Reader Here For Every Person That Just Wanted To Smack A Bitch

Reader here for every person that just wanted to smack a bitch 😀🤜

And there’s definitely a part two coming! Hopefully sooner than you might expect 👀

Fuck Everything, But Mostly Fuck You

Summary: You have never, EVER, in a million years hated anyone the way you hated Felix fucking Catton.

Warnings- MDNI 18+, Felix is delulu, Reader is stressed and homesick and kinda crazy but she a baddie, Michael is Michael, Farleigh is Farleigh, Oliver will be Oliver (a creep), and author has spent too much time researching Oxford crap for this mess for a crack fic to be a crack fic

Author's Note: This fic is a follow-up to this post and I would like to thank grammarly for catching all my grammatical errors 🥲, @ethereal-athalia for enabling my crazy ideas 🥰, and @valeskafics for providing me Saltburn smut when I catch myself thirsting 😇

“FUCK!” you yelled at the top of your lungs just before your nose slammed down on the dewy grass.

Groaning in pain before the mortification of realizing what had just happened kicked in.

You didn’t know what was worse: the fact you had a full front view of the giant’s junk or that he body-slammed you onto the ground and caused you to land on top of the painting worth 30% of your final grade.

You wanted to scream your head off. The paint had finally dried, and you could finally leave the studio at two in the morning. It was close to finals, and pretty much anyone on campus who didn’t get accepted because of their daddy’s bank account was in their dorms. You had hoped that this fact would mean that the paths were empty and, therefore, safe to transport your 30” x 40” canvas.

“SORRY!”

You shot your head up to locate the person who just apologized. Lo’ and behold, it was the same plastered, pasty cunt with a bird’s nest disaster of a haircut drunken idiot who decided it was a good idea to go streaking across campus. His only other distinguishable features were that he was at least 6’3” and that he had a small steel piece pierced on his face.

After the “apology,” he and his friend continued running off to God’s knows where in the dead of night—leaving you behind on the lawn with a bleeding nose, bruised knees and palms, and an oil painting that was torn and caked in mud three days before its deadline.

There was no way to redo it. The project was assigned at the beginning of October. It took 5 hours to set up the models with the motifs and lights, 3 hours to take pictures, and 10 hours to underdraw the preliminary sketch. You didn’t even want to think about the sheer number of sleepless nights you spent in the studio mixing colors and layering. On top of that, you also had your other finals in other courses to study for.

You had practically been living in that studio for the past month. All of the custodians and security guards knew you by name. You got first dibs every day when they refilled the vending machines. It was a true godsend when you didn’t have time to visit the dining halls. Everyone had been so kind and sweet to you. It was a warm welcome compared to the snark and snobbery you experienced from most of your classmates.

Crying from the devastation of the loss of your situation, your shaking legs carried your body and what remained of your work into the building. You knew that your professor stayed in her office late for grading. You could only hope that she would sympathize with your pitiful appearance.

“Wait, so did you get the extension?”

Lifting your head from the sticky library table at Bodleian’s, you stared at your best only friend, Michael Gavey, with a blank stare. You didn’t react to his wince after he took in your haggard appearance. You didn’t need a mirror to know that you looked terrible.

Your eyes were puffy and bloodshot red with dark mulberry bags underneath them. You had paled since coming to dreary England, but now you looked straight-up sickly. And if that wasn’t enough, your eyes had less life than a dead fish rotting at a Sunday Market.

Your voice was so meek that you were sure he had to strain to hear you.

“Yeah…I got it.”

You knew you had no choice but to beg your Studio Arts professor for an extension. But it killed you doing it. Professor Daria Martin was your favorite teacher and the only faculty member who actually liked you. Her support toward you meant everything to you; the last thing you wanted to do was disappoint her, let alone be the reason why she lost her job.

Your usually so snarky four-eyed friend perked up at the news.

“So, is everything okay?” he asked with hope.

Your head fell on neon-yellow ink-stained pages that filled the paperweight your ethics professor called a textbook. A bitter laugh fell from as your lips lifted to a wry, dry grin.

“Oof, not that simple, is it?” he asked.

“Is it ever?”

“So what do you have to do now?”

“Well-,” you lifted your head to take a deep breath as you started to explain, “- I still have the photos and copies of the sketch. But because the canvas was so large, it was special-ordered. That means I need to wait until another one can be delivered, and since all the works need to be completed in the studio, I can’t leave the campus.”

As you finished your explanation, Michael nodded his head in understanding before he paused, and a look of devastation painted his features.

“Wait, so does that mean-”

“I won’t be able to fly back home for the holidays.”

Fuck, you were about to cry again. You had been so excited to see your old friends and family. You remembered how absolutely homesick you were at the beginning of the term. Because you were a scholarship student from America, your parents encouraged you to settle on campus by moving to your dorm earlier than everyone else. It was bad enough that you missed Thanksgiving, but you had really set your heart on coming home for Christmas and New Year’s. What made it worse was that your parents had told you all about the dinner they had planned for your homecoming. It was going to be a feast of all your favorites.

English food sucked balls.

Your only saving grace was the Crunchie bars Michael got for you when you studied together or when you had to rewrite edit his essays.

You really DID cry after first reading his essay for Introductory English class at the beginning of the year.

“Did you try to report it?”

“Report what? ‘Hey, there’s a wasted asshole running naked across campus, and he body-slammed me to the ground and tore my fucking massive campus that blocked my view of the jackass. He’s probably richer than the goddamn Queen, given how he’s wasted right before finals.’”

“Do you have any description of him?”

“He’s a giant with a small eyebrow piercing, and his fat ass looked like it had never seen the sun.”

Without lifting your head, you heard the scrape of Michael’s chair before he walked across the table to sit in the chair next to you.

“Hey,” he began, bringing you into a warm arm hug, “it’ll be okay. You called your parents about it, right?”

“Yeah -” you sighed before continuing, “- they told me they understood and would Skype me daily.”

“See! Everything’s going to be – wait, did you say that this guy was tall?”

Furrowing your brow in confusion, you looked at your friend at the change in his tone from light and supportive to sharp and interrogative.

“Yeah?”

“How tall?”

“Umm,” you had to think about that, “I’d say he was about 6’3” or above? He was really fucking tall.”

“And he had an eyebrow piercing?”

Ok, now you were really confused. “Yes? Michael, where are you going with this?”

“I think the guy who ran you over was Felix Catton.”

You shot your favorite idiot with a deadpan glare.

“Felix Catton? The same Felix Catton who just so happens to be the same Felix Catton you hate?”

Michael solemnly nodded. “It’s him. It has to be. The only person on campus as tall as him is his cousin, and he doesn’t have piercings.”

“And he’s black.”

“Yeah, that too.”

You were skeptical, and it showed. You didn’t want to callously dismiss your friend, but you knew more than anyone how much his hatred for Oxford’s Golden Boy could impair his judgment. You were by no means a fan of the guy, but accusing someone of anything they didn’t do just because your friend thought so went against your principles.

He grabbed your arm and dragged you to the bookshelf in front of the table where Felix and his groupies sat. Both of your books and bags were in your chairs, but you managed to keep your spiral notebook with you. It wasn’t hard to find them – they were the loudest table in the entire library. They also reeked of cigarettes and booze.

“See?” Michael hissed. “Giant, pale, and eyebrow piercing. It’s him!”

“Michael,” you softly groaned, “just because you hate Felix Catton doesn’t mean you can –”

An extremely shrill voice interrupted you.

“I can’t believe you and Farleigh actually ran around campus naked!”

A petite girl with full pink lips and dull red hair latched on the arm of the man of the hour. “It was so hot to watch!”

This girl has weird-ass tastes in guys.

“And then how you crashed into that dunce at Ruskin! Brilliant!”

Your blood ran cold while another one of Catton’s faceless droning puppets chimed in.

“God, what an idiot! It’s their own fault, anyway. Who the fuck walks in the middle of the walk path with a fucking big canvas in front of them?”

One of the lessons hammered into your skull young was never to move before you think. That lesson had saved you ten ways from Sunday. But this was not one of those times.

You’re pretty sure that you hear Michael calling out your name as you walk away from the shelf and towards the overcrowded table. Tunnel vision took over you as you made your way to the overgrown idiot who almost cost you your entire future.

Grabbing the back of his shirt collar, you dragged the 6’5” towering fool on his ass all the way outside. You finally let go when the two of you reached the back of the building that had no windows.

“Hey, what the fu –”

You didn’t let him finish as you brought your fist to hit him square in the face – and, fuck, did you relish the crunch that immediately followed your swing.

Fuck, was his head killing him.

Felix should have known better than to have gotten cross-faded last night, but Farleigh had practically goaded him to do it. It’s not like his cousin ever had to worry about his grades for any of his courses during finals – the little shit-starter had always been so fucking academically gifted.

