Anna ᭝ ᨳଓ ՟

miss eclectic ᥫ᭡.

[annaevermore]

romanticize a quiet life ⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚

she/her 𐙚⋆.˚ nineteen, pink, snoopy, jason todd's girlfriend, pinterest, vanilla scent, curly hair, professional fangirl, dms and inbox are open ♡

۶ৎ readers' favourite: gentle touch

۶ৎ my favourite: all that

・❥・ masterlist | requests guidelines

All the love, Anna ༊*·˚

[theblindassassin]

Kirsten Dunst in The Virgin Suicides (1999)

dir. Sofia Copolla cinematography: Edward Lachman

[annaevermore]

kinda in the mood to write for either jason, dex or bobby hihi

[annaevermore]

just came home from the theater after watching backrooms and HOLY SHIT WHAT DIDI I JUST WATCH?

[rogers-carter]

Pearl 2022 | dir. Ti West

[annaevermore]

He's at your window — B.P.

Paring: Benjamin Poindexter x fem!reader

Summary: Dex becomes obsessed with one of the waitresses at his local diner. (3.5k)

Tags/warnings: smut (mdni), dry humping, oral (f!receiving), face riding, cumming untouched, pathetic dex, mentions of violence, mentions of murder, stalking, obsessive/possessive behavior, reader is morally grey and kind of a freak (affectionately)

A/N: First time writing for Dex!!! Heavily inspired by the song "She" by Tyler, The Creator and Frank Ocean. English is not my first language and this was not proofread. Enjoy!

masterlist

A routine, that's all you craved for when you skipped town a couple of months ago. That's what you try to remind yourself as another day, identical to the previous, begins.

You wake up tangled in your cheep sheets, glistening with sweat as the first rays of sunshine filter through your open window.

You paddle to the small kitchen of your new home, the floorboards creaking under your bare feet, and make yourself a cup of coffee. Then, you start to get ready for another shift at the diner.

It's not your dream job — far from it, actually — but the pay is decent, and if you manage to flash a sweet smile convincingly enough to the right clients, the tips can be pretty consistent.

After a relatively long drive from the secluded ranch you managed to buy from a man who didn't ask many questions when you asked to pay upfront with cash, you park your beat-up sedan in front of the diner.

As you walk in you flash a smile to the few regulars you recognize, and you great your coworker behind the counter — a young girl too sweet for her own good.

"Morning!" she replies with a smile of her own, despite the fact that's way to early for someone to look this joyous.

After exchanging a few niceties, you tie your apron and officially begin your shift. It's the same routine as usual: go up to tables, take orders, and refill cups with coffee that you know for sure tastes like shit.

But then, just like clockwork, at exactly the same time as every day you work the morning shift, your favorite costumer walks in.

He's older and unfairly attractive, with his broad shoulders and graying blond hair. Like usual, he sits at a booth far from the windows and he picks up the menu, carefully studying it, despite always ordering the same thing.

"Good morning, Tony! What can I get you today?"

You take out your notepad from the pocket of your apron, and let the pen hover over the blank page, waiting for his answer.

"I'll have a banana milkshake," he replies, looking up at you with a controlled smile, making a shiver run down your spine.

There's nothing unusual about him. He's polite, always thanks you when you get him his order, and tips way too much considering he always gets the same banana milkshake.

But there's something in the way you feel his eyes following you whenever he's in the diner that makes you feel naked — like he knows what you're so desperately trying to hide.

Still, you keep on the facade you use whenever you're interacting with other people, especially costumers, and leave to make his banana milkshake.

His gaze burns on the back of your head, and your hands tremble slightly as you pour the milk in the blender. You try to sneak a glance in his general direction, but when your eyes land on his figure, he's already looking somewhere else.

After, the routine resumes as usual. He drinks his milkshake, you give him his check, and he leaves a generous tip before walking out of the diner.

In the past, you tried imagining what his life outside might look like. Where does he work? Does he live nearby? Does he have someone waiting for him at home?

Questions like this usually leave you feeling uneasy and unsatisfied when you realize that you'll probably never know the answer.

Later that night, desperately trying to push further away any thoughts about Tony, you decide to call Chris over.

He's a nice guy. Definitely not the love of your life, but a pleasant enough distraction from your previous life.

You met him a few weeks ago at the diner, and when he shyly asked for your number — after pushing the initial instinct to give him the wrong one — you left it written on his check.

