moon in your mouth.

✶·˚ liv, twenties, infp / maladaptive daydreamer and alleged writer

[aeriontargearyen]

NAVIGATION ✶·˚

liv, she/they, ‘99 baby, infp. 𑣲⋆

i like to write about finn bennett characters and related media (yes i’m normal about him)

writings. all works are x reader

bobby franklin & kat taylor.

modern aerion. ／ pilot!aerion

modern valarr. ／ nasa!valarr (coming soon)

peter prior. (coming soon)

requests are open!

[alysmond]

#he's got a madness about him you only see in the eyes of targaryen descendants

[ildraws]

dyanna dayne, my shining star

[szarion]

the little ones, not cropped >w< ♥

[vhagar-balerion-meraxes]

A KNIGHT OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS S01E03 - “The Squire”

[strangledplanet]

[usergif]

The hip shattered at Rook’s Rest had left Aegon bent and twisted, his once-handsome features had grown puffy from milk of the poppy, and burn scars covered half his body.

Yet Rhaenyra knew him at once, and said, “Dear brother. I had hoped that you were dead.”

“After you,” Aegon answered. “You are the elder.” — FIRE AND BLOOD

[aeriontargearyen]

THREE’S A CROWD, bobby franklin & kat taylor (x reader)

a month ago, during a particularly raucous party game of truth or dare, you found yourself wedged between the bodies of your closest friends and established couple, bobby franklin and kat taylor. a three minute makeout session one night soon developed into three weeks of unspoken tension, and by the fourth week, bobby and kat are finally ready to talk about it—and they have a lot of shared thoughts about you.

18+ minors dni

✶·˚ content: afab!reader, throuple makeout sesh, domestic bobkat fluff (established relationship), bobkat are both equally down bad for reader, hella bisexuality, discussion of consensual polyamory, bobby being overprotective of reader (inklings of jealousy shh), it’s halloween baby!!, reader is an art student and a trust fund baby (but a sweetheart), no use of y/n

✶·˚ nsfw: marking, voyeurism (someone records the dare using bobby’s camera) (and he keeps the tape afterward bc duh), general horniness, honestly very sfw otherwise

✶·˚ wc: 6.2k

✶·˚ note: using finn and lukita’s irl birthdays, i made it so reader and bobby are still 21 at this point & kat is already 22 (bc i luv the idea that she’s older than him by two months lol). i apologise if there are any inaccuracies about cali, etc; i do not live in the states (yippee!). rip bobby you would have loved deftones

NOVEMBER, 1989

Santa Clara County, California. November, 1989. The doorstep to the 90s.

Ever since the tech boom of the past decade had wiped out a significant chunk of regional agricultural land, the fall season in Santa Clara had stopped looking less like an explosive motley of cozy colors—reds, burnished oranges, yellows—and more like the corporate hell landscape of its sister city, San Jose.

Silicon Valley was a shithole. Robert Franklin knew this. Kathrine Taylor knew this, too. And so did you.

But this anecdote isn’t quite about you. At least, not through your eyes—not yet.

It was the last week of fall—a weekend—when Bobby and Kat found themselves awake late at night; so late, their neighbors had fallen into a rare, languid silence. The bed was for sleeping and for sex, of which they were doing neither. So, they’d settled for slumping down onto the living room sofa while Bobby pretended not to worry about student loans and Kat pondered over the odd behaviors bossman Clark had been exhibiting lately.

In the corner of the room sat an old television, an unplugged fan that hadn’t seen a day of rest over the summertime, and several cardboard boxes of Bobby’s shit he had had yet to bother to unpack. The staticky hum of the box TV had become a soft drone below the movie neither he nor Kat were particularly invested in. She’d slotted in the first VHS her hands found—some horror movie Bobby had seen a hundred times—and used the distraction as background noise while she stitched new patches (two of which you’d given her) into her favorite denim jacket.

“You know you can buy ones that iron on, right?” Bobby said beside her, meaning the patches. He took a long drag from his cigarette, angling his chin to blow out the smoke away from his girlfriend rather than at her.

She didn’t look up from what she was doing. “And you know that I already know that, right?”

“I—”

“And that what I know now is more than what you’ll ever know, do you know?”

“You—what?” Bobby blinked. He checked to make sure that what he was holding was, in fact, a regular Marlboro red and not a joint. Yep. Regular cig. Bobby’s brain was fried alright, only it was the kind of neurological brain fry he’d been born with. “Whatever.”

Kat quietly snickered to herself. Bobby, whose arm was slung over the sofa, reached around her head to teasingly pinch her earlobe.

He was sporting a Grateful Dead t-shirt he almost never took off except to begrudgingly let Kat launder it. The shirt matched the same one you had in your own closet; concert merch you’d bought when he, you, and Kat saw the band perform live back in September. Bobby’d blown through over three weeks’ worth of salary (and emergency pot money—fuck) to acquire those concert tickets off some slummy scalper charging three times the price they originally sold for. But Kat’s birthday was coming up, and it was so worth it just to see the way she and you had lit up when presented with the tickets.

Then, at the venue, when you’d offered to buy everyone merch (“I insist!”) and Bobby had causally brushed you off (“I insist you don’t.”), you eagerly paid anyway with a million-watt grin that gave even the stage’s pyrotechnics a run for its money.

It was the least you could do, really. Bobby getting you those tickets (and for such an extortionate price, too) had very nearly given you a heart attack. You were, as far as the broke college students of the Valley were concerned, a trust fund baby. You could afford the small luxuries (at least, your parents could), and as such, you saw no reason behind your friends spoiling you the way they had been. Both Bobby and Kat had been so kind to you already. They didn’t see you for your money, or your status, or your all-exclusives-paid-for ride into art school. They saw you as your own person.

Someone truly important to them.

By the time the third act of the movie had swung into its final climax, Bobby and Kat had stopped paying attention altogether. The topic for the past hour had been about you. Offhanded mentions at first, so casually slipped in it was as if they had known you for years rather than some thirteen or fourteen months.

“Do you remember when she. . .”

“Oh! And the time the three of us. . .”

“What the fuck, Kat? You knew she stole my novelty lighter this whole time and said nothing?”

“Sometimes she’ll do this thing where. . .”

“No, no, I’m pretty sure she was the one who told me about. . .”

“Yes, I’m still pissed about the lighter! It was vintage and molded after a Scooby Snack!”

It had become glaringly obvious that you were not just a footnote in their lives now, but a book half-read. There were pages to you they had yet to peel back, with many more chapters to go. Some memories of you were like bookmarks; carefully placed and pressed between layers with a soft, endearing charm. Other memories were dog-eared; sharp and bent with defined ridges that served as permanent reminders of your existence: in the unlikely event you became a novella slotted away onto the bookshelves of their minds, traces of you would remain regardless.

“You take that back,” a grimacing Bobby was in the middle of saying. “I’m nothing like Shaggy. I’ve never smoked pot in a Mystery Machine.”

Kat grinned. “You do shag, though.”

The sound that erupted from Bobby’s throat was somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “The both of you are unbelievable, you know that?”

“Unbelievably good kissers.”

The couple fell very still.

There it was.

The first acknowledgement. That casual slip of the tongue. Only, things were. . . not-so casual anymore, were they? For all their chatter about you, there was one thing they had been skirting around for weeks now.

Kat sighed. “Bobby, I didn’t mean—”

“I can believe it,” he interjected, his voice a degree away from a mumble. “I had the bite marks to prove it. That woman has teeth.”

Tension clotted the air like smoke as Bobby waited for a cue. And he got it, eventually, with the slow upturn of his girlfriend’s glossed lips and a glint in her dark eyes that told him this wasn’t crossing a line, but the relocating of one; drawn in the sand somewhere else, just a little farther out.

“I’ve been thinking.” Kat put down her jacket and punched the needle through the denim for safe keeping. “About the, um. . . about what happened that night, at the Halloween party.”

After another sideward exhale of smoke, Bobby quickly turned his head back to her. “Mm?” He immediately clocked the troubled look in her eyes. “Hey,”—he smoothed his hand toward the nape of her neck, massaging her warm skin with a thumb—“what’s up? Talk to me.”

“I can’t—well.” Kat tried to find the words. Couldn’t. Puffed up her cheeks like a chipmunk and theatrically sighed. “I think, maybe. . . us kissing her was a bad idea.”

Bobby’s breath caught and settled awkwardly in his chest. “Oh.” He was suddenly conscious of the way Kat was drawing circles into one of his knees with a thumb of her own. “I see.”

“I know it was just a stupid party game,” Kat said. “And that’s all it should have been, right? Just a stupid game. But it was also. . .”

His frown was barely perceivable—but Kat noticed, just as she did everything. “A mistake?”

“I was going to say fun.”

“It was—” Bobby laughed through his nose. He wasn’t sure what exactly he was expecting her to say, but that wasn’t it. “Yeah, it was. . . fun. Which is half the problem, isn’t it?”

There was nothing cruel or conniving about the way Kat grinned at him. It was just a grin; this knowing, coy little spark of amusement. “You like her,” she said, “don’t you?”

“I don’t know.”

“You do know.”

“No.” His smile was coy. “I don’t know anything you don’t know, remember?” As Kat chuckled, Bobby turned very quickly and scooped her up into his arms. “But I know I love and care about you,” he went on. “So fuckin’ much.”

“Even if. . .?”

“If?”

“If you maybe did like her in that particular way. . . Would you love me still?”

“Yes,” he said without missing a beat. “Christ, Kat—would you even love me?”

“Oh, babe.” Her tone lowered into that soft, warm note she used whenever Bobby was being a baby about something—which, embarrassingly, he realized he kind of was. “Of course I would. I do.”

She did seem a little offended by the notion that she couldn’t possibly love him still, but she wasn’t saying as much.

“I’ve actually. . . Well.” Kat hummed. “I’ve recently been thinking about that night, too.”

“And every day after?”

“You get it.” She smiled. “We’ve found someone we both connect with, you know, and it’s great. She’s great. I’ve never met somebody whose baseline trait is just. . . kind.”

“Sometimes a little too kind,” Bobby added. Not to be cruel, or necessarily judgmental, but to finally put a voice to an ingredient he had long since noticed about you. “And she’s disarmingly funny, too. I’ve been out-sassed! But, you know, it’s whatever—pfft—not even worried about it.”

Kat snickered and poked the corner of his mouth, which had curved downward into this funny little pout. When she next said your name, it was with a fondness that settled in her chest like a warm, fuzzy glow.

Kat reached up and kissed along her boyfriend’s jaw. “Does thinking about another girl make us bad people?”

“Even if it’s the same girl?” Bobby shuddered; Kat’s breath was like a warm caress against his skin. “I don’t know what it makes us,” he said. “But I feel a lot better talking to you about it.”

“I’m glad you are.” Another kiss, this time to his temple. Then again to his jaw, then his chin, and then— “Because I think I might like her a little bit, too.”

“Just a little bit?”

“Okay, maybe. . . a little more than a little bit.” She blushed. “Probably a lot more emotionally than you do sexually though, you perv.”

He guffawed. “I didn’t even say anything!”

“Bobby, you’re a man with a pulse.” Kat clicked her tongue. “You aren’t slick. I see the way you look at her—and I know you’ve caught me looking at her, too. You get this. . . face about you, like,”—she mimics the so-called face—“this. All stupid and starry-eyed and shit.”