He skipped pretty much all of his morning classes and barely made it to his afternoon schedule on time while completely zoning out the entire time.

If he bombs on all his finals, his dad was going to absolutely murder him. But chances were he and his mum were going to be too busy entertaining whichever new friend his mum brought in for shelter.

“You alright there, champ?”

Felix swiveled his head too quickly and immediately groaned in pain. The motion made his hangover even worse. Rubbing his eyes to try to soothe the pounding in his head, he slowly opened them to look at his cousin.

The slag didn’t have the decency to look even a little bit affected from last night’s event – the fucker. No, he was sitting there with all Cheshire grins and gleaming eyes while Felix was two seconds from heaving his guts out.

“Yeah, I’m alright, mate.” He replied in a tired groan.

“Must have been quite the night. Wonder if it had anything to do with that little cocktail you took from our sweet Annabel’s belly button?”

Disgust was clear on Felix’s face as he recalled the body shot he had taken from his ex-FWB’s navel. He truly must have been off his rocker last night – he thought he was over with body shots since graduating secondary, but apparently not.

If he somehow got an STD from doing it, V was going to kill him.

But even with all of his horrible actions that caused the raging war inside his skull, that wasn’t the main cause of his misery.

Farleigh’s grin dropped as judgment painted his features.

“Oh,” he moaned, “please tell me this isn’t about ‘your angel’ from last night.”

He didn’t just take the dare of streaking across the grounds just for the hell of it. He needed an excuse to pass through the art building – all for the chance of seeing you.

You. His angel of paints and books who lived in the empty studio rooms of Oxford University’s Ruskin School of Art and whose presence harangued him every hour of every day. Everywhere Felix went, he would unconsciously look for you.

It was his soul calling out for yours – he knew it.

Felix had never felt so drawn to another human being in his entire existence. He’d never seen you outside of the libraries, art building, and maybe the dining hall if he was lucky. You never went to any parties or even had a drink at the pub at King’s Arms. He didn’t even have classes with you, but he knew Farleigh did. Word was that you and his cousin had shared a few classes – what’s more was that you were likely the only person who could go head-to-head with him in academics.

And to make it worse, the prat refused to tell him anything about you – not even your fucking name.

“Believe me,” he told him after Felix had been begging his cousin for hours to share anything about you, “she is way above your league.”

Which really hurt his feelings, by the way – sure, you were probably way above in book smarts, but there wasn’t a girl that remained indifferent to his charms after a good talking fucking.

“I still can’t believe you won’t at least tell me her name,” Felix complained once more, “or even just give me her number!”

“She’s an American here on scholarship and a bore,” he quipped back, “what’s there to tell? And can you please shut up? I want to get some reading done before tonight. You do remember the in-class essay we have tomorrow, right?”

Bloody hell, he did not. Pushing down the bitter feeling in his chest, he and his cousin made their way to meet everyone at the back. As soon as he sat down, Annabel clung on to his arm. Thank fuck he had been wearing one of his thicker jumpers – otherwise, her claws that she called nails would have ripped open the fabric.

“Hey, Felix!” she made sure to offer a very generous sight of her cleavage, “are you ready for tonight?”

Felix chuckled lowly before responding. “Aren’t I always?”

And just like that – he completely zoned out the rest of the conversation.

Annabel was probably saying something to get him to notice her, and Farleigh was likely responding so he wouldn’t have to – but Felix couldn’t be bothered to pretend to care.

He was lost in the living daydream that was his angel that haunted the art studios of Ruskin School of Art.

He was desperate to learn everything about you.

If he asked you to talk about your favorite books, would your eyes sparkle in delight, or would your smile widen in glee?

If he grabbed your hand, would your palms feel marred by his rough skin, or would you press your callouses to his?

If he pressed his mouth on yours, would your lips feel as soft and plump as they look? Or was their luster forever damaged by your teeth biting them whenever you were in deep concentration?

If he breathed in your scent at the crook of your neck, would your skin smell like the paints forever on your brushes or the musky pages of heavy ancient books you always carried in your arms?

If he planted kisses from your throat to your breasts, would you mewl in pleasure or whimper in anticipation?

If he touched your cunt, would you arch your back in ecstasy? Or would your legs crumble, and you would have no choice but to sink into his arms?

Felix’s thoughts were rudely interrupted when Farleigh jammed his bony elbow into his ribcage and hurriedly whispered.

“Look alive, Golden Boy.”

Looking forward, it was better than any of his wet dreams combined. It was you.

Your hair was loose, and your fists were clenched. You reminded him of a ferocious lion goddess with how focused your gaze was on him.

But before Felix would prepare himself to make a good impression, you walked behind him and grabbed the back of his shirt collar before fucking dragging his ass out of his seat and outside.

Bloody hell, for someone so much shorter than him, you were fucking strong.

When you finally released your grip, he fell on the ground like an idiot before he tried to stand and steady himself as quickly as he could.

“Hey, what the fu –”

You didn’t let him finish as you brought your fist to hit him square in the face – and, fuck, you might have actually broken his nose.

After staggering back, you started using the spiral notebook in your other hand to land blow after painful blow on his body.

“YOU. STUPID. FUCKING. INGRATE –” Each word that left your mouth was emphasized with another hit from your notebook “– I. HATE. YOU. YOU. RUINED. MY. PAINTING. I. SPENT. SO. MUCH. TIME. ON. IT. AND. NOW. I. CAN’T. GO. HOME. FOR. BREAK. BECAUSE. OF. YOUR. STUPID. SELF!”

Felix was confident you had more to say, but you were pulled off him by your friend – he’s pretty sure it’s Mitchell – by the waist with you kicking and screaming out profanities to him as your friend called out your name to try to calm you down.

He wondered what it said about him if he told anyone how much you looked like an angry cat. His parents would send him to a shrink if he told them how adorable he found you right now.

If you were this wild while fighting, he could only imagine how riled up you would get in bed.

Fuck, you might have just unlocked a new kink in him.

Catching his breath as he watched your friend drag you away into the distance, he heard a slow clap to his left.

Farleigh was leaning on the corner – his smug expression making it clear that he had seen the whole thing – as he looked at his cousin with a bemused expression before walking toward him and giving a sympathetic pat on his back.

“Well,” he started to break the tension, “at least you know her name.”

“Yeah,” Felix agreed, “I know her name.”

And he knew that you smelled more like the paints on your brushes than the books you carried with subtle notes of gardenias.

Tagging: @aemondsbabe, @ethereal-athalia, @aphroditesmoon, @barbiedragon, @valeskafics, @lexyysworld, @punkiwiki, @saltburnedme, @arcielee

Let me know if you want to be tagged for future Saltburn fics!

If there’s anything I know about Queens is that it’s a breeding ground for fighters and biters 🫡

Fuck Everything, But Mostly Fuck You

Summary: You have never, EVER, in a million years hated anyone the way you hated Felix fucking Catton.

Warnings- MDNI 18+, Felix is delulu, Reader is stressed and homesick and kinda crazy but she a baddie, Michael is Michael, Farleigh is Farleigh, Oliver will be Oliver (a creep), and author has spent too much time researching Oxford crap for this mess for a crack fic to be a crack fic

Author's Note: This fic is a follow-up to this post and I would like to thank grammarly for catching all my grammatical errors 🥲, @ethereal-athalia for enabling my crazy ideas 🥰, and @valeskafics for providing me Saltburn smut when I catch myself thirsting 😇

“FUCK!” you yelled at the top of your lungs just before your nose slammed down on the dewy grass.

Groaning in pain before the mortification of realizing what had just happened kicked in.

You didn’t know what was worse: the fact you had a full front view of the giant’s junk or that he body-slammed you onto the ground and caused you to land on top of the painting worth 30% of your final grade.

You wanted to scream your head off. The paint had finally dried, and you could finally leave the studio at two in the morning. It was close to finals, and pretty much anyone on campus who didn’t get accepted because of their daddy’s bank account was in their dorms. You had hoped that this fact would mean that the paths were empty and, therefore, safe to transport your 30” x 40” canvas.

“SORRY!”

You shot your head up to locate the person who just apologized. Lo’ and behold, it was the same plastered, pasty cunt with a bird’s nest disaster of a haircut drunken idiot who decided it was a good idea to go streaking across campus. His only other distinguishable features were that he was at least 6’3” and that he had a small steel piece pierced on his face.

After the “apology,” he and his friend continued running off to God’s knows where in the dead of night—leaving you behind on the lawn with a bleeding nose, bruised knees and palms, and an oil painting that was torn and caked in mud three days before its deadline.

There was no way to redo it. The project was assigned at the beginning of October. It took 5 hours to set up the models with the motifs and lights, 3 hours to take pictures, and 10 hours to underdraw the preliminary sketch. You didn’t even want to think about the sheer number of sleepless nights you spent in the studio mixing colors and layering. On top of that, you also had your other finals in other courses to study for.

