him and you. For that, he should suffer no less than a thousand cuts.

Aemonds single eye goes back to the fire where he had sat earlier, and goes to sit there once more. Once again, he does not truly feel the heat it should be providing him. He adds a couple loose logs in the fire, prodding them around slightly with an iron poker.

Aemond drops it though when a log jolts suddenly and startles him, and hisses when the red hot poker makes contact with his upper thigh, burning him. Though he cannot deny the slight satisfaction it brings him to feel the pain flare through his clothes. So he strips himself till he is only in his underclothes, and he does it again, and again. Hissing under his breath each time it makes contact with the pale skin. Maybe this is how he will get closer to you? How he will successfully manage to feel the pain that you felt when you had to push the physical manifestation of his betrayal curse you? He knows it is unlike anything he could ever truly experience, but he has to try. For you, and for the baby he will never meet.

When you begin burning the next letter in the fire, adjusting it slightly with the poker hanging on the side of the fireplace, you can hear an unknown person entering the room with an audible creak coming from the direction of the door. Klarissa had slyly mentioned a few days previous how it was like that due to your infrequent comings and goings. If you didn’t know her name and respect her slightly, you probably would’ve had her relocated immediately for such cheek.

“I think my brother takes great time and thought into writing those letters princess.” A distinctive voice and nickname causes a rare smile to form, still looking at the fire before you.

“Good. Then maybe he’ll learn to be sorry and he’ll learn what my pain was like.” Your voice is surprisingly cold, even with such a warm smile on your lips. It even surprises yourself slightly.

“Well, as much as I do appreciate your determination for damning my brother, I don’t think he’ll share that same sentiment. Do you even read them? Or do you just immediately condemn them to ash? Because I’d hate to think some poor soul like my mother writes a letter to you only to have it thrown to the flames…”

“I’m not that overcome with anger, my prince. I do look at the handwriting of the letters before I, as you so plainly put it, condemn them to ash.” It’s almost annoying how easy it is for Aegon to make you smile. He’s become the light to shine you through your dark ages. A friend amongst the snakes and the thorns that weave and poison the court, looking only in ways to further their power.

“How many times have I told you sweet princess to call me Aegon? I think after everything we’ve done and been through together, we’d have been properly acquainted with each others company. As much as my little brother utterly detests the very idea of it.” Aegon now sits beside you at the fire, his everything already making your tensed frame ease into a more calm and relaxed one. He does not make any move to stop you from making sure the letter is properly burned into nothingness. An act you appreciate immensely.

“My brother, was a fool to believe he needed someone else to comfort him...”

The quick comment is also quickly followed by a deathly sort of silence in the room. The only thing being able to penetrate it being the comforting sound of the crackling flames.

Though not a few minutes after, from the corner of your eye, you can spot Aegons hand slowly and cautiously placing itself on your arm, drawing your attention to him as you cautiously drop the poker and turn to him. His face looks like the one of a deer when it’s caught in a trap, fear and panic. Though by the way he had approached you, it was as if he was trying to approach an unpredictable creature from the forest. A beast.

“Can I be so bold princess, as to say something to you?” His voice is practically one of a whisper. So meek that you didn’t know if you had heard him correctly the first time.

“Of course Aegon? You are my closest confidant.” Your words though, supposed to be ones of comfort, makes Aegons lips turn in a slight grimace. Yet still, he wets his lips before speaking.

“You… are everything any man I think could ever need in a wide. Which is why i am so disappointed in him. Why take that bastard into his bed, when he could have had you…” Aegon then cautiously leads his head forward and captures your open mouth with his own.

You cannot move. You cannot think. You cannot say anything to stop what is going on in that moment. There is only one thing that races specifically through your head however. One question that stands out from the rest.

Do you even want Aegon, your husbands brother, to stop?

In your confusion, you find yourself unable to move a muscle. Only it seems Aegon mistakes your lack of action and your confusion as a direct answer. Since his once shy hands move with a surprising confidence from your arm, to delicately cupping at your cheek and your head.

You cannot deny that the kiss did not leave a warm feeling erupting in your chest, and a fluttering sensation to churn in your heart. Yet there is one other thing you can think off while this is happening. You can only ponder on how strange it truly feels to kiss another man other than your husband. How strange it is to betray your marriage like he had done.