“Fuck off,” he laughed. “I do not.”

“She’s hot.”

“God—right?” He immediately caved. Sucker. “So fuckin’ hot, it’s unfair. And that day we all went swimming in Del Valle? Seeing you two in your skimpy bikinis together was just—I mean, shit. Just—fuck, man.”

At this point, rolling her eyes had become instinct for Kat whenever it came to her Bobby. This time, however, she was grinning big and wide.

Her Bobby.

Yes. For all of his faults and those of her own, her heart told her he was still her Bobby. And you were her girl, in a way. Bright-eyes, she liked to call you. Kitty, you liked to call her.

There was some overlap there.

(And she was willing to share.)

Bobby watched through hooded eyes as Kat propped herself up on her arms and hovered over him, her cropped black hair framing her softly rounded face. She stared at him, searching his face for something, and Bobby stared right back. It was an exchange of silent communication and of respect.

At last, Kat said, “Let’s think on it. Later. Together. What to do about our little. . . conundrum.”

Bobby slid his hand through her hair, pulling her head to his shoulder to plant a somewhat rare, tender kiss to her forehead. “This changes nothing, baby. What we have together. . . I hope it won’t be—you know—awkward or anything just because a gorgeous girl came in with the wind and blew our way—”

“That’s. . . oddly sweet of you to say?”

“I wasn’t done.” The corners of Bobby’s mouth curved slightly upward. “I was about to say she blew in like that first breath of fresh air I get after hotboxing. My head is a little clearer, but she still has me fucked up.”

“Ah,” Kat sighed in reservation. “There’s my Bobby.”

“I trust you, babe,” he said. “And I know I can be irresponsible, and an asshole, and really moronic when I’m stoned,”—she stuck her tongue out at him at that—“but I really do hope you trust me, too.”

Reflex almost got her to make a joke about it. But she wasn’t about to ruin something that felt like progress; even if she wasn’t exactly sure what that progress was heading towards. “I do trust you,” she replied, and meant it. “Of course I do.”

“Then let’s think about it.” Bobby stamped out the last of his cigarette against the grain of the old coffee table—a bad habit Kat hated, and he still had yet to kick. “Whatever we do about this,” he went on, taking one of Kat’s hands into both of his, “whether we decide to tell her about how we feel or not. . . we’ll decide that together. Worse case, she only likes you, and I’ll just have to experience the unfortunate view of you two going at it while I sit there and—”

Kat shoved him. “Dude!”

“Oh, what? You said so yourself—I’m a man, and I have a pulse. You think I haven’t imagined how you two would look together ever since that day at Del Valle?”

“You’re so whoreish.”

“I’m truthful.”

“Truthfully whoreish! I keep expecting the two of you to lay down and have passionate sex right in front of me.”

His responding smirk was shameless. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Kat turned her face away to hide her blush, but Bobby was quick to pull her back to him. He kissed her, slow and soft, the scent of her coconut shampoo and aloe lotion washing over him like a cool day at a poolside.

Pools. Water. You and Kat in bikinis that left nothing to the imagination. Oh, great—Bobby was hard downstairs and thinking about that day at Del Valle all over again.

And then there was Halloween.

Better yet: he had the evidence on camera.

OCTOBER, 1989

“You’re an angel.”

With the flash of a smile and a theatrical curtsy, you replied, “Why, thank you.”

The mellow stranger before you—dressed like a character from a movie you watched religiously—gave a hearty chuckle. “Personality wise too, I suppose,” said the young man—a boy, really—gesturing to your own costume. “Did you make your wings? They look heavy.”

You wriggled your back a bit, feeling the swish, swish of the white feathers you’d painstakingly sewn on to an apparatus constructed from chicken wire, fabric, and foam.

“With a little downtime and wishful thinking,” you remarked, “anything’s possible.”

“Hell yeah,” the stranger said, raising his red solo cup to you as a gesture of cheers. “I’m Dick, by the way.”

You provided your name in response. Only after you took a tentative sip from your own cup did you realize what he’d said. “Wait,”—the faintest bit of liquid dribbled from the corner of your mouth, which you were quick to wipe away—“is your name really Dick?”

“Richard,” he grimaced like that was worse somehow—and maybe it was. “Richard Chaney.”

“Well,” you said, your smile true, “it’s nice to meet you, Dick Chaney.”

You met the rim of his cup with your own and, with a wordless understanding, the two of you chugged back whatever remained of your beers. The beer was cheap, but it was free. And, like a bird released from a cage (or in this instance, an angel), you felt like you’d been marginally freed, too. It was your first night drinking at the tender legal age of twenty-one, though it was far from the first time you’d gotten buzzed.

You weren’t drunk, you were certain of that. But the few hits Bobby had given you of his joint earlier as a “pregame” to Halloween night had begun to turn the edges of everything very soft and misty, like looking through an optical bloom effect of a camera lens.

Now that you were here at the off-campus party, the booming and decidedly pretentious SCU fraternity of male self-importance looked suddenly small. The sheer amount of bodies packed together from room to room was stifling. Students danced, drank, conversed, shouted, sucked face. For your first of-age party, it was, admittedly, a little overwhelming.

Unknown to you was the fact that, as you stood there talking to your new friend Dick Chaney, Bobby had been quietly watching you from the other side of the room. Had been for the past five minutes now. There was nothing sinister about it. Overprotective? Probably. But men noticed you—women, too—and Bobby knew you’d been burned before.

“Having fun being a stalker over here?” Kat inquired as she returned to Bobby’s side with a new drink in her hand. “You’re like a goddamn gargoyle.”

His frown deepened. “I don’t like him.”

“So your solution is to explode the guy with your mind?”

The red in Bobby’s eyes—that glazed-over high ringing the bright blue of his irises—remained as he blinked and merely said, again, “I don’t like him.”

Though she was grinning, Kat rolled her eyes. Her costume was a downplayed version of Lydia Deetz’s red tulle gown from Beetlejuice, her hair jelled and teased into submission like the titular gothic character. Meanwhile, Bobby was dressed as Back to the Future’s Marty McFly, JVC camcorder and all.

That camera was the only thing keeping him sober—alcohol wise, anyway. It wasn’t his. As a matter of fact, it belonged to you. What Bobby did not know, however, was that your declaration of allowing him to “borrow” it was secretly your way of saying “Have it; it’s yours.”

Despite her amused grin, Kat rolled her eyes. “Come on then.” She made a grab for Bobby’s hand and yanked him along, not caring for his protest of ‘Hey!’ as his beer sloshed over his solo cup mid-sip. “Let’s go rescue our girl who definitely doesn’t need rescuing.”

You were alone when the couple approached you—Dick having left to apparently search for his own group of friends—and immediately broke out into a smile with a warmth like the sun.

“Hey again, bright-eyes,” Kat greeted with a quick peck to your cheek. It was a casual exchange, innocent and instinctive: something you’d adopted since the two of you became fast friends after meeting during a protest in the name of feminism. “He wasn’t bothering you, was he?”

“Who?” You blinked. “Dick?”

“Who names their kid Dick?” Bobby grimaced. Even in front of you, he wasn’t hiding his annoyance over the guy—though a slight waver in his tone almost bordered on jealousy. “Or is that your way of saying he was an asshole to you? ‘Cos I can always—”

“Dude,” you said with an ‘are you kidding me’ eyebrow raise, “the guy was dressed as Jareth from Labyrinth. Every good Bowie fan is respectful and at least a little bit gay.”

Kat chuckled, abandoning her half-empty solo cup upon a nearby chest of drawers—and Bobby did the same. “Speaking from experience, obviously,” the former said.

You winked. “Duality, baby.”

For the umpteenth time that night, Bobby awkwardly asked you, “Are you sure you’re okay with me using this?” He switched the JVC camcorder from one hand to the other. “This is an expensive fuckin’ cam to be using as a prop, angel. It’s not even—I mean, look at this thing—it’s practically brand new.”

Angel. Somehow, you felt like he wasn’t just saying that because you were dressed as one.

You managed to keep a straight-face, refusing to betray the fact that you’d bought it specifically as a gift to him. “I prefer photography,” you said with a shrug.

As a briefly distracted Bobby fiddled with the viewfinder, you and Kat shared a knowing look that had you two quietly giggling.

At last, you chirped out an, “Okie dokie!” and put down your empty solo cup between each of theirs. “I’m done standing around.” You grabbed the couple by a hand each, tugging them toward the throng of dancers in the center of the room before either of them could refuse. “Dance with me!”

Neither of them did refuse you, of course—and how could they, when your enthusiasm and tender heart were so infectious?

So, the three of you danced. Amidst the fray of bumping, costumed bodies, the room seemed to shrink until it was two sizes too small. Again, you were hit that vague sensation that it was all very overwhelming. And that was saying something. You’d been in the dangerous throng of mosh pits and underground raves before, and had braved the heat whilst innocently sitting beside your rich parents in the stands of Wimbledon.

It was different with Bobby and Kat, though. They were warm, and welcoming, and. . . safe. They radiated an energy you had become addicted to. They were your friends. You liked being around them. You liked them.

. . .Friends.

They were your friends.

And together.

As a couple.

Oh, how troublesome that was for both your fluttering heart and the current situation you found yourself in—or rather, in between.

“Oops,” Bobby muttered close to your ear, knocking his pelvis against your hip as he carefully avoided your wings and stepped around them to move to the other side of you. “Sorry.”

He was not even the least bit sorry.

Bobby missed both your smile and your eye roll as he moved to stand at your back; Kat pressed to your front in the meantime. You’d folded your wings down into a straight line behind your back—a mechanic you’d had the foresight to add ahead of time—which allowed the three of you to be closer. Now that you were in the middle, the already stifling room had become a furnace. The three of you weren’t dancing anymore so much as swaying, rocking, grinding. Compared to the heavy flux blasting over the sound system, your shared laughter with Kat’s was as melodic as wind chimes as the two of you laughed.

Bobby noticed. Even if he’d arrived to the party stoned out of his fuckin’ mind (he hadn’t), he’d have noticed.

Arms around your neck, Kat—needing to shout to be heard—said to you, “You’re so tense!” She slid her hands down to massage the tender dips between your neck and shoulders. The gentle pressure made you reflexively sigh. “You were fine ten minutes ago.”

Well, you wanted to say, I wasn’t practically dry humping an established couple ten minutes ago.

“I’m great, Kitty,” you instead said, only half lying. “Less talking, more dancing!”

The two bodies pressed against you responded in kind, moving with you like water. Five and a half songs later (most of which you’d all spent shouting out the lyrics to along with the crowd), and the three of you were retreating back to the sidelines for some fresh air.

You found solace outside on the back patio, which looked out onto a light-speckled view of Santa Clara. You’d barely made it past the sliding glass doors when you heard a shout of your name some ten feet away.

It was Dick Chaney again. You realized he was waving you over to a group of partygoers you supposed were those friends he’d scampered off to go locate earlier. There were seven of them in total, and they were sitting and laying in a circle upon a patch of lawn.

“It appears that Dick guy wants you to go over there,” Kat remarked.

“Stupid name. . .” Bobby mumbled when he thought you couldn’t hear him.

You blew out an amused breath. “Come with me,” you rasped. “Both of you, please? I sense a sinister party game is about to occur.”