You had practically been living in that studio for the past month. All of the custodians and security guards knew you by name. You got first dibs every day when they refilled the vending machines. It was a true godsend when you didn’t have time to visit the dining halls. Everyone had been so kind and sweet to you. It was a warm welcome compared to the snark and snobbery you experienced from most of your classmates.

Crying from the devastation of the loss of your situation, your shaking legs carried your body and what remained of your work into the building. You knew that your professor stayed in her office late for grading. You could only hope that she would sympathize with your pitiful appearance.

“Wait, so did you get the extension?”

Lifting your head from the sticky library table at Bodleian’s, you stared at your best only friend, Michael Gavey, with a blank stare. You didn’t react to his wince after he took in your haggard appearance. You didn’t need a mirror to know that you looked terrible.

Your eyes were puffy and bloodshot red with dark mulberry bags underneath them. You had paled since coming to dreary England, but now you looked straight-up sickly. And if that wasn’t enough, your eyes had less life than a dead fish rotting at a Sunday Market.

Your voice was so meek that you were sure he had to strain to hear you.

“Yeah…I got it.”

You knew you had no choice but to beg your Studio Arts professor for an extension. But it killed you doing it. Professor Daria Martin was your favorite teacher and the only faculty member who actually liked you. Her support toward you meant everything to you; the last thing you wanted to do was disappoint her, let alone be the reason why she lost her job.

Your usually so snarky four-eyed friend perked up at the news.

“So, is everything okay?” he asked with hope.

Your head fell on neon-yellow ink-stained pages that filled the paperweight your ethics professor called a textbook. A bitter laugh fell from as your lips lifted to a wry, dry grin.

“Oof, not that simple, is it?” he asked.

“Is it ever?”

“So what do you have to do now?”

“Well-,” you lifted your head to take a deep breath as you started to explain, “- I still have the photos and copies of the sketch. But because the canvas was so large, it was special-ordered. That means I need to wait until another one can be delivered, and since all the works need to be completed in the studio, I can’t leave the campus.”

As you finished your explanation, Michael nodded his head in understanding before he paused, and a look of devastation painted his features.

“Wait, so does that mean-”

“I won’t be able to fly back home for the holidays.”

Fuck, you were about to cry again. You had been so excited to see your old friends and family. You remembered how absolutely homesick you were at the beginning of the term. Because you were a scholarship student from America, your parents encouraged you to settle on campus by moving to your dorm earlier than everyone else. It was bad enough that you missed Thanksgiving, but you had really set your heart on coming home for Christmas and New Year’s. What made it worse was that your parents had told you all about the dinner they had planned for your homecoming. It was going to be a feast of all your favorites.

English food sucked balls.

Your only saving grace was the Crunchie bars Michael got for you when you studied together or when you had to rewrite edit his essays.

You really DID cry after first reading his essay for Introductory English class at the beginning of the year.

“Did you try to report it?”

“Report what? ‘Hey, there’s a wasted asshole running naked across campus, and he body-slammed me to the ground and tore my fucking massive campus that blocked my view of the jackass. He’s probably richer than the goddamn Queen, given how he’s wasted right before finals.’”

“Do you have any description of him?”

“He’s a giant with a small eyebrow piercing, and his fat ass looked like it had never seen the sun.”

Without lifting your head, you heard the scrape of Michael’s chair before he walked across the table to sit in the chair next to you.

“Hey,” he began, bringing you into a warm arm hug, “it’ll be okay. You called your parents about it, right?”

“Yeah -” you sighed before continuing, “- they told me they understood and would Skype me daily.”

“See! Everything’s going to be – wait, did you say that this guy was tall?”

Furrowing your brow in confusion, you looked at your friend at the change in his tone from light and supportive to sharp and interrogative.

“Yeah?”

“How tall?”

“Umm,” you had to think about that, “I’d say he was about 6’3” or above? He was really fucking tall.”

“And he had an eyebrow piercing?”

Ok, now you were really confused. “Yes? Michael, where are you going with this?”

“I think the guy who ran you over was Felix Catton.”

You shot your favorite idiot with a deadpan glare.

“Felix Catton? The same Felix Catton who just so happens to be the same Felix Catton you hate?”

Michael solemnly nodded. “It’s him. It has to be. The only person on campus as tall as him is his cousin, and he doesn’t have piercings.”

“And he’s black.”

“Yeah, that too.”

You were skeptical, and it showed. You didn’t want to callously dismiss your friend, but you knew more than anyone how much his hatred for Oxford’s Golden Boy could impair his judgment. You were by no means a fan of the guy, but accusing someone of anything they didn’t do just because your friend thought so went against your principles.

He grabbed your arm and dragged you to the bookshelf in front of the table where Felix and his groupies sat. Both of your books and bags were in your chairs, but you managed to keep your spiral notebook with you. It wasn’t hard to find them – they were the loudest table in the entire library. They also reeked of cigarettes and booze.

“See?” Michael hissed. “Giant, pale, and eyebrow piercing. It’s him!”

“Michael,” you softly groaned, “just because you hate Felix Catton doesn’t mean you can –”

An extremely shrill voice interrupted you.

“I can’t believe you and Farleigh actually ran around campus naked!”

A petite girl with full pink lips and dull red hair latched on the arm of the man of the hour. “It was so hot to watch!”

This girl has weird-ass tastes in guys.

“And then how you crashed into that dunce at Ruskin! Brilliant!”

Your blood ran cold while another one of Catton’s faceless droning puppets chimed in.

“God, what an idiot! It’s their own fault, anyway. Who the fuck walks in the middle of the walk path with a fucking big canvas in front of them?”

One of the lessons hammered into your skull young was never to move before you think. That lesson had saved you ten ways from Sunday. But this was not one of those times.

You’re pretty sure that you hear Michael calling out your name as you walk away from the shelf and towards the overcrowded table. Tunnel vision took over you as you made your way to the overgrown idiot who almost cost you your entire future.

Grabbing the back of his shirt collar, you dragged the 6’5” towering fool on his ass all the way outside. You finally let go when the two of you reached the back of the building that had no windows.

“Hey, what the fu –”

You didn’t let him finish as you brought your fist to hit him square in the face – and, fuck, did you relish the crunch that immediately followed your swing.

Fuck, was his head killing him.

Felix should have known better than to have gotten cross-faded last night, but Farleigh had practically goaded him to do it. It’s not like his cousin ever had to worry about his grades for any of his courses during finals – the little shit-starter had always been so fucking academically gifted.

He skipped pretty much all of his morning classes and barely made it to his afternoon schedule on time while completely zoning out the entire time.

If he bombs on all his finals, his dad was going to absolutely murder him. But chances were he and his mum were going to be too busy entertaining whichever new friend his mum brought in for shelter.

“You alright there, champ?”

Felix swiveled his head too quickly and immediately groaned in pain. The motion made his hangover even worse. Rubbing his eyes to try to soothe the pounding in his head, he slowly opened them to look at his cousin.

The slag didn’t have the decency to look even a little bit affected from last night’s event – the fucker. No, he was sitting there with all Cheshire grins and gleaming eyes while Felix was two seconds from heaving his guts out.

“Yeah, I’m alright, mate.” He replied in a tired groan.

“Must have been quite the night. Wonder if it had anything to do with that little cocktail you took from our sweet Annabel’s belly button?”

Disgust was clear on Felix’s face as he recalled the body shot he had taken from his ex-FWB’s navel. He truly must have been off his rocker last night – he thought he was over with body shots since graduating secondary, but apparently not.

If he somehow got an STD from doing it, V was going to kill him.

But even with all of his horrible actions that caused the raging war inside his skull, that wasn’t the main cause of his misery.

Farleigh’s grin dropped as judgment painted his features.

“Oh,” he moaned, “please tell me this isn’t about ‘your angel’ from last night.”

He didn’t just take the dare of streaking across the grounds just for the hell of it. He needed an excuse to pass through the art building – all for the chance of seeing you.

You. His angel of paints and books who lived in the empty studio rooms of Oxford University’s Ruskin School of Art and whose presence harangued him every hour of every day. Everywhere Felix went, he would unconsciously look for you.

It was his soul calling out for yours – he knew it.

Felix had never felt so drawn to another human being in his entire existence. He’d never seen you outside of the libraries, art building, and maybe the dining hall if he was lucky. You never went to any parties or even had a drink at the pub at King’s Arms. He didn’t even have classes with you, but he knew Farleigh did. Word was that you and his cousin had shared a few classes – what’s more was that you were likely the only person who could go head-to-head with him in academics.

And to make it worse, the prat refused to tell him anything about you – not even your fucking name.