When Aegon finally breaks away from you, you can see that his eyes have grown dark with presumably desire. Yet unlike other men, he makes no move to direct you to the nearest bed like you would expect him to do. Instead, it looks as if his eyes have softened as they look into your own. A strange kind of peace drifting over him that you’d never really seen on him, nor even on another person before.

“Why did you do that…” You mutter, watching the way the flames make his skin look almost golden in the light.

His eyes though still hold that same strange look of softness, and his hand begin to stroke at your cheek with a strange type of fondness.

“Because I’ve been wanting to do it for quite some time now.”

It’s so simple. Spoken so calmly with a careless shrug, that it’s almost as if it was the easiest thing Aegons ever said in his life, and yet it causes an immediate feeling of panic and terror to erupt deep within your chest.

Your head moves your body in such a hurry that you had almost toppled over, if Aegon had not clutched at you so quickly to keep you steady. Yet at the feeling of his practically burning hands on your bare skin you push away from him.

Your head races with the discovery of Aegons… desires? Feelings even? Whatever they are, they’re something you never would’ve known about if not for Aemonds betrayal to his vows.

You know you should be angry at Aegon for what he has done. Angry at yourself even for not immediately pushing him off of you, a still married woman. And yet, when he kissed you, you felt more alive and happy then you’ve felt since Aemonds betrayal.

Even as you pace the room, Aegons keen eyes watch you with concern and slight anticipation at your next move. Like a dog always waiting for it’s masters command. He doesn’t move from the spot he originally sat in, only turning on his and trailing after your pacing with his eyes.

“I don’t know if I could ever love you-“

“You do not have to love me!” At the confession, Aegon is suddenly standing before you, your hands clasped tightly in his. Almost too tightly. As if he was grasping a delicate object he was too afraid would collapse and smash into a thousand pieces. The issue with that concern though, is that you’ve already been broken into thousands of tiny pieces and put back together again. In the end, there’s nothing left for him to break that’s not already been broken before. “All you need to do, my sweet princess, is let me in…”

This time, you do not break away so suddenly from Aegon when he kisses you again. Instead, you tightly grip at his warm fire like flesh in your fingers, and allow for his body to envelope you in senses you thought would never be awoken again.

That night, you felt the crash of everything you have ever been feeling, and everyone that’s made you feel that pain hit you all at once. That night, the hurting finally stopped for a time, and was replaced with only pleasure.

Aemond feels tired, exhausted, and drained, all in one. The words that he attempts to write to you blur all into one as his head swims with an ache that he has no idea whether is due to his deformity or due to his lack of sleep and self care. Either way, it’s in the way, and if Aemond could, he would rip it from his head so he could be done with it all.

He’s seen glimpses and heard plenty of tales of Aegon coming and going from your chambers. Seemingly, a strange bond has formed between the two of you, as before his time at Harrenhal, you’d never spoken to him. Yet now, he hears whispers of his brother leaving your presence and your chambers nearly every day.

Now he not only is jealous of his brothers soon to be crown. Now, he must bear witness and be forced to sit and wallow in his jealousy of Aegons access to your touch and your voice. Of Aegons access to his wife.

The letter in front of him, his unknown number attempt at reconciliation, is half written. The quill in his hand half poised to write as it drips dark raven ink onto the page and bleeds onto the dark oak desk.

Maybe he should write it with his own blood? Slice his palm and let it drip into a cup, before dipping his quill into it and writing his heartbreak with it. If he shows you how much he’s willing to bleed for you, maybe you’ll finally be willing to read his words and allow him to see you again…

There’s now a cramp in his hand from where he’s paused himself, and yet he strangely relishes in the onslaught of dull pain being given to him by his hand and head.

Maybe it’s a sign from the gods that he should stop himself? For he betrayed both the maiden and the mother when he laid with that fucking witch from Harrenhal, and it feels as if he should be praying nightly to the father for him to be brought to justice for you.

However now, with the considerable amount of time that he is being forced to spend away from you and your arms, he feels as though he should pray to the Stranger, late at night, when the moon is high and full. He should pray to him to slice his head from his shoulders and place him away from his misery forever more.