The couple shared a cautious glance over your shoulder. Obviously, they weren’t about to leave you alone out here with seven strangers—all of whom were costumed; some near-unrecognizable under layers of facepaint and makeup. So, they followed behind you toward the circle of spirited faces, subconsciously holding hands as a means of communicating that they were together.

That didn’t stop Dick from raising an eyebrow at you as you lowered yourself onto the lawn beside him. He’d only known you for a combined twenty minutes, tops, but something about that momentary, wordless exchange with him told you he somehow understood what your friends really meant to you.

Introductions were quickly passed around; a few names you’d managed to latch onto while guiltily forgetting others. Kat, who looked a bit like a puffy red beanbag with her dress now bunched-up around her, was sitting next to you; Bobby and his camera on her other side.

“How about a sexy game of spin the bottle?” one of the guys amongst the group said, chugging the remnants of his Bud Light before throwing it into the middle of the circle.

Dick made a grab for the bottle and immediately tossed it back him. “We can’t spin a bottle in grass, dipshit.” He guffawed—and you decided then and there that you might one day like to become true friends. “Let’s stick to the classics, eh? A little truth or dare.”

Several people ‘oohed’ and hummed, including Kat. Bobby, who was still growing increasingly annoyed at a number of things regarding strangers, hesitated to comment.

“Three rules,” began Dick, holding up a finger for each rule spoken. “One: no choosing truth three times in a row—that’s chicken shit territory. Two: no one leaves this backyard. I can’t be assed chasing everyone around to make sure they held up their end of the dare. Okay? Okay. And three: everyone has to be comfortable with it. Either you’re committed, or you’re out. Told to strip? You strip. Reveal your crush? Reveal it. Told to eat a snail? Uh—maybe don’t do that, actually. Oh, and no maiming, violence, or blood related shit either—this isn’t a cult. Everyone in agreement?”

Everyone verbally murmured and nodded their approval. No one moved or stood to leave, which you all took to mean the ten of you consented.

The game soon proceeded clockwise around the circle, and with Dick volunteering to go first, that meant you’d always be last each round.

It was odd, the amount of things you’d managed to pick up about a group of strangers simply by the way they answered truths and went about completing dares. A particularly mouthy white guy who seemed to be all talk was dared to streak naked in the backyard (He did—it was terribly embarrassing and hilarious). One girl revealed her family supposedly had ties with the Italian mafia (Um?). Bobby was even dared to kiss the hottest guy in the circle (to which you and Kat tried very hard not to burst out laughing after Bobby sighed, crawled over to Dick, and kissed him on the mouth—tongue and all).

Exactly seventeen truths and twelve dares later, and the third round of the night was once again ending with you. Having chosen truth the previous two rounds, you had no choice but to settle for dare this time.

It was Dick who declared he had the perfect dare for you. You were relieved at first (only God knew what mafia girl might have had you do. . .) until you saw it again: that knowing, wordless eyebrow raise Dick quickly shot you.

“I dare you to. . . Hm.” Dick began, stroking his beardless chin just for show. He then got this sort of glimmer about his eyes as he pointed between you, Bobby, and Kat. “I dare you three to make out.”

You startled as though he’d lit a firecracker right beside your eardrum. “That’s daring three people, Chaney. You’re supposed to be daring me.”

“Okay,”—he flashed his palms in mock defense—“then I dare you to make out with the two of them. Better?”

Better? You wanted to scream! You wanted to—to. . . To what? God, this was about to get very dangerous, very quick, wasn’t it?

(. . .Wasn’t it?)

Your gaze immediately drifted to that of your friends to the right of you, who you were somewhat surprised to see already looking at you. Considering the subject matter, they looked. . . reserved somehow. Calm, almost. As if they were handing you all the cards in their deck, and were waiting to see how you would play your hand. Call Dick’s bluff and fold? Call check and go all in?

There was only one choice, really.

The more exciting play.

You lifted your chin in self-defiance. “Alright,” you said. You were never one to pass up a challenge, but this one felt personal, and was breaching new territory entirely. “For—um—how long exactly?”

“Oh,” mumbled Dick, scratching his real hair below his blond Jareth wig, “I hadn’t actually thought that far ahead.”

The guy on the other side of Bobby patted the JVC camcorder that sat on the grass near Bobby’s thigh. “How about until the tape in this bad boy runs out?” the guy declared with a shit-eating grin. “Why not make an event of it.”

“That tape can hold twenty minutes of footage, man,” Bobby remarked, clearly annoyed someone not you was touching the cam.

“Too short a time for you, horndog?”

Bobby narrowed his eyes. You rolled yours. Kat, in the meantime, snickered and turned to her boyfriend beside her. “Well,” she said, “how much B-roll of the night have you recorded so far?”

“Shit, I don’t know,” Bobby contemplated while working out the kink in his neck. “Fifteen minutes, maybe?”

Someone amongst the circle whistled in that suggestive ‘things just got sexy’ way.

Your sudden lack of confidence, however, was decidedly not very sexy. At least fifteen percent of you lacked the certainty to go through with it, but it was that eighty-five percent—that rush of doing something risky and exciting—that really mattered.

And so, to reel it back in, you blew out a steady breath and said, more to the circle than to Dick, “Okay. Dare accepted.”

More whistles and hoots of encouragement sounded off from around you. It was impossible not to blush; you suddenly wished your wings were real and that you could take flight, or perhaps cocoon them around yourself like a blanket to hide under.

“That is,” you quickly shot your friends a look, specifically making eye contact with Kat, “if it’s okay with you guys?”

Her giving the okay meant more to you than his did. Because Bobby was Bobby—sometimes you wondered whether he’d had wet dreams about watching you and Kat making out before, and deduced that he probably had.

(A correct assumption.)

Kat fisted her fingers through the grass to literally ground herself. She didn’t even need to look at Bobby to know he was waiting for her word. And she gave it—sort of—by saying, “I’m not one to chicken out on a dare.”

“Neither,” you and Bobby said in tandem.

The guy beside Bobby plucked the JVC up from the ground before the latter could protest, hiking it up into position near his shoulder.

“Careful with that,” Bobby hissed.

“Yeah, yeah. Calm down, Franklin,” the guy rebutted, and only then did you realize they knew each other. Judging by the way the guy switched on the cam and adjusted everything through the viewfinder, you guessed he must have been a film student at SCU, too. “Okay.” He pointed at you the way a director might. Suddenly you wished it was Bobby recording you, like he usually was—but that wasn’t exactly an option. “Ready to roll at your word, chica.”

You shot the guy an unimpressed glare. “Keep my ass out of your shots,” you said pointedly. “No unnecessary pervy shit.”

“Tempting. . .”

Bobby struck the guy’s knee for that.

With one last accusatory look Dick’s way—who merely winked at you in return (the bastard!)—you pushed yourself up onto your hands and knees and began the crawl toward the space between Bobby and Kat. You went slowly, attempting to steady the rapid beating of your heart, which had the absolute opposite effect on the couple as they watched you slink closer like some kind of aphrodisiac pantheress. Kat, already closest to you, swallowed and shuffled a little to the side to make room for you between her and Bobby.

You bit your lip and glanced back at the camera. “Until the tape runs out, right?”

Director-guy gave a thumbs up behind the viewfinder. “Starting. . .”—he clicked a side button to start the recording, upon which the tape whirred to life—“now.”

Five minutes.

What was five minutes of kissing between friends?

Four minutes and fifty-six seconds.

You weren’t sure who to grab first. So, abandoning forethought, you simply grabbed the both of them at the same time, tugging Bobby in by the vest of his costume and warmly cupping your hand around Kat’s cheek to guide her face toward you. At the very last moment, you decided to kiss her first, testing your theory about Bobby imagining you together.

When her lips met yours, they were petal-soft and willing, parting as you coaxed a gasp out of her by moving your hand from her cheek to the nape of her neck instead, where you used the friction to bring her closer. She tasted like a berry you suddenly couldn’t recall the name of—one of them; all of them; whichever. Sweet. Sharp. Almost floral. And a lot like the color red; a shade as vibrant as the tulle of her costume.

Still with your hand fisted in his vest, Bobby hovered a breath away, watching you both, studying you, as a low groan erupted from the back of his throat only you and Kat could hear.

Knew it, you thought.

The camera picked up everything else, including the way you traded her mouth for his, yanking him to you with a strength that lacked any and all caution and had now become something closer to desperation.

In comparison, Bobby tasted almost. . . familiar. You often smoked together; had hit the same pregame blunt earlier. You preferred the same brand of alcohol. He tasted like both these things. And yet, you were briefly perplexed as your mind raced to find a way to describe the underlying note of his kiss. Hungry. Self-assured. Burning.

So too burned the tender flesh of your skin as Kat dipped her head to kiss the salt of your neck, already warmed and slick with a thin sheen of sweat from dancing. Her tongue dragged slow circles over you, encouraging your own to flick out from your mouth to explore more of Bobby’s. He was surprisingly responsive and self-possessed. A little stiffer than Kat, perhaps (he was a man with a pulse, yes—but still a marginally respectful man), and he let you lead for the most part, not quite sure how far he was allowed to go.

You were distantly aware of voices, and whistling, and music, and a prickle of invisible electricity stabbing at your back from the video camera. But the witnesses and the background noise and the night around you faded, until all there was was you, Bobby, Kat, and this unspoken, nuclear energy warbling between you three like radioactive fallout.

Suddenly you were all over each other. Any restraint you might have had fizzled away along with the neurons in your brain, which had turned to mush. Kat was kissing you. . . and then she was kissing Bobby. . . and by that point, you’d already latched onto the place below his jaw with your mouth, trailing a line of kisses toward his throat.

He hissed as you near-bit and sucked a little too hard, but he did not stop to complain about it. You left several markings with your teeth, then moved on to pepper a few kissed-on bruises over the tender muscle in Kat’s neck.

Someone in the circle said something; a far-off, distant voice in some other land, in some other time. You didn’t care for it. You were attentive as you watched Kat reach around to pull Bobby in by the blond of his hair until the two were crashing their lips together over your shoulder. Your lashes fluttered like the feathers on your wings as you gazed at the two above you, your chest rattling with a soft, auspicious laugh. They were touching you and kissing each other at the same time—messy and uncoordinated and all tongue—and you felt wonderful.

You barely had time to blink before they detached and immediately set to work on you again. Bobby’s tongue and teeth found your neck, sucking and biting at the flesh, while Kat grabbed you by the chin and devoured your mouth with hers. You were breathing heavy, faintly mewling as they molded you between their hands like putty.

And then came that distant voice again.

“Yo!” they yelled. “I said that’s it for the tape; the recording called quits!”

There was an audible little ‘pop’ of your lips detaching from Kat’s, then another as Bobby pulled away from your neck after one last purposeful suckle. You didn’t make immediate eye contact with the two, or wait for either of them to say anything.

Now that it was over, you were afraid the mirage of that radiating togetherness would somehow shatter.

Steeling your resolve, you turned your head, heart slamming against your ribs like a gale force wind, and made eye contact with the camera.

“You get all that?” you asked.

Director-guy grinned. “Three minutes of footage, chica.” He whistled low. “Now that’s what I call a show.”

Three minutes.

When you finally turned back to Bobby and Kat and fell level with their eyes, the two of them were breathing hard and panting like you. Likewise, your own costume and hair were surely as frazzled as theirs appeared.

Talk about a show indeed.