“Believe me,” he told him after Felix had been begging his cousin for hours to share anything about you, “she is way above your league.”

Which really hurt his feelings, by the way – sure, you were probably way above in book smarts, but there wasn’t a girl that remained indifferent to his charms after a good talking fucking.

“I still can’t believe you won’t at least tell me her name,” Felix complained once more, “or even just give me her number!”

“She’s an American here on scholarship and a bore,” he quipped back, “what’s there to tell? And can you please shut up? I want to get some reading done before tonight. You do remember the in-class essay we have tomorrow, right?”

Bloody hell, he did not. Pushing down the bitter feeling in his chest, he and his cousin made their way to meet everyone at the back. As soon as he sat down, Annabel clung on to his arm. Thank fuck he had been wearing one of his thicker jumpers – otherwise, her claws that she called nails would have ripped open the fabric.

“Hey, Felix!” she made sure to offer a very generous sight of her cleavage, “are you ready for tonight?”

Felix chuckled lowly before responding. “Aren’t I always?”

And just like that – he completely zoned out the rest of the conversation.

Annabel was probably saying something to get him to notice her, and Farleigh was likely responding so he wouldn’t have to – but Felix couldn’t be bothered to pretend to care.

He was lost in the living daydream that was his angel that haunted the art studios of Ruskin School of Art.

He was desperate to learn everything about you.

If he asked you to talk about your favorite books, would your eyes sparkle in delight, or would your smile widen in glee?

If he grabbed your hand, would your palms feel marred by his rough skin, or would you press your callouses to his?

If he pressed his mouth on yours, would your lips feel as soft and plump as they look? Or was their luster forever damaged by your teeth biting them whenever you were in deep concentration?

If he breathed in your scent at the crook of your neck, would your skin smell like the paints forever on your brushes or the musky pages of heavy ancient books you always carried in your arms?

If he planted kisses from your throat to your breasts, would you mewl in pleasure or whimper in anticipation?

If he touched your cunt, would you arch your back in ecstasy? Or would your legs crumble, and you would have no choice but to sink into his arms?

Felix’s thoughts were rudely interrupted when Farleigh jammed his bony elbow into his ribcage and hurriedly whispered.

“Look alive, Golden Boy.”

Looking forward, it was better than any of his wet dreams combined. It was you.

Your hair was loose, and your fists were clenched. You reminded him of a ferocious lion goddess with how focused your gaze was on him.

But before Felix would prepare himself to make a good impression, you walked behind him and grabbed the back of his shirt collar before fucking dragging his ass out of his seat and outside.

Bloody hell, for someone so much shorter than him, you were fucking strong.

When you finally released your grip, he fell on the ground like an idiot before he tried to stand and steady himself as quickly as he could.

“Hey, what the fu –”

You didn’t let him finish as you brought your fist to hit him square in the face – and, fuck, you might have actually broken his nose.

After staggering back, you started using the spiral notebook in your other hand to land blow after painful blow on his body.

“YOU. STUPID. FUCKING. INGRATE –” Each word that left your mouth was emphasized with another hit from your notebook “– I. HATE. YOU. YOU. RUINED. MY. PAINTING. I. SPENT. SO. MUCH. TIME. ON. IT. AND. NOW. I. CAN’T. GO. HOME. FOR. BREAK. BECAUSE. OF. YOUR. STUPID. SELF!”

Felix was confident you had more to say, but you were pulled off him by your friend – he’s pretty sure it’s Mitchell – by the waist with you kicking and screaming out profanities to him as your friend called out your name to try to calm you down.

He wondered what it said about him if he told anyone how much you looked like an angry cat. His parents would send him to a shrink if he told them how adorable he found you right now.

If you were this wild while fighting, he could only imagine how riled up you would get in bed.

Fuck, you might have just unlocked a new kink in him.

Catching his breath as he watched your friend drag you away into the distance, he heard a slow clap to his left.

Farleigh was leaning on the corner – his smug expression making it clear that he had seen the whole thing – as he looked at his cousin with a bemused expression before walking toward him and giving a sympathetic pat on his back.

“Well,” he started to break the tension, “at least you know her name.”

“Yeah,” Felix agreed, “I know her name.”

And he knew that you smelled more like the paints on your brushes than the books you carried with subtle notes of gardenias.

Tagging: @aemondsbabe, @ethereal-athalia, @aphroditesmoon, @barbiedragon, @valeskafics, @lexyysworld, @punkiwiki, @saltburnedme, @arcielee

Let me know if you want to be tagged for future Saltburn fics!

Warmth & Stories - Aemond Targaryen x Wildling Reader Masterlist

Part One

Part Two - MDNI 18+

Warmth & Stories - Aemond Targaryen x Wildling!Reader Part 2

Summary: Love can bloom in the most unusual ways. The love between a stoic prince from the South and a wildling storyteller will be written in history as one of the strangest but truest of loves.

Author's Notes: I had to get this out before January ended. This part does have smut! It is the second part of the holiday fic gift I gave to @valeskafics .

Warning(s): MDNI 18+, sex, breeding kink, blowjobs, 69 sex position, clothes ripping, loss of virginity

Usually, when it was late, you would often find Aemond in the library. You and he would swap stories about your day that often resulted in both of you giggling and gossiping like two shopkeepers’ wives. So when you find yourself in your two’s usual section without him, you think it a bit strange but do not enough to leave. You figured he was still enjoying supper with his half-sister and nephews. However, when the grand doors swung open to reveal a raging one-eyed dragon, you deduced that the dinner was less than a success. You were prepared to de-escalate his temper when he grabbed your arm. He then dragged you out of the library and inside his room.

He promptly caged you in his arms when he violently closed the doors shut.

“Aemond, what are you –”

Your outrage was silenced when your prince slammed his mouth against yours as he locked you in a crushing embrace. His lips were moving so feverishly that you could hardly match his pace. You tried your best to remain angry, but you quickly felt your body melted with his and realized that you wanted nothing more than to be devoured by him.

So efficient, your prince, he had managed to both quell your fury while also driving you mad with lust.

So often, you’ve dreamed of kissing Aemond, your sweet silver-haired Southern boy who captured your heart when he asked you about your life in the real North. You never expected to feel these feelings, let alone for a Southern man, let alone for a prince as beautiful as he. So many nights, you brought pleasure from your fingers by just imagining how his lips would feel against your skin. It was by no means as delicate as you imagined, but it was damn satisfying.

As he crowded you against his door, all of your senses felt heightened by his presence. Despite the cold winds blowing in from the window, you remained lost in the heat and haze that came from being loved by Aemond Targaryen. Pulling away for a moment of reprieve, your chest heaved in an attempt to catch your breath as Aemond made no effort to hide the ocean of love and lust in his eye. When enough air finally reached your brain, you could focus your vision enough to see the tips of your prince’s ear turn pink from his actions.

You closed your eyes as you inwardly preened at knowing that you made such a stoic man fluster. However, you may not have hidden your expression as well as you believed, given how Aemond shot his hips forward and let you understand how mad you’ve driven him. Even underneath the layers of fine leather and underclothes, you could feel the outline of his hardened cock press against your stomach. You tried to rub your thighs together in a pitiful attempt to ease away your arousal, but Aemond saw through your scheme. Nudging his knee between your legs, he lifted his leg until your wet center was grazing against his leather-clad thighs. His head dipped, and you wondered if he could feel your breath shaking under his lips as he mouthed along your jaw and down your neck. Meanwhile, his leg remained steady, and you continued to grind against the firm muscles of his thigh.

Riding on Vhagar certainly did wonders for his physique.

Ecstasy overtook you as you pathetically cried out your pleasure as Aemond’s lips continued down your body and lathered the swells of your breasts from your dress with his tongue and kisses. There was a knot inside you that coiled tighter and tighter as you ground your cunt in hopes that it would cause your release.

Aemond raised his head as he felt you ground harder down his thigh. When he saw the state you were in, he damn near tore your dress apart and threw you on the bed. But he refrained from any movement to aid you in your plight, delighted by the sight of you so completely enraptured by his actions as he was from your presence. But when he witnessed you thrusting your hips so pitifully, he couldn’t stop the smirk creeping on his face as he leered down at you. Lowering his head till his lips barely grazed your ear, you could tell how much it pleased him to feel how desperate you were for him.

“A few kisses,” he breathily whispered, “and already you’re thrusting your hips like the whores in Flea Bottom.”

“I ’m-I’m not a-a w-whore,” you whimpered out.

Gods, it mortified you at how pathetic your voice sounded. You tried to steady yourself by placing your hands on the stone walls of his room, but all it achieved was making you appear more vulnerable to your one-eyed dragon.

“Oh really?” Aemond was having so much fun teasing you. “Because only whores would try to reach their peak with such lustful abandon. Is that not your cunt currently soaking my trouser leg? Gods, you’re leaking so much I can practically smell it from here.”