Though with his Targaryen heritage, there is no doubt that they have been waiting for an opportunity like this to pluck him and his family from their very roots for their many sins…

It has been a few months since you, ‘let Aegon in’, as he’d so put it. Though if you were to be honest with yourself, you’ve never felt as calm of character, as you were when you were with Aegon.

Still, you must admit, that whenever his head of short and unkempt silver hair is laid in your lap, facing away from you, your mind begins to wander of other things. You end up always thinking of his hair being twice as long, and his body being twice as lean.

You concluded that the gods must be punishing you for your sins. For practically abandoning your husband for a man of his own blood and partaking in pleasures of the flesh with him. But if this was how the gods had decided to punish you, how were they punishing Aemond…

“It is alright my love, we do not need to do it again until you are willing.” Aegon had said whilst stroking the bare skin of your arm with a distinguishable fondness.

You hadn’t the strength to tell him that the reason why you could not bring yourself to lay with him again is because the memory of Aemond still lives on in you forever. The ones that used to make you smile in fondness, but now make you wish to tear out his other eye with your bare hands and have his blood drip from your fingernails.

Aemonds memory that constantly lies within you is now a plague. A plague of constant mourning and sadness. A plague that is never ending and never relenting.

The memory of him still lives on months later, where for the first time ever, you leave your room dressed properly and looking like a true lady of the court. Aegon stands by your side in what you believe in his eyes is for your protection. But why would you need protection when your heart has been broken and stitched back together carelessly two times already?

Though as Aegons tries to murmur what your sure is meant to be encouraging murmurs of affection in your ear, your ears prick up to the sound of a familiar sound of footsteps, and you look up and connect eyes with your husband.

Your feet stop where they stand, and Aegons hands clench firmly against your own as he continues murmuring some kind of unknown gibberish in your ear. But you ignore him and look only at your husband. Who in turn, stares only at Aegons hands that are intwined in your own. You can see even from where you are standing, the way his brows furrow in annoyance at the sight, and somehow, you can feel your heart break for the third time in your lifetime as Aemond swiftly walks away without sparing you another glance.

You’re here. You’re walking close as can be with his brother and you’re standing in front of him looking at him with shocked doe like eyes.

The anger that blooms in his chest is nothing like the anger he felt when he killed Luke. It’s nothing similar to the anger he felt when he faced the injustice of his father when he was robbed of his eye. This is a new type of anger. It’s an obsession. A new type of injustice that only the feeling of blood on his skin could possibly have the power to diminish. But not your blood. Never your blood. No. Aemond craves Aegons blood on his blade.

He doesn’t even realise that he walked away from you until he looks around and realises he’s in his chambers, and his eye stares at the half written letter that still pathetically lays on his desk. An old pot of ink and a ruffled quill still waiting for him to pick up again.

His rage that still boils like a dragons fire within him feels no bounds as he tempts himself into ripping the letter. Into grabbing his dagger tucked away in his belt and stalking his way through the passages to Aegons chambers, where he’d wait till the sun goes down to strike him when he least expects it, and grin as Aegons chokes on his blood with fear and betrayal in his eyes. Watching with glee as Aegon dies for his crime. Trying to take what rightfully belongs to him.

But then, Aemond properly begins to think. You seemed to be close to be brother, if the closeness Aegon held you and the way he so closely whispered into your ears meant anything. If he killed his brother, it would only mean that he killed another one of the people you cared about. And Aemond refused to give you another reason for you to be scornful of him.

Aemond gives in though and rips the letter on the desk, and with a huff begins a new one. His anger and his frustration clear in his writing and with how many times the quill almost goes through the page with how fiercely and carelessly he uses it. He imagines your happiness though as he writes. The way you used to smile at him with such unique brightness. The way your cheeks would flush a beautiful light pink when he teased you. He even dared to think and reminisce on the way your face would shift into one of pure pleasure when he’d sit before the heaven that lay between your thighs, and lick and suck till he felt you spill no less than three times on his tongue.