Mustering up whatever sliver of confidence remained within you, you declared, “That was fun!” and reached out with both hands to affectionately pat the both of them on a cheek each. “If my ass ended up on that footage at all thanks to your director friend there, Bobby,” you murmured, “I’m coming to your place and burning it.”

It came as a great relief when Bobby laughed. Kat, meanwhile, melted below your touch.

Three minutes.

You’d been expecting five.

Somehow, cruelly, it felt like those precious two minutes had been stolen from you.

[lottienats]

Might as well go home, Mulder. This case is as good as solved.

[bennettfinn]

FINN BENNETT as PETER PRIOR TRUE DETECTIVE: NIGHT COUNTRY

[themakeupbrush]

JoliPoli

[vhagar-balerion-meraxes]

EYE FOR AN EYE (2025)

[katebeckets]

@pscentral event 50: colors

KATE BECKETT + emotion in color

[aeriontargearyen]

FLIGHT RISK, pilot!aerion headcanons

// aka, my take on modern day aerion 𑣲⋆

infamous king’s landing native, aerion targaryen—callsign “BRIGHTFLAME”—is nothing short of a flight risk. around base, the hotshot fighter pilot hasn’t exactly been making your job any easier—or lonelier. reckless, arrogant, and (worst of all) actually gifted at aviation, aerion carries himself like a dragon personified, as if the very skies belong to him. on the ground, however, it’s anybody’s game—and you are the one thing he can’t dogfight his way out of.

18+ minors dni

✶·˚ content: afab!reader, reader and aerion are both “topgun-esque” aviators and in their lower mid 20s, situationship, military terms and jargon, aerion being his usual hubristic self (and being a baby about it when it comes to reader), possessive!aerion, pet names (sweetheart, bunny), NASA!Valarr (bby works the sciences division of aeronautics), valarr catching strays, modern westeros and essos are apart of the UK ig??, no use of y/n

✶·˚ nsfw: brief smut, p in v, mention of oral (f!recieving), light choking (consensual), dirty talk, general horniness

✶·˚ wc: 4.4k

✶·˚ note: i dunno if anyone’s imagined modern!aerion as a pilot beyond one or two posts (i’ve searched, and i’ve likely overlooked) but here’s my take bc i’m obsessed!! the vibe of pilot!aerion is basically closer by NIN (meow) and break stuff by limp bizkit (finn mentioned in an interview that it would be his pre-battle hype song, and it is very dear to me. my mans has taste)

Pilot!Aerion who is, above all else, a Targaryen. The blood of the dragon courses through his veins, and so a dragon he became: Brightflame.

The first militant pilot of his generation, graduated and adopted into the big leagues by twenty-one (no small feat, he’ll have you know). King’s Landing, his home turf, houses the primary aviation base in the Crownlands and is one of many established throughout Westeros—including those as far out as Lys and Dorne.

Pilot!Aerion and his overindulgences. Hailing from a family too influential to touch, Aerion gets away with almost anything. Almost. His squadron admires him, his superiors tolerate him, strangers and acquaintances who know no better want to be him. But one thing he isn’t impervious to is the critiquing eye of his own father.

(Maeker, who cares much for his son despite Aerion’s cut-throat, ungovernable nature. Maeker, who cannot put a voice to his approval beyond a reserved, well-meaning nod or a stifled grunt.)

(Aerion, who has dreamed of flying since before he was old enough to know what it really meant. Aerion, who can’t help thinking his father’s silences are born of judgement; who hears his family’s warnings not as “It’s too dangerous” and “You’re going to get yourself killed,” but rather as “You aren’t good enough” and “You don’t have the nerve.”)

Pilot!Aerion knows who and what he is. He’s first-rate. Talented. Envied. Despised. He proves himself, to himself. His delusions of grandeur aren’t just for show—Aerion “Brightflame” Targaryen really is just that delusional and grand.

Pilot!Aerion naming his squadron Dracarys. Over comms, he’s Dracarys One, of course. Everyone else—Dracarys Two through Six—are just the subsidiary scales on his wings.

Pilot!Aerion and his carefully curated “Brightflame” persona. It’s loud, proud, pretentious and entirely him, boasting such hardware as:

His helmet: standard-issue carbon fibre with a black and glossy base, personalised with a wraparound, three-headed dragon of metallic reds, oranges, and genuine gold. The three heads split toward the front of the visor where, if you could see beneath the sunset-shift of the polycarbonate, you’d find his violet eyes blazing just as hot.

His uniform: fitted in a dark grey flight suit—same as everybody else—that features an embroidered, more traditional version of his sigil closely reflecting that of a classic Targ. On the other side of his chest, his name 𝙻𝚃. 𝙰𝙴𝚁𝙸𝙾𝙽 𝚃𝙰𝚁𝙶𝙰𝚁𝚈𝙴𝙽 and callsign "𝙱𝚁𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃𝙵𝙻𝙰𝙼𝙴" are stitched in red upon a straight, black patch amidst the otherwise pristine and empty grey.

The plane itself: the loudest, proudest part of his ensemble. The nose of his F-22 is licked with flames like a fiery comet punching through the atmosphere, and the art on his tail fins mirror that of the dragon on his helmet: three heads, split positions, multicoloured and loud, and aggressively more massive.

If Aerion could paint his entire F-22 in the image of a real life dragon, he would. But he’d also light up green on enemy radars like a point of fucking wildfire if he did, and so he maintains the same lackluster grey fuselage you all do.

Pilot!Aerion, who looks good both in uniform and out of it—and knows it.

He smells of cigarette smoke, jet fuel, and an expensive cologne that both warms like fire and soothes like a salve. His silver hair is always mussed when he removes his helmet, perfectly imperfect in that effortless, frustrating way that sends you hightailing it to the other end of the runway before he can catch you staring.

Aerion doesn’t do subtlety. But when he does, it’s in the way he exclusively dresses in dark shades—blacks, reds, greys. Of course, not only does he look good out of uniform, but he looks good out of his civilian clothes, too. (A little fact you later came to learn.)

Pilot!Aerion, who is never where you need him to be. When he isn’t taking to the skies in his fighter jet, he’s taking to the outskirts of dirt roads on his motorcycle with a matching helmet just as loud and proud as the one he wears in the cockpit.

Pilot!Aerion, who approaches everything like a challenge—women, relationships, hobbies, business. It was no wonder, then, that you—with your unimpressed, couldn’t-care-less brat attitude—had swiftly captured his attention like a rabbit to a snare.

(Though who is the rabbit and who is the snare?)

Pilot!Aerion, who’d somewhat. . . surprised you. You knew of him; had seen him around base and had witnessed firsthand the kind of man you were dealing with, but you did not know him. The fateful day the two of you properly interacted for the first time, your superiors had selected the top lieutenants from each squadron for a “special mission”—and, being the best in your respective squads, that included you and Aerion.

You’d never spoken a word to him beyond an instinctive acknowledgment in passing: a curt nod from one pilot to another, accompanied by a quiet “Lieutenant,” in lieu of a hello. But then, suddenly, there you and Aerion were one day, chaperoning a bunch of school kids around the airfield as classes toured the base and boys spoke about blowing one another up with flak and artillery—as if they’d decided that was their dream job.

“Seven Hells,” you sighed as one kid pretended he was a B-2 bomber plane crashing into another kid, a Russian MiG.

Aerion merely laughed—hollow, disinterested. “What?” he remarked, leaning against the tail end of his F-22. “They’re having fun.”

“They’re nine years-old, Brightflame.” You crossed your arms, refusing to stand closer to him or his plane any more than you already had to. “They’re impressionable.”

“So?”

“So, you’re supposed to be teaching them the physics, not the pyrotechnics.”

He ran a hand through his silver hair, which had turned a silken shade of blonde in the afternoon sun. “If it’s the math that got you interested in this gig, sweetheart,” he said with a grimace, “then perhaps you should have become a NASA brat like my insulant cousin. Some of us here prefer to be close to the action.”

Forty-five minutes you’d been assigned to Aerion “Brightflame” Targaryen for this so-called “special mission.” Forty. Five. Minutes. And you already wanted to set him and his precious goddamn F-22 behind him well and truly alight.

Still, despite his thinly veiled insults and bad influence on the children, Aerion was more soft-spoken than you’d been expecting. The tension in his jaw betrayed irritation, and that he did not really want to have to be there, but his silklike voice was level and deceptively calm.

(Later, you learned from your close friend and aeronautics engineer, Valarr Targaryen—none other than the “NASA brat” Aerion had mentioned—that Aerion had younger siblings (“Including his littlest sister, Rhae,” Valarr had said, “who Aerion pretends not to adore.”); which, you liked to imagine, was why Aerion had not been nearly as horrible as he could have been that fateful *ahem* day he and you had been paired together.)

Pilot!Aerion, who continued to speak to you on occasion whenever he’d see you around base, even though he had no obligation or any real reason to do so.

Pilot!Aerion isn’t your friend. He isn’t your enemy, either. What he is a haunting.

Pilot!Aerion has a way with integrating himself into situations and the lives of others with either calculated, tactical discretion or with the brazen dominance of a nuclear bomb. When it came to gaining your trust—or the illusion of such—he was initially slow about it. He studied you. Learned you. That way, once he infected your mind and imploded, he’d know precisely how and where to destroy you.

Pilot!Aerion, who succeeded.

He was just agreeable enough to get you to relax around him. Just patient enough for you to mistake his silences as doing you a kindness. He’d say cruel things about others, and your reprimands were no longer sharp, but tired. He’d wear you down further by being soft-spoken one moment and emphatically irate the next.

You did not entertain his indulgences, nor did you feed into his recklessness. But you stopped correcting him. In part because you enjoyed his company more than you did loathe him. And—quite terribly—because some inner, cardinal part of you liked the danger. After all, danger was what put you in that cockpit everyday.

So it only seemed natural, really, that you eventually found yourself in Aerion’s arms like a mid-air collision, riding his cock whenever the two of you were earthbound.

Pilot!Aerion, who beds you, fucks you, and makes you see stars behind your eyelids for once rather than in the atmosphere.

As your eyes lolled back, so too did your head. You were open-mouthed and breathless, unable to think, when you felt Aerion’s hand snake up to clutch your throat. Then his mouth was on yours again, feeding you the salty taste of your earlier release when he’d fucked you with his tongue.

“Oh—” You weren’t sure what you were trying to say. Nothing of importance, really. “Ah. Mmm.”

Aerion grinned against your mouth, squeezing your throat just that little bit tighter. “You like being used, hm?”

You nodded—or tried to.

“How many other ungrateful lieutenants have you done this with?” There was a raw possessiveness about the way he said that. And with that rawness came an impossibly fast and hard thrust of his cock inside you. “You get around from man to man like a little base bunny?”

“No.”

“No.” He repeated. Rutted up into you as he laughed. “Good,” he grunted low in his throat. “Keep it that way. I’ve—nng—ruined you. No one will ever fuck you as good as I can. You can try—try find someone better. You won’t.”

With one side of your neck exposed, Aerion dipped his head so that the laving of his tongue was now localised at your throat. He could bite your jugular and draw blood if he wanted to, could squeeze your windpipe and choke you with his bare hand if he so desired. But that was the allure behind it all, wasn’t it? That danger. That risk.

Maybe Brightflame really was a dragon. You were on fucking fire.

Pilot!Aerion and the way he practically demands you call him Brightflame “like a good little bunny” as you take him to the hilt (because of course he has a callsign kink).