Ever so swiftly, he moved his hand underneath your dress and immediately plunged two of his fingers into your sopping cunt. The knot inside you coiled so tightly that it snapped. Your eyes shot open, but all you could see was white and stars. Your body trembled as you opened your mouth, but no noise was made. The pleasure you just experienced was too great for words to describe it.

Aemond knew that you did not need to be prepped for his fingers, but he did not expect you to peak so quickly.

You felt your face ablaze in embarrassment. Where did your stoic yet kind prince go? Where was this silver-tongued cad come from? You reminded yourself to swap Aegon’s favorite wine with vinegar and beetroot juice. While the concoction would not deter him from drowning in his cups daily, you hoped it was enough to keep him in bed for at least a day.

You wondered if your prince could see you were lost in your thoughts and no longer paying close attention to him. He must have since his eyes showed a new determination. He flipped your position so that your chest was hard-pressed against the walls before firmly grasping the back of your dress. With half-lidded eyes, you opened your mouth to question him.

Rippppp

Immediately, your eyes shot open as you quickly realized that Aemond had ripped a clean tear down your dress and underclothes, leaving you as bare as the day you were born. Not even having enough time to shout your indignation, your prince swung your body onto his shoulder like you were just a flour sack. In a few short strides, he reached his bed and tossed you on top of the covers. Each curve on your body, from your full breasts to your soft thighs, beckoned him like a moth to a flame. Your tresses framed your face like a (h/c) halo, giving you an aura befitting of a divinity. Aemond had dreamed of this sight for as long as he could remember since he met you. It was almost enough to make him kneel before you and weep his praises while begging for your love and devotion to belong to him and him alone. He instead stripped himself of every layer of clothing until he was as exposed as you.

You watched in enraptured adoration as he continued tearing away each layer that hid his beautiful physique. It was torture to wait, but it was more than worth it. You felt your breath hitch as you took in each line and shadow of that creature, this magnificent being. Aemond was by far the most beautiful person you ever had the pleasure of witnessing. To see him with any clothes almost seemed like a crime with how he presented himself to you. The growth spurt from his thirteenth name-day, along with years of training under Ser Criston Cole and riding Vhagar brought forth the Warrior in mortal form. Your Aemond had a likeness that resembled a marble sculpture, with his lean and firm muscles under the unblemished pallor that made up the tall, elegant man standing before you.

But as much as you trusted Aemond, a small part of you was also scared. You were no Southern beauty. For the first ten years of your life, you had to hunt and fight for your right to survive. Such skills were remembered. You have grown beside royalty for eight years, but many would still find you lacking. And the pain - the pain terrified you. The women in your tribe and the small folk maids would warn against noblemen. Such men would often break a young girl’s maidenhood without any regard for her reputation – only to throw her on the streets to fend for herself.

Sensing your discomfort, Aemond realized he had acted too brash. While you would always be a wildling at heart, you spent years hearing horror stories from the maids of what happened behind the chamber doors of the highest nobility. He remembered how much Helanea had cried after her first night with Aegon, and he cursed himself for behaving as brutish as his pathetic brother. Leaning forward until he just barely hovered over you with his arm to keep him steady, Aemond softly dotted kisses across your face – your temple, your cheeks, your eyes, and even your nose – before placing a tender kiss on your lips.

“My sweet, wild girl,” he cooed, “I swear to you that I will make sure that this will be enjoyable for us both. Such love between two equals, such as us, means that we were meant to be each other’s firsts and lasts. But if you do not wish to continue, I swear we will stop and only have each other’s company as proof of our love and devotion to one another. There is nothing but time for us.”

“Aemond,” you whispered, “you would do that? Would you truly wait for me?”

“(Y/N), your love is everything and more. So long as I have that, is there truly a need for anything else?”

Searching in his eyes to see if there was any trickery or deception, you only saw unadulterated and steadfast adoration. If Aemond were true to his heart, so would you. You summoned as much courage as you could and leaned forward from your back to kiss him this time. Relief filled your heart when he kissed you back.

Cupping your beasts with gentle hands, your silver-haired prince broke away for you to catch your breath and for him to look in awe at your naked splendor. The sight of you flushed and gazing at him with lust and reverence, with your breasts perfectly fitting in his hands, made his cock twitch. Pinching one nipple between his two fingers, Aemond watched with enraptured worship at your reactions. Boldness overtaking him, he lowered his mouth on your other breast and sucked hard on your mound’s peak. Breathless gasps and high-pitched sighs played a symphony in his ears. Having his fill of one, he switched his ministrations to the other. Your voice and desperation were growing only stronger.

“Aemond!” you exclaimed. “Something’s coming. It feels – it feels s-so strange!”

Knowing you were reaching your peak, Aemond took his free hand and flicked your clit. When he heard your wails, it pleased him more than any duel won. He began to press more against your soaking button, taking in the song of your lust.

Biting your lip, you squirmed and squealed at the shock of ecstasy coursing through your veins. Why was Aemond touching that place? And why did it feel so good?

“A-Aemond!” you keened as tears trailed down your cheeks. “What’s happening?”

“Let go, my darling,” he purred, “let me give you more pleasure than you have brought for yourself.”

The coil snapped, and your release was so much stronger than anything you have ever done to yourself. The release that Aemond provided for you was so powerful that you soaked the sheets and Aemond’s abdomen when you came. Your chest heaved with heavy breaths, and you swore you saw white at your peak.

“Aemond,” you sighed, “I wish to taste you.”

“(Y/N),” he stated with widened eyes, “there is no need. I do not expect such things from you.”

But you only asserted yourself by raising your torso from your elbows.

“Ameond, I want to taste and please you. Won’t you let me?”

“Alright,” he agreed, “but only I am allowed to do the same for you.”

“How would that be possible?”

His leer brought butterflies fluttering in your heart. “Let me show you.”

“There you go, my love. Spread your legs – let me see you. Gods, you’re perfect. Your cunt is so pretty and pink. Your scent alone is driving me mad with want. Do you not see the evidence of it before you?”

By the Old Gods and New, you have never felt so exposed in your entire life. Even your capture by the Starks and being brought before the King dressed in heavy chains and torn rags was less humiliating than your current position.

“Did he have to be so vocal?” you thought. “Is he trying to make me pass out from his words alone?”

Seeing you tremble from his voice as your arousal further soaked your lower lips brought such perverse fulfillment to the prince underneath you. Taking his hands from your waist, he palmed the cheeks of your ample bottom before spreading them for a better view.

“So nervous, aren’t you? There’s no need to fear my little wildling. There is only us in this room – there will never be another whom I will taste that way I will for you.”

You were only half-listening to your beloved prince – as you were still enraptured by the sight of the stiff, long, hot rod standing upright before you. His tip was pink with a bead of his pearly seed just leaving it. Being so close, you breathed in the scent of its musk of leather, sweat, and dragon’s smoke. Its pungency – although strong – captivated you and made you salivate instead of putting you off. So often, you would sneak into his chambers while he was riding, take any clothes put away for washing by the chambermaids, and breathe them in.

Just last year, your boldness allowed you to steal one of the undershirts he discarded. It was soaked and stained with his sweat from a particularly challenging sparring match with Ser Cole. You knew that he would not miss one out of dozens of similar articles of clothing, so you tucked it under your skirt and hurried away to the secret tunnels before you were caught.

It remains under your pillow, and you wear it to sleep every night.

“Are you going to begin? Or do you need my help?”

“Shut up!” you hissed with flushed cheeks. “Don’t rush me.”

“Just make sure not to use your teeth.”

Leaning forward, you stuck your tongue to kitten-lick the bead of his pre-cum. When you heard his guttural groan, you continued by swirling your tongue over the tip before wrapping your lips around the head. You then lowered your head so that your mouth could try and take as much of his length as possible.

“Oh, fuck!” Aemond gasped at the feeling of your warm, wet throat enveloping his cock. “Gods, you feel so good. Take more. Take my entire length down your throat. Oh, fu– yes, just like that. Now bob your head up and down.”

Doing exactly as he instructed, your eyes watered, and tears spilled as saliva dribbled from your mouth. How was he so big? When you took his entire length in your mouth, the tip of his cock hit the back of your throat. You nearly gagged, but you fought against the impulse to keep bobbing your head down to take him in your mouth. His scent became only more potent as you continued, and you wanted so badly to taste his essence.

Watching your head moving up and down his cock only strengthened Aemond’s appetite for you. Finally, focusing on your lower lips, he slowly swept his tongue across your cunt. You were still soaked from your previous climax brought from his fingers, so the taste of your body’s nectar was heavy on his tongue.

What use was wine if he could get just as drunk from the ambrosia that came as the evidence of your pleasure from his actions?