The last thought soured though as he imaged Aegon seeing you like that. Seeing your smile, your happiness, your pleasure. The grip on his quill so strong he felt it snap between his fingers. A sharp shard of it bringing a small drop of blood to drop and pool on the page bellow. Yet Aemond didn’t choose to begin a new letter clear of his blood. He allowed it to stay there and continue with the same paper, so he could show his devotion to you. So he could show his willingness to bleed for you. Show how much he values his vow to shed as much blood as he needed to in order to achieve your forgiveness. It was truly an addictive thought, seeing you again. And one he could never stop running through his head when he thought of the future.

Aemond finished the letter, writing on the paper front and back with no less than three separate pages before he deemed his rant to be over. Blood pooling on various areas on all of them. His fingers now cramping around the new quill that he’d grabbed with each flex of his hand, and the ache that has sadly dulled around the cut to Aemonds relief remains pungent. If he could, he would pray to all Seven Gods for the wound to never heal. So you could see his devotion to you. To witness the death of his sanity in front of your very eyes.

There are no guards outside the front of your chambers. A fact Aemond cannot help but be disgusted by when he sees it as he walks to the familiar doors. Later that night he’ll find those two men tasked with the purpose of keeping you safe, and he’ll make sure to strip them of whatever dignity and honour they believed to possess. Perhaps the comfort of the wall would suit them nicely? Or the kiss of his blade?

Aemond raises his fist to knock at the door, but voices keep him from doing so. Specific voices. Yours and Aegons voices…

Before he knows it, Aemond is pushing himself against the wood as much as he can so he can hear every beautiful syllable of your voice. He does not care at first for the meanings behind them, but he certainly begins to when he realises what he is listening too are some very familiar high pitched sounds. Breathless sounds that Aemond had told you on yours and his wedding night that only he would hear.

While Aemond waits outside your door, he can hear your voices of pleasure radiating from the other side.

His fists are clenched no more to knock, but instead in anger. And the dulled throb of the small cut earlier on his hand flares up again as it reopened from his carelessness. Yet instead of moving to stem the blood, Aemond grows an idea deep from within him. Aemond snatches his dagger from his belt, and with no hesitation, quickly slices a deep mark on his inner palm.

His posture and frame is deathly still while the blood begins to heavily pool and drip onto the ground, only moving to place his hand firmly against the wooden door, watching it drip down the dark wood and trail to the stone flooring.

He can see the large puddle flow under your door, and Aemond wishes nothing more at that moment for you to see it. To see him. To see his devotion. His love. His sacrifice for you. If he hadn’t already lost it, Aemond would’ve torn out his eye and shoved it under the door too as a gift for you to make you stop your torturing of his soul.

Aemond only steps away when the blood pool reaches his shoes, and even then it’s with great resistance from himself as he stuffs the still bleeding wound against his dark coat that already begins to rapidly absorb the blood. He can even feel it soak his undershirt and his skin.

He goes straight to his chambers that night instead of paying a visit to the maesters. He does the same the next night, and the one after that.

Instead, Aemond relishes in the look he receives from Aegon the next morning. The look of utter horror and fear that speaks at least over a thousand words. The look that tells him you now finally know of his gift and his devotion to you. The look that tells him he is one step closer to you again.

Aemond Targaryen refuses to rest until he is drained entirely of his blood and it is pooled directly at your feet. He refuses to rest until his heart is laid bare in his hands and is presented to you like a septa presents the gods with their offerings. Until his name can be uttered from your precious lips without your own heart breaking from sorrow.

Aemond Targaryens heart could break a thousand times over, each time bloodier than the next, but he refuses to allow yours to break again. Not by his hand at least…

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen/reader #aemond #aemond one eye #aemond x fem!reader #aemond x reader #house of the dragon aemond #aemond x you #aemond targaryen request #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen x fem!reader #aemond targaryen fanfic #prince aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen angst #the death of a life au

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pedropascallme · 1 month

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Didn’t You Miss My Voice?

Pairing: Damien Haas x f!Reader

Summary: “‘I miss you, too.’ You sighed, ‘Wanna show you, Damien.’ You kicked the sheets off your lower half, sending them down the bed and letting your legs spread slightly in anticipation. ‘Can I show you how much I miss you?’”

Warnings: Phone sex, masturbation (f & m), praise, kinda soft!Dom Damien, panty sniffing involved i repeat panty sniffing involved!! Damien wants to fuck you so bad it makes him look stupid. If I missed anything please let me know!