Pilot!Aerion, who sees you not only as a challenge anymore, but as an obsession. He’d memorise your itinerary almost as well as his own, finds any and every reason to excuse himself from his duties to find you, and cannot (and this cannot be understated) stand to see another man so much as touch you.

Speaking, he tolerated—such exchanges came with the job—but there was absolutely no reason the young Lannister from your squadron needed to be any closer to you than an arm’s reach. And since when were you and his cousin so aggravatingly buddy-buddy? Why the fuck was Valarr back in King’s Landing and not away doing the calculations for some space cadet quest, anyway?

Pilot!Aerion, who will never admit that he enjoys your company both during sex and outside of it.

Pilot!Aerion, who loves talking aeronautics, aerodynamics, and aircraft with you. He’d been scarce to find someone as knowledgeable and passionate as you.

Daeron had been interested, once. But that was before he fucked off and went on some “path to self-discovery.”

And then there was his beloved cousin. Sharing the same interests as Valarr was fun when they were kids, sure, but now it was a competition (to Aerion, anyway—poor Valarr merely breathes and Aerion has to be better at it than him.)

Pilot!Aerion, who religiously checks his phone the moment he lands, and had already planned in his head what to tell you about his flight before his feet had even hit the tarmac.

Pilot!Aerion, who will ignore all other missed calls, texts, and notifications that aren’t yours (unless it’s that dreaded bi-weekly “check-in” call from Maeker making sure his dissenter son hasn’t gotten himself killed after all).

Pilot!Aerion, who returns to base some days to find (for reasons only he can’t comprehend) no notifications, texts, or calls from you at all—just silence. It doesn’t matter if he’s been ordered to do other things—the moment Aerion steps off that runway, he’s sniffing out your whereabouts like a scent-tracking bloodhound. And he’ll find you, of course—always does—and purposefully wait until you’re alone to corner you.

“You’re ignoring me.”

“Aerion,” you startled. “I wasn’t— I’m. . . working.”

“So you get paid to ignore me now, is that it?”

Your breath hitched as your lower back made contact with the stairwell’s railing behind you. And it caught yet again, when you felt the solid shape of Aerion pressing himself up against you.

“Wait,” you hissed, palm to his chest—right above the identifying patches of his flight suit. “You can’t just—” You glanced around, expecting eyes. “Not here.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

He did know, of course. Fraternisation between personnel was strictly prohibited. But when did that ever stop him? He was addicted to the challenge of it, after all.

Crew passed by the doorway into the stairwell, but did not enter. When a lone lieutenant finally did appear, he merely glimpsed the back of that recognisable silver-haired Targaryen head and quickly scampered away to find another way downstairs.

You huffed. “Aerion, honestly—”

“Uh-uh.” He shook his head. “Not my callsign.”

And, oh, how embarrassingly dumbstruck you became beneath him as his calloused pilot’s hands gripped your waist with the strength of a control stick mid-dogfight.

Aerion leaned in, ghosting his lips over your earlobe. Despite his irritation, something about the action was almost. . . tender. Alarmingly so; for when it came to the silver-haired dragon, you’d learned by now to excuse tenderness and expect only teeth.

“You wanna try that again?” he murmured. That raw, gruff calmness behind it—a tone he only ever used around you—was devastating. “My callsign, sweetheart.”

Your pride wanted to shove him away. Your body, however—that oh-so sensitive place between your thighs, where you could feel the bulge below Aerion’s uniform tenting against the fabric of your own—embarrassingly, rudely betrayed you.

You felt him grin against your temple at your subtle writhing. “Callsign, base bunny,” he said again. “Say it.”

“I’m not your fucking bunny.”

Aerion tsk’d; violet eyes doing a once over of the length of your body. Did you think he wouldn’t notice you? Did you think you could get away from him? No, no, no—there was no getting away now. Not when you were in his head. Not since you’d started showing up in his fucking dreams where he’d once imagined chasing horizons.

Emboldened and infuriated by the thought, Aerion reached around you with both hands and squeezed the flesh of your arse. “Say it.”

Your mouth fell open with a gasp. “Bright—” He rutted his crotch up against you, and as you latched onto him and gasped again, he moaned. “Brightflame!”

“Mm.” He dragged his mouth along the warmth of your flushed cheeks; your jaw; down to your neck. “Maybe I ought to wear my helmet the next time I fuck you.” He didn’t kiss you—and that was the worst part. “And I won’t stop fucking myself into you until you do remember. Until anytime somebody even mentions the name Brightflame, all you’ll be thinking about is this pretty pussy swelling and coming around my cock.”

Pilot!Aerion punishing you by walking away. Just as he did then by leaving you there in that stairwell, unkissed, unfucked, and even more annoyed than you’d been before he found you. And all because you hadn’t messaged, called, or responded to him when you knew he was meant to be MIA and in the air. All because (for reasons you couldn’t understand) Aerion fucking Targaryen had decided to make you his personal project.

Pilot!Aerion who is, for all the trouble he’s worth, a damn good pilot. Things might have been easier for everybody if he wasn’t such a good pilot.

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” Valarr was telling you one day over drinks at a dive bar nearest base—a local hangout spot frequented by both pilots, crew, and civilians alike. “I don’t claim to know how my cousin’s mind works, but when it comes to aeronautics, Aerion genuinely cared to pay attention. He learned. He implemented.”

“That’s skill,” you agreed, “not luck.”

Valarr hid the beginnings of a smile behind his glass of malt whiskey. He’d understood for some time now that Aerion was troubling you (to what extent, you refused to say—but Valarr knew).

“Some of these guys think he cheated his way in,” you continued, gesturing with a nod to your fellow corps dispersed throughout the bar. “That’s bullshit. He graduated flight school at twenty-one. So what?”

Fixing his glasses on the bridge of his nose, a simpering Valarr said, “You’re defending him now?”

You gnawed on your straw after taking a sip of your daiquiri. “I’m defending procedure,” you mumbled. It wasn’t technically a lie. “You don’t graduate two years early by signing your life away with a waiver. You bump the line by being talented. A lot of pilots wish they were even half that.”

You expected Valarr to blink, or raise a brow, but he didn’t. In fact, you wondered if he’d already drawn a similar conclusion about his cousin himself.

To break the silence, you slurped up the remains of your beverage and sighed. “I just wish he wouldn’t boast so much. People throw his name around like a local cryptid.”

Valarr softly chuckled, and said, “He boasts because he’s a Targaryen. You said so yourself.”

You cut your friend a look that was half bashful, half accusatory. “That was before I knew you were related.”

“So you agree then?”

“No. You are the nice, intelligent, respectable Valarr. And Aerion is Aerion.”

Pilot!Aerion being thee CEO of miscommunications. He (again—it cannot be understated) can’t fucking stand to see his cousin NASA!Valarr “making a move” on his girl. (Not that you were his girl. Aerion did not claim as much—and you did not think him capable.)

“What the fuck is this?”

You flinched at Aerion’s sudden appearance beside your table. Valarr, however, did not.

“Brightflame,” Valarr greeted like he would any other lieutenant. There was an edge to it—not sharp; perhaps even a little dull. An edge you’d since dissected as two people being too familial with one another; a kind of fringe between tough love and cautious contempt.

Aerion sneered. “Cousin.”

Valarr didn’t even look up at him. His mismatched eyes, which shone with silent sympathy behind his glasses, had yet to divert from yours. “Can I buy you a drink?” he asked Aerion, still without looking.

“With your shit taste palette? No.”

Similarly, you too had yet to look at the younger Targaryen entrant. You could feel Aerion’s gaze burning into the side of your face like that of a real dragon—and if you’d only turned your head and seen him, you would have noticed the way he clenched and unclenched his jaw in anticipation for an acknowledgment you never gave.

“So, cousin,” Aerion said like a scoff. “Crawled out of your little laboratory to get laid by a dame in your downtime,”—you stiffened—“is that it?”

Valarr frowned. “She’s not—”

“Find someone else.”

A cable in you snapped. “Just what is it with you, Brightflame?” At last, you spared the silver-haired man standing beside you a wry glance. “Valarr is my friend, and we are here having a good time. What were you again?”

The three of you went very still.

Pilot!Aerion, who’d gone into that interaction with you and Valarr and had left a different man. Not a changed man—not for the better; not even for the worse. Just different.

During a preflight check the following day, you were talking to your squad member about the ordeal.

“I might have been a little harsh. . .” you said, checking your phone for no other reason than habit. You’d gone radio silent on Aerion—and you doubted he planned on tuning back into your frequency, either. “Was I too harsh?”

“When it comes to Brightflame?” the lieutenant snorted. “Please. You may as well have pinched him. The things I’ve heard him say could put five grown men into their graves.”

Pilot!Aerion, who had, in truth, heard everything you’d said to Valarr prior to him approaching your table at the bar. The way you’d rejected the rumours about Aerion cheating his way in using his family’s name and influence. The way you’d defended him—or the “procedure,” as you’d called it. The way you sounded like you might have actually, genuinely recognised something in him worth commending.

(Who is the rabbit and who is the snare?)

Pilot!Aerion going on to think about what you’d said days later. Who began to live in his head more. Who stopped seeking you out. Who started avoiding you whenever you stepped into the room.

(You should have been grateful. Because that’s all you wanted since the moment you met him and became entangled with the dragon in his lair, was it not? Space?)

Pilot!Aerion, who stopped listening to orders one day. Who went against protocol and strayed from what was supposed to be a routine flight to perform an aerial stunt no one in Westeros had been desperate or stupid enough to attempt since his own ancestors a century ago.

Later, when a furious Aerion stormed out of the commander’s office, he was near-embarrassed—but not surprised—to find you waiting there in the hallway.

“Aerion. . .”

He looked at you with those blazing violet eyes, shook his head, and took off. You immediately stood from the bench where you were seated and followed.

“Aerion—!”

“Fuck off,” he spat as you fell into step behind him. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“You disappeared from radars for seven minutes, Brightflame. Seven. I couldn’t see you. I couldn’t find you! They ordered me to land before I ran out of fuel—and I knew that meant you had to be low on reserves, too. What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t.”

“Damn right you weren’t!” You were struggling to keep up with him, but your anger and genuine fucking concern for the guy made you staunch to not disengage. “That far out on open waters, you could have crashed, and we’d never have found the wreckage. Seven Hells, Aerion,”—you made a grab for his arm—“you could have died!”

Aerion shrugged your hand off and reeled on you. “What’s it to you, hm?” he said whilst you half collided, half stumbled against him. “What do you care? What am I, right?”

“That’s not—” You swallowed. Took a step back. Your harsh words to him from that day at the bar rung clear in your mind.

(“What were you again?”)

Momentarily closing his eyes, Aerion worked his jaw and said, with a hollow exhale, “They’re grounding me.”

Your brows stitched together. “Grounded,” you echoed, like you couldn’t quite believe it. And truth be told—despite all of Brightflame’s complications and absurdities—you genuinely couldn’t. “They’re suspending you?”

It was protocol, of course, and to be expected after pulling an outrageous stunt like he had. It was lucky Aerion had not been outright disavowed and axed from the programme.

Though Aerion did not see it that way. For any pilot well worth their time and skillset, suspension was a fate worse than death. For him, it would be a slow descent into madness. They were taking away his control. Stripping him of his armour. Banishing the light of Brightflame.

And you were sad for him.