Just a taste was enough to make Aemond’s mind rave with lust. Plunging his tongue into your heat, he was eating you out as if he were a peasant man who had been starved for months instead of the prince who lived in comfortable luxury. To Aemond, you tasted beyond exquisite. You were the greatest treasure in the entire keep.

Meanwhile, you were going insane from his tongue as you tried to keep up with pace. Faster and faster, you bobbed your head to quicken his release. You weren’t able to hold out for much longer, and you wanted him to come in your mouth at least once before you came twice from him. But the feel of his velvet tongue was too much to bear, and the coil in your stomach had tightened once more. Before you could even recognize the signs, Aemond’s mouth dragged out your release faster than before. It was not as strong as your first, but it was enough to make you release his cock from your mouth as you cried out your pathetic whines. You had not collapsed from the shock of it, and you maintained your position on your knees.

Fighting back the tears in your eyes, you once more wrapped your lips around his pink head. But this time, you felt a slight twitch in your mouth. Realizing that he would soon spill his release, you took the entire length of his cock in your mouth and stayed there. You only swirled your tongue across the veins on his member. Aemond’s lower muscles tensed as he felt his seed fighting to escape.

“FUCK!” he yelled out – loud enough for the entire castle to know what the two of you were doing.

 Soon, your mouth was filled with his white and thick seed. Aemond slid his limp member, and despite your face hidden from his view, he spied a small stream of white fluid dribbling out of your mouth.

“Turn around,” he ordered, “and face me when you swallow my seed.”

Slowly turning your body, your cheeks bulged from the volume of his release. When you swallowed his cum, he could see it go down your throat. When you felt the last of his spent trickle down your throat, you crawled up to lay your head on his chest. You laid little pecks down his throat and across his collarbone.

Having your body lain on top of his without the barriers of fabric and station blocking their love was heaven. A few minutes had passed before he felt himself harden again, and Aemond had one question left to ask you.

“Are you ready to be stolen?”

Tilting your head up to face him, your (e/c) irises were drowning in your want for the man in front of you.

“Yes.”

“Lay on your back with your head against the headboard.”

Positioning yourselves to be ready for what was to come, Aemond looked at you again for your approval. You slowly nodded, silently informing your royal love that you were prepared to accept all of him and his devotion.

He took his member, leveled it to your center, and slowly pushed the head in. He tilted his head to whimper and gasped at the profound heat surrounding him. When he pushed further, he marveled at how tightly your body gripped him despite him only being halfway inside you. The whimpers that left your lips implied him of your pain. But you dug your nails into his arms when he tried to stop.

“Don’t you dare stop,” you ordered him, “you sweet, wonderful fool.”

When he fully inserted himself inside you, you opened your mouth – but no noise left. There was pain, but you were so aroused that the sting only added to your ardor. Aemond leaned forward and pressed his forward to yours – it did not matter how you would insist he push on. This was your first time – and his too. You both needed a few moments to adjust.

“Are you alright, my love?” he asked you when a few minutes had passed. “Are you sure you wish to continue?”

You nodded in confirmation. “Yes, my dragon prince. Please – I think I am ready now.”

Spreading your legs further apart so he could push himself deeper inside you, he thrust into you back and forth just slowly enough for you to feel every inch of him inside you. He prayed to the Seven Gods that you were drowning in the same ocean of desire he was. He listened to each gasp and sigh pass through your lips. If he focused himself enough, he was sure he could recognize the beat of your heart apart from any person in his father’s kingdom.

You wondered if you were in a dream with how much joy overflowed inside you. Cradling his cheek, you brought Aemond down to kiss him to show him the depth of your feelings. You brought him into your arms without breaking the kiss while wrapping your legs around his waist.

You wanted him to devour you.

Breaking the kiss, Aemond was in your arms as both of your chests were pressed against each other in each other’s embrace. Feeling your arousal wetting his cock, he began to quicken his pace.

“A-A-Aemond!–” You were gasping for air, but it would never be enough. “–I feel you! All of you – you’re so big! Oh Gods!”

Aemond bit the inside of his cheek for the pain to distract him from your cervix tightening around him.

“How does it feel to be stolen? Do you feel how tightly you’re gripping me?” he knew he was being cruel in his taunting, but he wanted to show that there was only him for you – not some barbaric hunter who didn’t bathe and likely lost all his teeth.

“You are mine – only mine. You were made for me (Y/N), as I was made for you.”

Placing one elbow on the spot next to your head and pushing himself up, he slid one hand down your body to press against your swollen clit. Your pupils dilated at the additional pleasure your silver-haired dragon knight gifted you. As your cries confirmed him of your satisfaction, he pistoned in and out of you.

“Tell me,” he hissed, “could another man bring you such pleasure – such love and devotion as I have for you? Do you think there would be another man who could provide more than I, the rider of Vhagar? If you must be stolen, it will not be done by anyone but me. Not my father, not my brother, not even by fucking Daemon – only me. Do you understand?”

You could only frantically nod. But it was not enough to satisfy your prince. He gave you a very hard thrust.

“Answer me!” he ordered.

“YES!” you answered. “Only you! There was and will only be you, Aemond! I am yours – please don’t stop! Don’t stop – I want your seed inside me! I want to carry your child!”

Taking a handful of your (h/c) tresses, Aemond pressed his nose to the crook of your neck. His scent was mixed with you – a harmonious combination of the trees in the Godwoods you took from and dragon smoke locked into his skin. He bit your neck before sucking it enough for it to turn into a lovely purple hue by the coming morning.

You only screamed out for more.

“Come for me, (Y/N). Soak my cock with your nectar so that I can implant my seed into your womb. Our child will hold the powers of my Old Valyria and your Old Gods. Can you see it? Do you want to see our beautiful child?”

“Yes, yes, yes!”

Using his fingers to pinch your clit, he gave you one final order.

“Then come.”

“AEMOND!”

Intense pleasure flooded your entire body as you screamed out his name, and you entirely gave all of yourself to Aemond. The waves of desire crashed and rocked the boat that held whatever was left of your sanity as your vision flashed white. A dull thudding pounded in your head, and your body continued vibrating as a result of your powerful climax.

Gasping at the feel of the vice grip that your cunt had on his cock, Aemond took all of his previous inhibitions and threw them to the wind. Babbling out his declarations of his love to you, he wildly thrust deeper and deeper into your cervix until the tip of his cock hit the entrance to your womb. And spilled everything inside him into you – holding himself there so that his seed would take.

The world around him disappeared. Everything outside of you and him faded into the background as white noise and the sound of your heavy breaths filled his head. He collapsed on top of you, bringing the sheets and blankets to cover your bodies as sweat sheening on your pair’s skin cooled. Aemond shifted his weight to next to you and took you into his arms.

He was exhausted – both of you were – but a feeling of contentment and serenity filled the room as you basked in the love you showed one another.

“Your mother and grandfather,” you whispered, “they will never accept me. They will never accept our child. Our child will be a bastard – the very thing you hate the most in life.”

“My love,” Aemond tried to alleviate your fears, but you only continued.

“It’s true, my dragon.” Your eyes held your strength but also showed your terror of what was coming. “Do not attempt to play me for a fool. Do not dare disrespect me in such a way.”

The prince knew every word you spoke was the truth. On the brink of war, his happiness mattered little to his mother and grandfather. They would tear his child out of your womb with their own two hands if it meant that his hand was free for political alliances.

All to keep Rhaenyra off the Iron Throne.

But there was a solution. It was one he wished wasn’t the only option left – but it was the only one he saw could work and keep you and his child safe. In a solemn voice, he revealed his plan.

“I could swear to Rhaenyra.”

Not believing the words left from his mouth, your jaw dropped as you openly gaped at your lover. But anger replaced shock only seconds later.

“Aemond, that is not funny.”

“It is no joke, my (Y/N). Listen to me.”

He explained that he and you will travel to Dragonstone by daybreak tomorrow. With Vhagar on the Blacks’ side, the threat of her ancient fire burning everything to mountains of ash would stop the war before it could even begin.

“For compensation, I will only request that you and I be wed in the tradition of both of our ancestors.”

“Yours,” you interjected, “just yours.”

You softly giggled at the befuddlement on his face – the sweetness of the picture was such a stark contrast to the events that just transpired.

“You have stolen my heart so long ago already. And now you have stolen my body. Have I not told you that this is my people’s way of marriage?”

“Of course,” Aemond chuckled, “now all that is left is for us to be wed in the traditions of Old Valyria.”

He leaned in close to press a kiss on your forehead. “I hope you are prepared, little wildling. By the latest, at the end of this week, you will no longer be a free woman – but the wife to a prince and the mother of his children.”

“Our children,” you insisted, “the mother of our children.”

“Yes, dearest. Our children.”

Stories were legends, and legends were lessons that ring with truth.