When he left for PAX East, he had taken one of your sweatshirts, worn it on the plane to self-soothe, and planned to sleep in it or near it the next few nights so he could dream that you were closer.

Damien liked having something of yours nearby. On days or weeks that he was away, he packed any article of clothing of yours that he could, just to be able to envision you nearby.

It had started accidentally, after he packed a shirt of yours that looked near identical to one of his for a con. From then on it had become second nature to bring along something of yours for the allotted time that he would be away from home—away from you—so that he didn’t get as homesick. He didn’t think you had even noticed; the five shirts he wore on rotation could never compare to the dozens of various outfits that overflowed from your dresser.

He was fully convinced that his thievery had gone unnoticed by you. So, when he opened his suitcase on day three of being away, rooting around in it to find something comfortable to sleep in, and felt something silken and lacy at his fingertips instead of the flannel pajama pants he was expecting, he couldn’t help the genuine shock that hit him. Damien pushed the surrounding heap of his own clothes away and pulled out the piece of fabric that he had come across.

He held up the soft pink panties, swallowing upon recognizing them as the ones you had worn the night before he left; how you’d ground your hips against his and let him pull the lacy material to the side so that he could see how pretty you looked in them while you came undone on his cock.

He felt lightheaded.

The blood must’ve rushed elsewhere.

There was a note safety-pinned to the waistband, and he undid the clip before letting himself read what it said.

I miss you. Call me when you find these? <3

Your handwriting made his heart swell. God, he missed you. Even after only three days, he missed you so much.

Damien hurried to your contact in his phone. You picked up on the first ring.

“I was waiting for this call.” He could hear your smile, imagining the way your lips curled against the phone’s mic. You had been in bed when he called, his smell lingering on the pillow you had tucked under your head.

“You’re too good to me,” Damien could feel the heat rising in his face, “You’re really, really, too good to me.”

“Thought I hadn’t caught on to your light robbery?”

“Are you accusing me of a crime?” He laughed, and the sound made you feel warm.

“I’m just saying, there are only so many times I can misplace a shirt that suddenly reappears when you come home until I begin to suspect something.” You giggled, hoping he knew you weren’t at all mad. “It’s cute, actually. You know that?”

“Me?” He returned the lighthearted banter. He held your underwear in a closed fist, keeping them close to his chest. “What, uh—what made me so deserving of this…gift?” His voice got deeper on the last word, and you bit your lip.

“Didn’t want you to leave without a reminder of what was waiting for you at home.”

“I have your sweatshirt, baby.” He sat on the mattress, reaching out with his hand still wrapped around your panties to touch the hoodie he’d taken from you, laid out next to him on the bed. “And even if I didn’t, you know I’m always thinking of you.”

“I know,” you verified, “But I like making sure. Didn't you miss my voice, baby?”

“I know,” he echoed your words. “And I did—I do. Miss your voice. I miss you. So much.”

“I miss you, too.” You sighed, “Wanna show you, Damien.” You kicked the sheets off your lower half, sending them down the bed and letting your legs spread slightly in anticipation. “Can I show you how much I miss you?”

Damien had to stifle a groan, already eager from just the sound of your voice and the way you whined his name. “Yeah? You want to show me?”

You nodded, before remembering he couldn’t see you. “Yes—yeah.”

Though he was reluctant to put your panties down, he managed to part with them briefly before undoing his fly with one hand. His other hand gripped his phone, knuckles going white as he tried to make up for the physical absence. He brought his hand up when he finished unfastening his jeans, retrieving your panties from the spot he’d left them in on the bed. He brought them to his face and inhaled the piquant scent; sharp and stimulating and perfect—just like you—in a way that your sweatshirt could never replicate. He hesitated to wrap his hand around his cock, palming himself through his boxers to make this last as long as he could draw it out for. “You gonna listen to what I say even though I’m not home?”

“Always.” Your response was immediate, and he could tell by the strain in your voice that you were just as needy as he was. “I promise.”

“That’s my good girl,” He squeezed his bulge, still trying to exercise patience and allow himself time to play with you. “I’m giving you permission to touch, baby. One finger, can you do that for me? Rub your clit nice and slow?”