And Aerion saw that sadness; that sympathy; that pity, and he hated it. He crumpled it into his hands like a paper ball and tossed it aside, standing on it with a heavy boot as he left you in that hallway toward a quiet demise.

Pilot!Aerion, who you expected to go rogue; to disobey orders again; to do anything to claw his way back into that cockpit.

But he never did.

Pilot!Aerion and the day it all changes. Present tense, because the fateful spool of red string is unravelling now—and nothing is going to stop him from choking you with it.

He finds you again, corners you again, and you are so startled to see him that you do not dare fight or move away for fear that he will vanish again. (How long has it been since you last saw him? Since he was last this close to you? Weeks? Nay, close to a month?)

“Gods, Aerion,” you whisper sharply—and there’s a kind of desperate lilt about it that reminds him of your voice during marathon sex. The moment your back hits the nearest wall, his radiating warmth trapping you, you remember yourself and what he’d said about using his callsign. “Bright—”

“Do us both a favour and shut up.”

You don’t have much a choice: too quickly, too aggressively, Aerion thrusts his lips upon yours. Yanking you against him with one arm, he claws his free hand into your hair with a vicelike grip that burns your scalp and makes your body sing with a shockwave of goosebumps.

You tell yourself you haven’t missed him (not pathetically so, anyway—thankfully). But as Aerion detaches from you when you expect him to pull you so much closer, you just about die.

“The roster changed while I was grounded,” he pants. Still with a fist in your hair. His darkening, violet gaze focused solely on you. “Dracarys Two and Four rotated out.”

It shocks you a little, how easily he can just. . . drop back into a regular conversation. As if he hadn’t just spent the past month ignoring you. As if he hadn’t pulled off a crazy fucking coup and almost had his career axed—let alone almost sent himself to the gallows.

“Oh.” You frown. Glance at his lips. Run a tongue along your bottom one. “I’m. . . sorry to hear that.”

“Ew—why?” He sounds genuinely bewildered by that. “Don’t be. Those guys were spineless and inadequate. The CO wants to pin me with some amateur instead—Dunk, or whoever the fuck—and I agreed under the condition that I’d get to choose Dracarys Two’s replacement.”

“That’s good!” You beam a real smile. But the wild glimmer in Aerion’s gaze speaks of something almost sinister. “That’s. . . good, right? It means you’ll be back in the air again?”

Pilot!Aerion merely grinning—serpentlike, amused, cunning—before he leans in and murmurs, right over your kiss-swollen lips, “Dracarys Two.” He pauses. Waits. Watches the intense pool of caution swirling within your irises as realisation trickles in. “Welcome to the squad.”

He does not take no for an answer.

[ledwinged]

[nanascharms]

(S)cream for us (part1)

Ghostface!valarr x f!reader x ghostface!aerion

- this part contains SMUT, and the others parts as well. summary : With the end of exams at King’s Landing University comes a wave of brutal student murders, leaving the city drowning in fear and rumors. But when Tybolt Lannister throws a lavish Halloween party to distract the elite of the campus, the killers seize the perfect opportunity to turn the night into chaos — especially after setting their sights on you.

Tw : Murder, death, torture?, violence, threesome, rough sex, knife play, fingering, oral (m and f receiving), unprotected sex, p in v, spanking, reader has a tongue piercing, dark valarr, dark aerion, they are both obssesed with reader, stalking, reader is where she wants to be, dirty talk, she is a bit delusional cause she thinks she can fix them, she gets fucked on a crime scene (literally)

A/n : hii guys, the first part is finally here!! I decided to split it into two parts because it was getting too long..I’m not really satisfied with the way it came out but I just wanted it out of my drafts 🫩 comments and reblogs are appreciated 🫶🏻

It had already been a month since the first body was discovered in the Kingswood, not far from the prestigious University of King’s Landing.

A Hightower girl.

Barely nineteen.

The newspapers tried to call it a simple tragedy, while the police was still investigating and trying to solve the affair and put the murderer behind bars. But still, the kingswood were reputed for being safe so how such a thing could happened here?

The poor girl had been found butchered, left in the woods like a slaughtered animal. Police was still searching for any clues, anything that could help identify the murder.

But nothing.

Then another body turned up.

And another.

Before long, fear and panic settled over the city like a gathering storm. Parents too worried abd scared to wake up with the news that their child had been murdered, called every day. Sometimes twice a day. Students had stopped walking home alone after the night settled, the police had forbidden it. No students was allowed to wander too close to the crime scenes. Every unfamiliar face drew wary glances. Every shadow seemed to linger a little too long now..

Because the killer was still out there.

Which was precisely why Gerold Lannister’s idea had been met with equal parts excitement and disbelief.

A Halloween party.

A kind of massive one.

Hosted at the Lannister Manor, with half the university invited to the party.

Officially, it was meant to lift morale and provide a welcome distraction from the anxiety that had gripped the campus for weeks or whatever gerold had said.

Unofficially?

Everyone knew it was just an excuse for rich kids to get drunk, hook up, and spend a night pretending a serial killer wasn’t still roaming the streets of King’s Landing.

You had been studying in your room when your phone had rang loudly, startling you, when you saw the caller ID, you could not hold the sigh that left your mouth immediately.

Syra.

One of the first friends — if not the only— you had made after transferring from the prestigious University of the Vale.

Unlike you, Syra seemed physically incapable of staying stressed for more than five minutes at a time. you wandered how she managed that remained a mystery. You were honestly envious..

With the exams looming, a serial killer still stalking King’s Landing, and your future hanging on a scholarship, you couldn’t imagine going through life without constantly worrying about something.

Yet somehow, Syra made it look effortless.

anyway you answered your phone without taking your eyes off your notes.

As a scholarship student, you couldn’t afford to fall behind.

“Hello?” Your usual stern tone made the simple greeting sound far colder than you intended. Most people found you intimidating. But Syra knew that you were just like that and not being cold intentionally.

The moment Syra started babbling excitedly about the Lannister Halloween party, you knew answering the phone had been a mistake. And that you were doomed because this would only end in one way. You folding.

“Syra, you know I can’t go,” you sighed, as you were highlighting the key words that would help you memorize the subject faster before tossing your phone onto the bed and switched it to speaker in order to be able to continue to review your notes. As a scholarship student, you couldn’t afford to fail your exams. You were still considered rich, but unfortunately not enough to be considered the elite of KL.

“Oh, babe, shut up,” she groaned dramatically and you could picture the exact frown her face was proably making “You study enough for ten people.” You rolled your eyes at her words. Sometimes it annoyed you that she couldn’t understand that you didn’t had a choice.

“Come on. Just one night. It’ll be fun.. I promise! ”

“I don’t know,” you admitted, thinking about which words you would use “Isn’t it..like kind of weird?” That made her pause for three seconds before she spoke again. "Weird?” You could hear in her voice that she was genuinely perplexed.

“Yeah. With everything that’s happening right now. People are literally getting murdered, and everyone’s acting like a party is going to fix it.” You scoffed your argumebts as your brows were furrowed before you glanced down back to your notes, though your attention had long since drifted from them.

Syra only laughed.

“Babe.”

The way she said it told you immediately that she wasn’t taking your concerns seriously.

“I think these exams are seriously fucking with your brain.”

You huffed.

Of course.

“And that is exactly why you’re coming to this party with me.”

You weren’t sure whether to be annoyed or concerned. Perhaps both?

“I don’t even have a costume.”

It was your final argument. And you were praying this would work but unfortunately, Syra had already prepared for that.

“That’s why we’re going shopping tomorrow.”

You closed your eyes.

Of course she had.

“And before you ask—yes, I’m paying.”

“Syra—” she cut you before you could start your sentence.

“Love you, babe! See you tomorrow!”

The call ended before you could get another word in.

Bitch

You stared at your phone for a long moment before letting out a defeated sigh.

The next day, she picked you up in her ridiculously expensive car and proceeded to drag you across half the city.

Most of the shopping was done without your input.

According to Syra, your opinions were too “wrong.” Or too basic for this kind of party. So you just let her do and pick whatever she wanted.

Suspiciously, she refused to tell you what costumes she had chosen.

Only that the two of you were going to look iconic.

You should have known better.

Which was how, a week later, you found yourself staring at your reflection, dressed as a scandalously shortened version of Daphne Blake.

Meanwhile, Syra had chosen Velma.

Equally scandalous.

But indeed iconic.

You had considered refusing.

You really had.

But as Syra adjusted the wig perched on your head and put the finishing touches on her own makeup, you found yourself far too exhausted to argue.

After all, it was only one party.

And if you were being honest, the outfit suited you far better than you cared to admit.

“You are so getting laid tonight.”

Your head snapped toward her so quickly you nearly gave yourself whiplash.

Syra only grinned.

“Absolutely not.” You hit her gently on the shoulder where a bit of skin was showing.

“That’s what they all say.” that made you snort as you shake your head, she then grabbed your hand and tugged you toward the door.

“Come on.”

It was time to go.

When the two of you arrived, the party was already in full swing. Apparently, nobody had bothered waiting for you. Because groups of students crowded the front lawn, red plastic cups were already clutched in their hands. Some were already making out against walls or trees, completely oblivious to everything happening around them. Or worse, some were aware but it’s seems shame was not part of their vocabulary. From somewhere behind the manor came the sound of splashing water, followed by a chorus of drunken cheers from the pool area.

The moment you stepped through the front doors, you found yourself silently thanking Syra for choosing your costume.

Because she had been right.

Almost every girl there was dressed like a hooker. You were grateful you would probably not be noticed and would be left alone most of the night.

Some costumes were creative. Others were little more than expensive lingerie with a different name attached to it. Vampires mingled with angels, cheerleaders with witches, and more than a few people wore outfits you genuinely couldn’t identify and didn’t care enough to try to guess.

There were plenty of masks, too.

Some cheap enough to have come from the nearest convenience store.

Others were unsettlingly realistic.

Under different circumstances, you knew you might not have paid them any attention.

But with a serial killer still roaming King’s Landing, there was something deeply unnerving about being surrounded by dozens of strangers whose faces you couldn’t see and apparently your were the only smart enough to conclude to that.

For the first time all evening, you thought maybe this party wouldn’t be so terrible after all. You would finally get these exams out of your pretty head, have fun with your friend. But unfortunately that feeling lasted approximately thirty seconds.

Because the moment Syra spotted one of her popular friends across the room, she abandoned you without a second thought.

“I’ll be back in a minute!”

Those had been her exact words. And you knew that she would not come back.

Not at all..

One minute turned into five.

Five turned into twenty.

And eventually, you caught sight of her making out with some Tully boy near the kitchen.

that bitch

You rolled your eyes and took another sip of your drink.

Fine.

You were a grown woman and you could have fun all by yourself

You didn’t need supervision right? right?! You could survive a single party on your own. You could not drive home anyway you were too drunk now, and syra had driven you here.

The music from the speakers was loud enough to make the floor vibrate beneath your feet as you were wandering through the manor. And you could hear your heart pounding in your head. Everywhere you looked, students were drinking, laughing, dancing, or disappearing into rooms with people they would probably regret fucking with tomorrow morning.

You were debating whether to search for Syra or simply leave her to her poor decisions when your phone suddenly vibrated inside your bag.

Your brows furrowed.

Who the hell was texting you at eleven o’clock on Halloween?

You pulled out your phone and glanced at the screen.