This was the first lesson your mother shared with you.

You learned every story you told in court from your mother. Your favorite story was about how the Children of the Forest sometimes gave that child a rare gem when a free child survived their tenth winter. But to prove themselves worthy, the children needed to endure many trials and meet many new people.

On your tenth winter, you traveled South to Winterfell with your parents to steal a loaf of bread. Your parents were killed, but alone you remained. You cried and cried until your body no longer had any tears left to cry. You cursed the Children of the Forest. You cursed the Old Gods your parents swore would protect you.

You met a boy with only one working eye during your third and tenth winters. His other had been slashed and taken by his nephew. It was replaced by an orb of the prettiest blue stone you had ever seen.

It was your fourth and tenth winter that you learned that his eye of blue stone had a name, “sapphire.”

You were eight and ten winters when your and your dragon’s hearts beat to the same tune, and your bodies joined together as one.

You were still eight and ten winters when you realized that the Children of the Forest kept their word. They had indeed gifted you a rare gem – they just didn’t tell you that gems could be people.

Aemond was your gem, and you were his.

And Aemond and you raised your 12 kids in Westeros peacefully while Rhaenyra reigned as Queen of the Iron Throne and Daemon and Alicent take turns having sex with her!

Tagging: @ethereal-athalia, @valeskafics , @dreaming-for-an-escape, @arcielee, @asa-do-your-thing, @lady-ashfade, @faesspace, @aphroditesmoon, @immyowndefender, @katzarantos, @xxlovingfandomsxx, @meg-egg-blog, @marvelescape, @mandiiblanche, @anewpersonthatexists, @toodlesxcuddles, @boxedpandas, @lokiofasgard12, @aemondsbabe, @aemondslove, @axelsagewrites

I am so sorry if I forgot to tag you! It's hard to keep track bc I lost the list

Annabel would be like: felix doesnt like you, you are just a bit of fun 😤

Reader: tbh... O dont think he likes you either

* all classroom goes silent*

*meanwhile felix*

Felix: *not hearing a single shit* she looks so pretty with those butterfly hairclips 🥰🥰

Reader: I don’t like him either, do you want him? Pls take him, he won’t stop humping my leg like a weird giant puppy.

No but for real tho, reader has zero shame in having no filter when people try to provoke her.

Annabel WILL be making an appearance in this fic, but not in the way I think a lot of you would expect 😉

Fuck Everything, But Mostly Fuck You

Next Part

Summary: You have never, EVER, in a million years hated anyone the way you hated Felix fucking Catton.

Warnings- MDNI 18+, Felix is delulu, Reader is stressed and homesick and kinda crazy but she a baddie, Michael is Michael, Farleigh is Farleigh, Oliver will be Oliver (a creep), and author has spent too much time researching Oxford crap for this mess for a crack fic to be a crack fic

Author's Note: This fic is a follow-up to this post and I would like to thank grammarly for catching all my grammatical errors 🥲, @ethereal-athalia for enabling my crazy ideas 🥰, and @valeskafics for providing me Saltburn smut when I catch myself thirsting 😇

“FUCK!” you yelled at the top of your lungs just before your nose slammed down on the dewy grass.

Groaning in pain before the mortification of realizing what had just happened kicked in.

You didn’t know what was worse: the fact you had a full front view of the giant’s junk or that he body-slammed you onto the ground and caused you to land on top of the painting worth 30% of your final grade.

You wanted to scream your head off. The paint had finally dried, and you could finally leave the studio at two in the morning. It was close to finals, and pretty much anyone on campus who didn’t get accepted because of their daddy’s bank account was in their dorms. You had hoped that this fact would mean that the paths were empty and, therefore, safe to transport your 30” x 40” canvas.

“SORRY!”

You shot your head up to locate the person who just apologized. Lo’ and behold, it was the same plastered, pasty cunt with a bird’s nest disaster of a haircut drunken idiot who decided it was a good idea to go streaking across campus. His only other distinguishable features were that he was at least 6’3” and that he had a small steel piece pierced on his face.

After the “apology,” he and his friend continued running off to God’s knows where in the dead of night—leaving you behind on the lawn with a bleeding nose, bruised knees and palms, and an oil painting that was torn and caked in mud three days before its deadline.

There was no way to redo it. The project was assigned at the beginning of October. It took 5 hours to set up the models with the motifs and lights, 3 hours to take pictures, and 10 hours to underdraw the preliminary sketch. You didn’t even want to think about the sheer number of sleepless nights you spent in the studio mixing colors and layering. On top of that, you also had your other finals in other courses to study for.

You had practically been living in that studio for the past month. All of the custodians and security guards knew you by name. You got first dibs every day when they refilled the vending machines. It was a true godsend when you didn’t have time to visit the dining halls. Everyone had been so kind and sweet to you. It was a warm welcome compared to the snark and snobbery you experienced from most of your classmates.

Crying from the devastation of the loss of your situation, your shaking legs carried your body and what remained of your work into the building. You knew that your professor stayed in her office late for grading. You could only hope that she would sympathize with your pitiful appearance.

“Wait, so did you get the extension?”

Lifting your head from the sticky library table at Bodleian’s, you stared at your best only friend, Michael Gavey, with a blank stare. You didn’t react to his wince after he took in your haggard appearance. You didn’t need a mirror to know that you looked terrible.

Your eyes were puffy and bloodshot red with dark mulberry bags underneath them. You had paled since coming to dreary England, but now you looked straight-up sickly. And if that wasn’t enough, your eyes had less life than a dead fish rotting at a Sunday Market.

Your voice was so meek that you were sure he had to strain to hear you.

“Yeah…I got it.”

You knew you had no choice but to beg your Studio Arts professor for an extension. But it killed you doing it. Professor Daria Martin was your favorite teacher and the only faculty member who actually liked you. Her support toward you meant everything to you; the last thing you wanted to do was disappoint her, let alone be the reason why she lost her job.

Your usually so snarky four-eyed friend perked up at the news.

“So, is everything okay?” he asked with hope.

Your head fell on neon-yellow ink-stained pages that filled the paperweight your ethics professor called a textbook. A bitter laugh fell from as your lips lifted to a wry, dry grin.

“Oof, not that simple, is it?” he asked.

“Is it ever?”

“So what do you have to do now?”

“Well-,” you lifted your head to take a deep breath as you started to explain, “- I still have the photos and copies of the sketch. But because the canvas was so large, it was special-ordered. That means I need to wait until another one can be delivered, and since all the works need to be completed in the studio, I can’t leave the campus.”

As you finished your explanation, Michael nodded his head in understanding before he paused, and a look of devastation painted his features.

“Wait, so does that mean-”

“I won’t be able to fly back home for the holidays.”

Fuck, you were about to cry again. You had been so excited to see your old friends and family. You remembered how absolutely homesick you were at the beginning of the term. Because you were a scholarship student from America, your parents encouraged you to settle on campus by moving to your dorm earlier than everyone else. It was bad enough that you missed Thanksgiving, but you had really set your heart on coming home for Christmas and New Year’s. What made it worse was that your parents had told you all about the dinner they had planned for your homecoming. It was going to be a feast of all your favorites.

English food sucked balls.

Your only saving grace was the Crunchie bars Michael got for you when you studied together or when you had to rewrite edit his essays.

You really DID cry after first reading his essay for Introductory English class at the beginning of the year.

“Did you try to report it?”

“Report what? ‘Hey, there’s a wasted asshole running naked across campus, and he body-slammed me to the ground and tore my fucking massive campus that blocked my view of the jackass. He’s probably richer than the goddamn Queen, given how he’s wasted right before finals.’”

“Do you have any description of him?”

“He’s a giant with a small eyebrow piercing, and his fat ass looked like it had never seen the sun.”

Without lifting your head, you heard the scrape of Michael’s chair before he walked across the table to sit in the chair next to you.

“Hey,” he began, bringing you into a warm arm hug, “it’ll be okay. You called your parents about it, right?”

“Yeah -” you sighed before continuing, “- they told me they understood and would Skype me daily.”

“See! Everything’s going to be – wait, did you say that this guy was tall?”

Furrowing your brow in confusion, you looked at your friend at the change in his tone from light and supportive to sharp and interrogative.

“Yeah?”

“How tall?”

“Umm,” you had to think about that, “I’d say he was about 6’3” or above? He was really fucking tall.”

“And he had an eyebrow piercing?”

Ok, now you were really confused. “Yes? Michael, where are you going with this?”

“I think the guy who ran you over was Felix Catton.”

You shot your favorite idiot with a deadpan glare.

“Felix Catton? The same Felix Catton who just so happens to be the same Felix Catton you hate?”

Michael solemnly nodded. “It’s him. It has to be. The only person on campus as tall as him is his cousin, and he doesn’t have piercings.”