“Yeah.” You whimpered into the phone, thrilled by the way his voice lowered when he talked you through the act. You let out a small gasp when you touched yourself—half for show, and half because you’d been good while he was gone, not allowing yourself to play with what was his. You were sensitive in the most premier of ways.

“How’s that feel?” He asked, biting his tongue upon hearing your moans.

“Good,” you murmured.

“Better than when I do it?” His eyelids felt heavy, the sound of your quiet, breathy noises acting like a sort of relaxant.

“No—not at all. Miss your hands. Miss how you touch me.” You picked up the pace just a bit, trying to find the proper rhythm.

“Is that what you’re thinking about, princess?” He smiled, eyes closing as he finally let himself remove his cock from his boxers. “You want me to touch you?”

“Yes,” you found the proper tempo, rolling your finger over your clit in double-time with your breathing. “Come home, Damien, want your hands.”

He moaned, loving how quickly your power play had turned into you begging for him, and he wished more than anything that he could give you what you needed. He held himself at the base, teasing himself with your sounds and the light touch of his own fingers. “I’ll give you whatever you want when I come home, baby, I promise.”

“Want your hands, and your mouth—want your cock.” You pleaded, still using one finger to massage yourself, unwavering in your commitment to follow his orders.

“You can have all of me, princess—are you getting yourself all wet? How about you use your one finger and tell me how soaked you are.”

“I can put it in?” You corroborated, making sure you had permission.

“Go ahead, baby. Play with that needy pussy for me.” Damien wrapped the panties you’d sent with him around the base of his cock. He dragged the fabric up and down over himself to find some relief, coating himself with the residue of the last time he got to fuck you before leaving for the week.

You trailed your finger up your slit, collecting the slick that coated the lips of your cunt, before pushing into your entrance. You whined, and Damien pulled your panties tighter around his cock.

“Doesn’t—not as big as yours.” You complained, curling your finger against the tender spot inside of you and wishing it was his hand pressed against your cunt.

“I know, baby, but you’re doing so good.” He reassured, watching the pink fabric of your underwear as he pulled it over his length, the quiver in your words making him think of all the ways he could fuck you until you lost your voice from crying out for him. Maybe he’d have you bouncing up and down on him in the same way that he moved your panties over his cock. “You can add another finger, how about that? Is that what you need?”

“Yes, please.”

“Go ahead, princess, use two.” He listened intently at the way your breath hitched when you pushed a second finger into your hole; he could tell you had him on speaker, the squelch of your fingers thrusting into your wet cunt were amplified. He let out a quiet moan of your name, wrapping his hand around his cock and over your panties, letting his fingers manipulate the silk and press it more firmly against his length.

“Still not as good as yours,” you arched your back, picking up the pace and letting your fingertips push more forcefully against your g-spot.

“No? Not as good as when I fuck you with my fingers?” His chest rose and fell steadily, heart rate skyrocketing from the adrenaline he got touching himself paired with the knowledge that you were there on the other end making yourself feel good.

“No, yours are bigger. Fill me up so much better.” You whimpered when the pads of your fingers found the perfect nook to rest upon. The spot with heightened sensitivity that he found with such ease required you to bend your arm at a difficult angle, but it was well worth it; the tickle spread through the lower half of your body, goosebumps breaking out over your skin at the feeling. “Fuck, but it does feel good, Damien—please.”

“Please what?” He was trying not to pant, and trying harder not to beg, so desperate to hear you make yourself cum.

“Tell me how you’re touching yourself—what you’re thinking.” Your mouth hung open when you finished your thought, lost in the joy of finally having time alone with him after days of being apart, emphasized by the blissful way your fingers moved in and out of you.

“Thinking about you,” he breathed, “told you, baby, I’m always thinking about you.”

This earned a moan from you, and he tried to imagine how you looked; two fingers driving into your cunt, soaked in your own juices, trying to fuck yourself open despite knowing only he could give you what you really wanted.

His imagination didn’t do you justice. You were too perfect. He needed the real thing.

“More,” you whined, “Tell me more. Please?” You needed to hear his voice. If you couldn’t have him physically right now, you at least wanted to hear him tell you all the filthy pictures running through his mind.