Unknown Number.

Don’t turn around.

For a moment, you stared at the message, frozen and convinced it had to be some stupid prank or something shitty like that but then your phone buzzed again. Same number.

Unknown Number

Seriously. Don’t. Turn. Around.

A chill crawled down your spine.

What the fuck?

And what exactly did you do after receiving a message explicitly telling you not to turn around?

You turned around.

Obviously.

It took you less than fifteen seconds to spot him.

Standing in one of the darker corners of the room was a tall figure dressed as Ghostface. The mask concealed his features entirely, but the phone in his hand told you everything you needed to know.

Hot.

So it had been him.

A smirk tugged at your lips.

The alcohol buzzing pleasantly through your system was doing absolutely nothing for your decision-making skills.

Instead of reacting with the concern any reasonable person would have felt, you slipped your phone back into your bag and started making your way toward the mysterious stranger.

After all, what was the worst that could happen?

In hindsight, that was probably a terrible thought to have in the middle of a serial killer investigation.

Unfortunately, your attention was entirely focused on Ghostface.

Which meant you failed to notice the people around you.

The collision was inevitable.

Your drink splashed everywhere as you walked straight into a broad chest.

“Oh, fuck—I’m so sorry.”

You immediately looked up, already preparing yourself to apologize to whichever rich asshole’s costume you had just ruined.

Instead, your eyes landed on a face you recognized instantly.

Motherfucking Valarr Targaryen.

Shit.

Your mouth fell open slightly.

Of all the people at this party, why did it have to be a Targaryen?

You braced yourself for irritation. Maybe an insult. At the very least, a comment about watching where you were going.

Instead, he has smiled.

Actually smiled.

“Please don’t apologize,” he said warmly. “I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going either.”

For a moment, you simply stared.

Not because of what he’d said.

But because Valarr Targaryen was being nice.

Valarr Targaryen was already unfairly attractive on a normal day.

The combination was frankly devastating.

Tonight, dressed as a vampire in an expensive black suit adorned with silver details, he looked even worse for your sanity.

Or better.

Depending on how one looked at it.

His brown hair framed his face perfectly, and the fake blood painted near the corner of his mouth somehow only made him more attractive.

Which frankly felt illegal.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his expression softening with concern. “I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

The alcohol in your system immediately informed you that it should be considered a crime for someone to look that good.

You were still busy contemplating that very important issue when he spoke again.

“You okay?”

His hands settled lightly on your shoulders, steadying you.

“You might want to sit down.”

“No, no. I’m okay. Thanks.”

Somehow, you managed to answer without completely embarrassing yourself.

A small smile tugged at his lips.

He looked as though he was about to say something else when a voice called out from somewhere behind him.

“Valarr!”

One of his friends was waving him over.

Valarr glanced over his shoulder before looking back at you.

“I’m sorry, I’ve got to—”

But when he turned around fully, you were already gone.

Retreat was sometimes the only option left to preserve your dignity.

you had vanished back into the crowd. as if you never had interacted with him.

For a moment, Valarr simply stared at the spot where you had been.

Then a slow smirk spread across his face.

He pulled out his phone and typed something quickly.

A few seconds later, his screen lit up with a delivered notification.

Satisfied, he slipped the device back into his pocket before returning to his friends.

Though his gaze lingered on the crowd for just a moment longer.

A terrible headache from all the drinking had eventually driven you upstairs.

Technically, guests weren’t supposed to wander through the upper floors of the manor, but at this point, you desperately needed a quieter bathroom where you could splash cold water on your face and escape the pounding music for a few minutes.

The alcohol was beginning to settle unpleasantly behind your eyes.

You tried several doors.

A study.

A guest bedroom.

A storage room.

None of them were what you were looking for.

Finally, you reached another door that looked promising and placed your hand on the handle.

Then you heard it.

A noise.

Faint.

Coming from somewhere down the corridor.

You froze.

At first, you tried to ignore it.

Your headache was already bad enough without getting involved in whatever drunken nonsense was happening elsewhere in the manor.

Just use the bathroom. Mind your business. And go downstairs.

Yet the sound came again. louder. And this time, it sounded disturbingly like a sob. Your felt your stomach tightened. you slowly turned toward the door a few yards away. The corridor suddenly felt much quieter than before. The pounding music from downstairs had become muffled by thick walls and expensive carpets, reduced to a distant thrum beneath your feet. The crying came again, you could hear the desperate and broken voice pleading for someone to help.

The closer you moved, the clearer the sounds became.

A girl...

There was definitely a girl behind that door. The music downstairs was so loud that nobody else would ever hear it. you were going to ignore it and just go down when the voice came again.

“…please…”

Your pulse quickened.

“…I’ll do anything…”

Another sob followed. the sound was raw and painful to hear, it made your whole body anxious and trembling with curiosity.

“…anything… just…”

Your hand found the doorknob before you could stop yourself. What if someone was hurt? What if you could help? What if you walked away and something happened because you had decided it wasn’t your problem?

One look wouldn’t hurt right..

Right?

You finally pushed the door open. The room beyond was dark and it seems empty from your point of view.

but only at first glance.

Moonlight was spilling through the tall windows, casting pale silver across polished wooden floors and expensive furniture. A large king-sized bed dominated the room. The sheets remained untouched. No signs of a struggle. No crying girl. No one at all.

that made you frown and then your eyes landed on an old cassette player sitting atop a table near the window.

The voice must have came from it.

You froze but the confusion was quickly replaced by panic. Silence settled over the room. the atmosphere of the room was heavy and you could yourself being looked at. you didn’t like this feeling at all, but you were stuck in place, your body refusing to turn to your right and see what your brain had refused to acknowledge first when you stepped in the bedroom. Finally a mocking laugh echoed through the darkness. the guy it seems was amused by the way every muscle in your body tensed. Your head finally snapped toward the far corner.

your eyes came across the guy you had seen earlier. he was still dressed in the Ghostface costume. Still wearing the mask.

He sat comfortably in an armchair partially hidden by shadow, one leg thrown over the other as though he owned the room. He had been waiting for you.

Watching you.

The knife twirling lazily between his fingers caught the moonlight with every rotation. A cold wave washed over you.

“No one’s ever taught you not to stick your nose into other people’s business, little doe?” he spoke firmly with an arrogance that was familiar. you knew that voice, this tone, and this arrogance, the way it striked confidently. You know you had heard it before and many times. Yet your mind stubbornly refused to connect it to a face. Instinct screamed at you to leave Immediately. You proceed to took a careful step backward, The floorboards creaking beneath your feet but unfortunately You never got the chance to take a third as your back collided with a solid chest.

A startled gasp tore from your throat as you felt the strong hold on your shoulders. At the exact same moment, the unmistakable click of a lock echoed behind you.

fuck..the door.

Someone had locked the door.

“Aerion,” a familiar voice sighed. “You’re scaring her.”

You felt your heart missed two beats

Once because you finally recognized the man sitting across the room.

And a second time because you recognized the voice behind you.

Valarr.

Slowly, you turned your head.

Valarr Targaryen stood beside the door.

For a moment, all you could do was stare.

The same charming smile he had offered you downstairs still rested on his lips. The same warm expression. The same effortless charm.

Only now, you could see what you had missed before.

The darkness lurking beneath it.

The dangerous glint hidden in his violet eyes.

You weren’t stupid.

Nor were you the helpless victim they seemed to believe you were.

You knew exactly who the Targaryen cousins were.

And more importantly, you knew what kind of reputation followed them across campus.

Your gaze drifted downward to the small brass key resting between Valarr’s fingers.

He spun it once before catching it effortlessly.

Your stomach dropped.

There would be no easy escape.

Across the room, Aerion let out an impatient hiss before finally tearing the Ghostface mask from his face.

You had actually wondered where he was tonight.

For someone notorious for attending every party, starting half the drama on campus, and leaving with a different girl at his arms every other weekend, his absence had been strangely noticeable.

Now you understood why.

Your gaze lingered on him despite yourself.

Aerion Targaryen was dangerous.

Everyone knew it.

Between the two cousins, he was undoubtedly the one you would be most careful around.

Valarr hid his intentions behind smiles and charm but Aerion never bothered. His temper was infamous and so were the stories surrounding it, and unfortunately, he was also unfairly attractive.

Silver-gold hair, Sharp features, A strong jaw, and an infuriating smirk that never seemed to leave his face. Probably the reason so many girls were willing to overlook the fact that he was a complete asshole.

Even more unfortunately…

He was exactly your type and the realization irritated you.

“What is the meaning of this?” you finally demanded and you were almost surprised by how steady your voice remained despite the adrenaline surging through your veins.

Aerion merely leaned back in his chair. Not answering only watching and studying your form. His gaze moving lazily over you as though he was trying to figure something out.

Almost like a predator observing a wounded prey. As though he already knew exactly how this encounter would end. Then Valarr stepped forward making the floorboards creak beneath his weight. You looked up at him, expecting an explanation but Instead, it was Aerion who spoke.

“Why don’t you take a seat, baby?”Something about the pet name immediately irritated you. Perhaps it was the way he said it. Or perhaps it was because he had once again ignored your question.

You folded your arms across your chest and rolled your eyes. “If you answer my question, I might consider it.” A hint of alcohol still lingered in your system, making you far less patient—and considerably more bratty—than usual.

Your response earned a small smile from Valarr. Aerion only scoffed at your tone bedore drifting his eyes downward Toward the exposed skin beneath the hem of your costume. your legs.

Heat crept up your neck. For several long seconds, neither cousin seemed interested in speaking. The silence stretched. Heavy and mostly uncomfortable.

You were beginning to wonder if either of them intended to answer when you suddenly felt a cold pressure against your back making you stiffened immediately. In all the confusion, you had nearly forgotten Valarr was standing behind you. Slowly, you glanced over your shoulder.

the knife was not pressed hard enough to hurt you or draw blood, But still close enough to remind you exactly who was holding it. Valarr was watching your reaction carefully only expecting fear and panic. Perhaps even expecting you to beg.

Instead, you were rolling your eyes as if the situation was just a small inconvenience. you turned back toward him, and released an exaggerated sigh.

“Oh please, sir,” you said dramatically. “Please don’t kill me yet. I want to appear in the credits first.” your words only brought a blank, for one brief moment, neither of them spoke.

Valarr blinked, Clearly caught off guard by your reaction, your response had completely derailed whatever reaction he had been expecting.

“What?” You looked between them innocently before widening your eyes. “Oh, sorry. My bad.”

You placed a hand against your chest.

“I meant...please, Mr. Ghostface.” The smile tugging at your lips only widened. That finally teared a small laugh from Aerion.

You weren’t entirely sure whether it was the alcohol talking or your complete lack of self-preservation. Either way, the words had already left your mouth. and the boys reactions made you painfully aware. Now you were trapped in a bedroom with two dangerous Targaryens. The logic part of your brain told you that you should have been terrified.

Unfortunately, a reckless part of you was far more interested in finding out just how much fun you could have before things inevitably went wrong.

That was why you listened to the stupid voice in your head. Slowly, almost absentmindedly, you had reached for the knife.

The metal felt cool against your fingertips. Aerion’s gaze had followed the movement immediately,

Valarr’s did too.

You could feel both of them watching you, and waiting for any of your movements and what you would do next.

The realization had sent a strange thrill through you.