“And he’s black.”

“Yeah, that too.”

You were skeptical, and it showed. You didn’t want to callously dismiss your friend, but you knew more than anyone how much his hatred for Oxford’s Golden Boy could impair his judgment. You were by no means a fan of the guy, but accusing someone of anything they didn’t do just because your friend thought so went against your principles.

He grabbed your arm and dragged you to the bookshelf in front of the table where Felix and his groupies sat. Both of your books and bags were in your chairs, but you managed to keep your spiral notebook with you. It wasn’t hard to find them – they were the loudest table in the entire library. They also reeked of cigarettes and booze.

“See?” Michael hissed. “Giant, pale, and eyebrow piercing. It’s him!”

“Michael,” you softly groaned, “just because you hate Felix Catton doesn’t mean you can –”

An extremely shrill voice interrupted you.

“I can’t believe you and Farleigh actually ran around campus naked!”

A petite girl with full pink lips and dull red hair latched on the arm of the man of the hour. “It was so hot to watch!”

This girl has weird-ass tastes in guys.

“And then how you crashed into that dunce at Ruskin! Brilliant!”

Your blood ran cold while another one of Catton’s faceless droning puppets chimed in.

“God, what an idiot! It’s their own fault, anyway. Who the fuck walks in the middle of the walk path with a fucking big canvas in front of them?”

One of the lessons hammered into your skull young was never to move before you think. That lesson had saved you ten ways from Sunday. But this was not one of those times.

You’re pretty sure that you hear Michael calling out your name as you walk away from the shelf and towards the overcrowded table. Tunnel vision took over you as you made your way to the overgrown idiot who almost cost you your entire future.

Grabbing the back of his shirt collar, you dragged the 6’5” towering fool on his ass all the way outside. You finally let go when the two of you reached the back of the building that had no windows.

“Hey, what the fu –”

You didn’t let him finish as you brought your fist to hit him square in the face – and, fuck, did you relish the crunch that immediately followed your swing.

Fuck, was his head killing him.

Felix should have known better than to have gotten cross-faded last night, but Farleigh had practically goaded him to do it. It’s not like his cousin ever had to worry about his grades for any of his courses during finals – the little shit-starter had always been so fucking academically gifted.

He skipped pretty much all of his morning classes and barely made it to his afternoon schedule on time while completely zoning out the entire time.

If he bombs on all his finals, his dad was going to absolutely murder him. But chances were he and his mum were going to be too busy entertaining whichever new friend his mum brought in for shelter.

“You alright there, champ?”

Felix swiveled his head too quickly and immediately groaned in pain. The motion made his hangover even worse. Rubbing his eyes to try to soothe the pounding in his head, he slowly opened them to look at his cousin.

The slag didn’t have the decency to look even a little bit affected from last night’s event – the fucker. No, he was sitting there with all Cheshire grins and gleaming eyes while Felix was two seconds from heaving his guts out.

“Yeah, I’m alright, mate.” He replied in a tired groan.

“Must have been quite the night. Wonder if it had anything to do with that little cocktail you took from our sweet Annabel’s belly button?”

Disgust was clear on Felix’s face as he recalled the body shot he had taken from his ex-FWB’s navel. He truly must have been off his rocker last night – he thought he was over with body shots since graduating secondary, but apparently not.

If he somehow got an STD from doing it, V was going to kill him.

But even with all of his horrible actions that caused the raging war inside his skull, that wasn’t the main cause of his misery.

Farleigh’s grin dropped as judgment painted his features.

“Oh,” he moaned, “please tell me this isn’t about ‘your angel’ from last night.”

He didn’t just take the dare of streaking across the grounds just for the hell of it. He needed an excuse to pass through the art building – all for the chance of seeing you.

You. His angel of paints and books who lived in the empty studio rooms of Oxford University’s Ruskin School of Art and whose presence harangued him every hour of every day. Everywhere Felix went, he would unconsciously look for you.

It was his soul calling out for yours – he knew it.

Felix had never felt so drawn to another human being in his entire existence. He’d never seen you outside of the libraries, art building, and maybe the dining hall if he was lucky. You never went to any parties or even had a drink at the pub at King’s Arms. He didn’t even have classes with you, but he knew Farleigh did. Word was that you and his cousin had shared a few classes – what’s more was that you were likely the only person who could go head-to-head with him in academics.

And to make it worse, the prat refused to tell him anything about you – not even your fucking name.

“Believe me,” he told him after Felix had been begging his cousin for hours to share anything about you, “she is way above your league.”

Which really hurt his feelings, by the way – sure, you were probably way above in book smarts, but there wasn’t a girl that remained indifferent to his charms after a good talking fucking.

“I still can’t believe you won’t at least tell me her name,” Felix complained once more, “or even just give me her number!”

“She’s an American here on scholarship and a bore,” he quipped back, “what’s there to tell? And can you please shut up? I want to get some reading done before tonight. You do remember the in-class essay we have tomorrow, right?”

Bloody hell, he did not. Pushing down the bitter feeling in his chest, he and his cousin made their way to meet everyone at the back. As soon as he sat down, Annabel clung on to his arm. Thank fuck he had been wearing one of his thicker jumpers – otherwise, her claws that she called nails would have ripped open the fabric.

“Hey, Felix!” she made sure to offer a very generous sight of her cleavage, “are you ready for tonight?”

Felix chuckled lowly before responding. “Aren’t I always?”

And just like that – he completely zoned out the rest of the conversation.

Annabel was probably saying something to get him to notice her, and Farleigh was likely responding so he wouldn’t have to – but Felix couldn’t be bothered to pretend to care.

He was lost in the living daydream that was his angel that haunted the art studios of Ruskin School of Art.

He was desperate to learn everything about you.

If he asked you to talk about your favorite books, would your eyes sparkle in delight, or would your smile widen in glee?

If he grabbed your hand, would your palms feel marred by his rough skin, or would you press your callouses to his?

If he pressed his mouth on yours, would your lips feel as soft and plump as they look? Or was their luster forever damaged by your teeth biting them whenever you were in deep concentration?

If he breathed in your scent at the crook of your neck, would your skin smell like the paints forever on your brushes or the musky pages of heavy ancient books you always carried in your arms?

If he planted kisses from your throat to your breasts, would you mewl in pleasure or whimper in anticipation?

If he touched your cunt, would you arch your back in ecstasy? Or would your legs crumble, and you would have no choice but to sink into his arms?

Felix’s thoughts were rudely interrupted when Farleigh jammed his bony elbow into his ribcage and hurriedly whispered.

“Look alive, Golden Boy.”

Looking forward, it was better than any of his wet dreams combined. It was you.

Your hair was loose, and your fists were clenched. You reminded him of a ferocious lion goddess with how focused your gaze was on him.

But before Felix would prepare himself to make a good impression, you walked behind him and grabbed the back of his shirt collar before fucking dragging his ass out of his seat and outside.

Bloody hell, for someone so much shorter than him, you were fucking strong.

When you finally released your grip, he fell on the ground like an idiot before he tried to stand and steady himself as quickly as he could.

“Hey, what the fu –”

You didn’t let him finish as you brought your fist to hit him square in the face – and, fuck, you might have actually broken his nose.

After staggering back, you started using the spiral notebook in your other hand to land blow after painful blow on his body.

“YOU. STUPID. FUCKING. INGRATE –” Each word that left your mouth was emphasized with another hit from your notebook “– I. HATE. YOU. YOU. RUINED. MY. PAINTING. I. SPENT. SO. MUCH. TIME. ON. IT. AND. NOW. I. CAN’T. GO. HOME. FOR. BREAK. BECAUSE. OF. YOUR. STUPID. SELF!”

Felix was confident you had more to say, but you were pulled off him by your friend – he’s pretty sure it’s Mitchell – by the waist with you kicking and screaming out profanities to him as your friend called out your name to try to calm you down.

He wondered what it said about him if he told anyone how much you looked like an angry cat. His parents would send him to a shrink if he told them how adorable he found you right now.

If you were this wild while fighting, he could only imagine how riled up you would get in bed.

Fuck, you might have just unlocked a new kink in him.

Catching his breath as he watched your friend drag you away into the distance, he heard a slow clap to his left.

Farleigh was leaning on the corner – his smug expression making it clear that he had seen the whole thing – as he looked at his cousin with a bemused expression before walking toward him and giving a sympathetic pat on his back.

“Well,” he started to break the tension, “at least you know her name.”

“Yeah,” Felix agreed, “I know her name.”

And he knew that you smelled more like the paints on your brushes than the books you carried with subtle notes of gardenias.

Tagging: @aemondsbabe, @ethereal-athalia, @aphroditesmoon, @barbiedragon, @valeskafics, @lexyysworld, @punkiwiki, @saltburnedme, @arcielee

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