“Have your panties wrapped around my cock,” he listened to you gasp at his words, proud that he could get you so excited even when he was miles away. “Thinking about all the things I want to do to you when I come home." He took a shaky breath, tightening the grasp he had on his cock and trying hopelessly to emulate the feeling of your cunt wrapped around him. "Is that what you want to hear about?"

"Yeah," you were whining, voice pitched up and breathing unsteady.

"Think maybe I’ll use my fingers on you since that’s what you seem to need so badly. Does that sound good, princess?” The image prompted by his words made him groan, bucking into his fist. The silken fabric of your panties acted as an improvised lubricant, gliding over his skin as he jerked himself off.

“Oh my god, Damien,” you used to heel of your palm to grant your clit friction, same two fingers still plunging in and out of you. “Yes, yes, need it!”

“Yeah, that’s right—use my fingers on you until you’re sore, bet you’d like that wouldn’t you? Till you can’t take anymore, then I’ll fuck you so nice, baby, make you cum one more time on my cock.” He couldn’t take his eyes off his own movements, watching, enthralled, as he brought your panties in his fist up to the tip of his cock before bringing the stroke back down and repeating the motion. “Need to feel you cum for me so fucking bad, that’s all I want.” He was whining now, frustrated and missing you. “Can’t wait to come home and give you what you deserve, baby—I want to make you feel so good.”

“You make me feel so good, Damien. Want—want you to come home,” you were so close, needing only a small push to fall off the edge now. “I’ll be so good for you, I’ll do wha—whatever you want.”

“Want you to cum for me, princess,” he gritted his teeth, trying to stave off his climax for just a little longer. “Want you to make yourself cum, baby. Need you to be a good girl and fuck yourself till you cum for me.”

His words were the push you needed; the exertion in his voice and the desperation behind his words made your abs tense as you used your fingers to make yourself cum. You cried out his name, turning your head to push your face into the pillow you could still smell him on. Your fingers stroked your most delicate spot, drawing out your high with trembling legs while you mumbled his name like a quiet prayer.

“Good fucking girl. Christ—” Damien’s jaw went slack when he heard your moans, your whimpers of his name made him feel something primal and wanting. “I’m gonna cum for you—fuck!—gonna cum with these pretty panties wrapped around me like this.” His words were stuttered, and his hips faltered as he fucked his hand, spilling into his fist and over the shirt he’d failed to take off.

The two of you breathed heavily over the phone, the sound of both your gasps overtaking both rooms despite the miles between you.

"I miss you so much." Damien wheezed, lazily wiping off the cum that dribbled over his skin with his shirt.

"I could tell," you laughed, drained but feeling carefree and light after unwinding with him like this.

"What gave it away?" You could picture him over the phone, face matching his question; smile wide and brow creased as he held back a laugh.

You shrugged, aware that he couldn't see you but certain that he would pick up on the sarcasm in your quiet "I dunno."

"That was ok, right? You feel ok?" His voice was softer, the force in his words diminished and replaced with his typical kindness. "Tired?"

"Tired." You confirmed, yawning. "Come home."

"Two more days."

"That's too long." You protested, and he laughed quietly.

"I promise I'll make it up to you." Damien meant it wholeheartedly; he wanted to make sure you knew that every time he left, he could only ever think about coming home to you.

"I know you will." And you knew he was telling the truth.

There was a moment of quiet, both of you still breathless and stretching the ache in your joints following your impromptu rendezvous.

"Will you stay on the phone with me?" His voice was small. He still got nervous asking you to do things like that, feeling like a lovestruck teenager and unable to hide his timidity despite having heard you scream his name while you came just moments ago.

"Yes, please." You smiled, eyes closing, "Like a sleepover."

"Just like a sleepover." He sighed dreamily, tired grin painted on his face. "I love you."

"I love you, too." You settled into bed, fixing the covers and making yourself comfortable. Damien listened to you rustle the sheets, focusing on how the sound of your breathing leveled out as you dozed off.

He undressed himself, and got comfortable in the unnaturally well-made hotel bed, smiling at your soft snores and impatiently counting down the days until he could once again hold you while you slept. He grabbed your sweatshirt, placing it under his head, between himself and the pillow, and breathed in your scent.

Even when he wasn't home, he knew he had you—and you were all he ever really wanted.

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