Instead of backing away, you carefully placed the edge of the blade between your tits, looking up through your lashes with an expression of innocent curiosity.

As if you had no idea what you were doing. As if you weren’t deliberately testing their patience.

The room seemed to grow quieter.

You didn’t even notice the blade had nicked your skin until tiny droplets of blood began to bead along the shallow cut before slowly trailing down your cleavage.

A flash of red against pale skin.

“Oops?” The word left your lips in an almost breathless murmur. You kept up the act, tilting your head slightly before reaching for Valarr’s hand.

Your fingers were brushing against his. you could feel the warm of his digits and how they were steady against yours. When he made no move to pull away, your pulse slightly quickened.

you hold his gaze as you guided the knife upward towards your mouth, slided the blade in between your teeth and removed the remaining trace of blood from the blade with your tongue without ever looking away from him.

The silence that followed felt almost tangible. the tension was heavy and charged in the air.

you noticed how Valarr’s jaw tightened ever so slightly at your action and you almost smirked at it, Because for the first time all evening, his composure seemed to falter only for a moment

Across the room, Aerion watched the entire exchange with narrowed eyes. The amusement had not left his face. If anything, it had deepened.

Then, for the first time since you’d entered the room, you heard the scrape of wood against the floor. his chair probably as you could hear the slow but deliberate footsteps of him, walking towards you.

You couldn’t remember exactly what had led to you being pressed against the bed, except for their offer not to kill you if you let them fuck your pretty cunt.

And here you were now. laying on the kingsize bed Almost naked.

The only thing still covering you was your dress, bunched up around your waist and pushed toward your chest.

Your panties had been ripped off earlier by Valarr. Without a word, he had handed them to his cousin, who had carefully tucked them away into his pocket as though they were some rare trophy meant to be treasured and kept safe.

The memory alone made heat crawl down your core.

How ridiculous.

but yet neither of them had looked like they were joking. Not even a little.

Instead, they had spent several minutes arguing over who would get to fuck you first. The discussion had become so absurd that you had almost made a joke about it.

Almost.

You had very nearly told them to keep arguing if they wanted, considering it was only making you wetter because It seemed the alcohol was turning you into a complete slut.

Eventually, they had reached an agreement.

Valarr would go first.

Being the eldest, he had claimed it was his right, Aerion had frowned at that argument but ultimately allowed it, settling beside you on the mattress while Valarr positioned himself between your thighs.

His large hands wrapped around your legs, keeping them spread apart for him.

Neither man bothered hiding their reaction at the sight before them. The anticipation alone had left you embarrassingly aroused. Enough that both cousins immediately noticed. And judging by the low groans that escaped them, neither was disappointed by the discovery.

Valarr had begun to toy with your clit using his thumb, alternating between slow circles and gentle pinches, and fuck—you were already losing it, Because the Valarr Targaryen was playing with your greedy cunt, inserting two fingers into your tight hole, while Aerion’s lips were working against the sensitive skin of your neck, clearly experienced and knowing exactly where to find a woman’s most vulnerable spots.

The combination was already too overwhelming. your humming only seemed to encourage Valarr to pump his fingers faster into your hole, and the way Aerion was sucking a particular spot on your jaw had managed to make you lose focus on the brown.

and it seems that he didn’t enjoyed loosing your attention because he withdrew his fingers, to replace them with his skilled tongue.

The change instantly got you back.

Your gaze dropped to the man settled between your thighs. and the sight was making you shake your legs incontrolably as he was devouring your pussy like a starved man deprived from food for days.

he was lapping at your folds, Savoring each sounds coming out of your mouth satisfied to know that he was the one making you feel this good.

His tongue was moving with a maddening patience and precision before becoming almost cruel in its intensity, and you were quickly dissolving into a helpless, moaning mess beneath them. you almost sounded pornographic..

One of your hands buried itself in his pale hair, encouraging him to keep going, you hips accompanying his mmovements as they rolled on their own.

Not that he seemed to need the encouragement.

Meanwhile, your neck arched instinctively, granting Aerion better access as his lips continued their work against your skin. He seemed perfectly content to leave marks wherever he pleased. his hands were wandering under your dress and most specifically under your bra as he was fiddling with your tits, giving them the treatment they deserved.

And judging by the low sounds of approval coming from between your legs, and beside your head, the cousins were equally satisfied with the position they had claimed.

“Such a greedy girl, huh?” Aerion whispered against the shell of your ear before gently nibbling at it as he talked you through it “Come on, baby. Tell him he’s doing a great job. Tell him, he’s making you feel good or we’ll stop.”

The threat nearly made you panic.

No.

No, no, no.

They couldn’t stop.

Not now. Not when you were so close to coming. You didn’t want any of it to end anytime soon.

“Feels so good—please don’t stop!” you gasped, your grip tightening in Valarr’s hair, wanting to make sure he wouldn’t even think about trying to pull away from you greedy cunt.

You were a trembling mess between them.

With Valarr’s mouth completely focused on you, every low hum of satisfaction sent vibrations through your core. He seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself, and the realization only made your head spin even more.

The way he worked between your thighs was enough to leave you breathless.

Meanwhile, all you could do was let helpless whimpers and broken moans spill from your lips as the pleasure continued to build.

One sensation blending into another. Aerion’s lips, Valarr’s mouth. Their hands. Their voices. Everything was becoming overwhelming.

Your fingers remained tangled in Valarr’s pale hair while your body reacted on instinct, chasing every touch and every movement.

The cousins seemed to take great satisfaction in that. Every sound you made were only encouraging them further.

And judging by the approving noises coming from both men, neither of them had any intention of stopping anytime soon.

Lucky girl

You were a trembling mess between them.

With Valarr’s mouth completely focused on you, his soft hums of satisfaction filled the space between your thighs. He was truly enjoying himself—devouring you with an intensity that made your thoughts scatter.

He had been watching you. Wanting this. Dreaming about it for so long.

And now it was finally happening.

He wasn’t planning to stop.

The vibrations of his voice and mouth sent shocks through your core, and the way he was making out with your pussy was almost enough to make you green with jealousy that his mouth wasn’t on yours instead. ridiculous right?

That his tongue wasn’t fighting yours.

Instead, all you could do was fall apart between them, helpless whimpers and broken sounds spilling from your lips as the pleasure kept building and building, pulling you further under.

You were getting dangerously close to your first orgasm when Aerion finally captured your mouth in a heated kiss, his tongue slipping past your lips to swallow the sounds threatening to escape, while his cousin continued his work between your thighs. That’s when he felt the metal ball inside your your mouth.

He broke the kiss immediately.

A low breath leaving him.

“Stick out that tongue f’me,” he ordered, tilting your chin up with firm fingers.

There was no real choice in the way he looked at you. Still, you obeyed. Slowly, you let your tongue slip out, revealing the tongue piercing you had done last year.

Aerion paused.

A flicker of surprise crossed his face before something sharper replaced it.

“Hiding this from us?” he murmured, almost amused. “such a bad girl.”

His thumb brushed your lower lip as if testing the weight of your reaction. Then he kissed you again.

A bit slower this time but more deliberate.

His tongue was tangling with yours, and the moment he felt the small metal ball against him, a quiet sound escaped his throat—barely restrained. His control slipped, just for a second. Then he deepened the kiss as if nothing had happened at all.

You hadn’t even noticed earlier that Valarr had been rutting his hips restlessly against the mattress, nor the way the tension in both men betrayed just how affected they were by your reactions.

Aerion was swallowing every moan and breathless sound that tried to escape your lips, keeping your attention locked on him as the kiss deepened as his hands clenched on your tits.

It was only when the pressure inside you finally broke that everything seemed to collapse at once.

Your body tensed, overwhelmed, your grip tightening against the sheets as your breath stuttered against Aerion’s mouth.

The kiss became something heavier—more consuming—as he worked to keep you anchored to him while everything else faded into static sensation. some of your body fluids  —and perhaps valarr’s spit had damped the expensive silk of sheets under you, when you finally felt valarr emerging back from your legs, reality finally returned in fragments.

Hands still on your skin, leaning down to press small kisses on your thighs as he whispered sweet things and how you had done so good for him and what a good girl you were, in order to bring you back down from the intensity of it all.

Valarr, finally lifted his head from you, exhaling quietly.

The room felt different now.

Quieter.

Heavier.

As if neither of them were quite done with you yet.

that is when you heard it. A muffled whimper that wasn’t from the boys but could only belons to a woman’s. A desperate cry same as 20 minutes ago. Your head turned instinctively toward the sound.

And that was when you saw her.

The girl was lying behind the bed, on the carpet, hidden from view—no wonder you hadn’t noticed her when you first stepped in.

she was in a critical state, Bloodied, Trembling and Barely holding on.

Thick strips of tape covered her mouth, turning her screams into broken, suffocated sobs. Even from where you stood, you could tell she was begging.

Not them.

You.

Your stomach dropped.

You couldn’t make out her face clearly through the blood and bruising.

But you knew immediately that something was very wrong. So wrong it made your chest tighten.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Panic began to set in.

Until now, you had told yourself it was a game.

A twisted joke.

Some kind of roleplay gone too far when they’d made their threats.

Apparently, it wasn’t.

Aerion noticed the shift in you almost immediately. His gaze followed yours to the girl, then slowly returned to your face. He softened. Almost gently. he pressed a kiss to your cheek, before brushing a hand through your hair as if you were something fragile, something easily frightened, they needed to protect.

“Shh,” he murmured. “It’s okay, baby.”

“Valarr is going to take care of her, while I take care of you.” he barely looked at the poor girl on the floor, his attention only staying on you. only you, always you.

As if on cue, Valarr rose from the bed.

Your eyes tracked him immediately.

The knife was already in his hand.

The same one he had left nearby.

He wasn’t hesitating, as he walked steadily towards her.

The girl’s sobs spiked, more frantic now, muffled cries breaking against the tape.

Aerion stayed close behind you, lips against your skin, trying to pull your attention away from what was happening in the room.

As if he could anchor you to him.

you were supposed to scream, fear them, trying to escape,

But your mind was struggling to process it fast enough. You enjoyed being there.

Then you saw her face properly. Even through the blood. Even through the bruising.

Irina Lannister.

“Why don’t you show me how you can use that pretty tongue of yours, hm doll?” Aerion stood up from the bed, reaching to take off his belt. The movement alone was enough to pull your attention away from Irina. For a moment, everything else faded.

The room. The blood. Valarr, and The girl on the floor. Even the unease that had started to creep into your chest.

All of it blurred at the edges of your mind as you remained on your knees on the bed, watching him. Waiting like the good girl you were with your lips parting slightly as you licked them without thinking, impatience tightening in your chest. your attention was already far too gone as you were now too distracted by cock to acknowledge the macrabre scene on your right.

part 2..

Thank you for reading ! Aerion’s part is coming hehe.. we are also getting into the dark stuff even more into the next part!!

Taglist : @pancitoconjam @aerionsbelovedwife @vanillakissesworld @jordaniyaa @zaptapbam @sheshsti1299 @kiraflowersworld @magnificendragon @high-speed-r @aliceinwonderlandwnb @sagiohirako @smilefortae @rakiroad @hopelesslydevotedtoyu @somethingdummb @livewaspsblog @mayyvxc @hekxte25 @heavengirls111 @brightflameprince @targaryenstar

[a-state-of-bliss]

Elie Saab Haute Couture Fall/Wint 2016