After that first encounter, he brought you on many dates, but still, you never got past first base, and he, like a gentleman, never pushed further.

Tonight, though, things are going to change.

At 8 pm sharp, you hear the doorbell ring, and when you open your door, you find him still in uniform, holding a gorgeous bouquet of flowers.

"Sorry, I just got off work. I would have changed, but I didn't want to be late, and-" you press your lips against his, muffling the rest of his apology.

Truth be told, at first the fact that he's a cop made you nervous. You worried he would look into your past and find out what made you run away. Instead, he seemingly believed every word that came out of your mouth when you told him your made-up background story, and it made you more inclined to keep seeing him. At least, until he realizes that everything you told him, even your name, is a lie.

"Don't worry about it," you mumble against his lips. "I'm pretty sure I've got some clothes that could fit you. Now, come in."

You take his free hand in yours and drag him past the threshold, closing the door behind him.

Then, after putting the bouquet in a vase, you walk towards your bedroom, looking at him over your shoulder, silently inviting him to follow you. Like a siren luring in an unfortunate mariner.

He seems to take the bait, and gladly follows you. Men are so predictable.

"Here, let me see if I can find some sweats," you say, looking inside your closet.

In the meantime, Chris stands awkwardly near the door, looking so out of place in your bedroom.

As you rummage through the few clothes that you brought with you, he takes off his holster and places it on your nightstand, making it land on the wooden surface with a loud thud.

The cold night air enters the room through your open window, moving the blinds in an almost hypnotic way, catching Chris' attention.

Then, he freezes.

You turn around in that exact moment, holding a pair of oversized sweats in your hands, and furrow your brown when you see him looking attentively at a distant point outside your window.

"What is it?"

"I think I saw something."

You let out a giggle, taking a step closer to his unmoving body.

"I live near the woods. It was probably just an animal."

You can see it in his eyes that he's not convinced, so you lay the sweats on your bed and place your hands on his chest.

"Come on. Let's get you out of this uniform, officer," you whisper near his ear, before placing a languid kiss on his jaw.

It turns out to be a good enough distraction. His gaze shifts in your direction, and his hands immediately find your hips, pulling you closer to his body.

You push him on the bed, and then straddle him, before moving your hands on his shoulder and leaving a trail of kisses from his jaw down to his neck.

His back is pressed near the window, making it possible for you to see some movement near a couple of trees outside your house.

Before you can think about your next move, a knife slices the air, landing on the opposite wall. You let out a scream, as Chris moves your body and lunges towards the gun on your nightstand. He then fires two shoots in the general direction of the attacker. But it's too late. He's gone.

Your heart is beating so fast in your chest that you're pretty sure Chris can hear it as well. He has something more urgent to think about though.

Blood is running down his left arm, soaking his uniform. The wound is pretty close to the spot where your hand was just a few moments ago, and yet, you're unharmed.

Did the attacker miss, or were you never the target?

"Shit," Chris says, as he tries to apply some pressure on the cut.

"Wait, let me help you."

You raise from the bed and run to your bathroom, where you keep your first aid kit. Once you're back in the bedroom, you help him take off his uniform, and as you begin to disinfect the wound, Chris breaks the silence.

"Who the fuck was that? He had a fucking- A fucking mask, and he-" his tone is understandably panicked, and his mind was clearly running a hundred miles an hour.

"Was that one of your exes?"

The question sounds so absurd you almost laugh, but decide that now is probably not the right moment.

"If that's your ex you should probably own a pistol, you know that?"

You blame his rambling to the adrenaline that's probably running through his veins right now, and keep cleaning him up.

It doesn't take you long to stop the bleeding. The cut is actually not that deep, but it doesn't seem to ease his mind. On the contrary.

As soon as you finish securing the sterile gauze over the wound, he grabs his things and almost runs to the door, mumbling something about calling you tomorrow.

He does offer you to spend the night at his apartment, but when you decline he doesn't try too hard to change your mind, instead getting in his car and driving away as if someone were chasing him.

When you go back to your room, for some reason unknown to you, you don't feel scared or threatened.

Your eyes land on the knife, still plugged in the drywall. You walk closer and pull it out, the weight feeling oddly comforting in your hands.

There's some of Chris' blood on it, so you wipe it on your sleep shorts, before hiding it in your underwear drawer.

And in that moment you think: it was never meant for you. It was meant for him only.

The next morning, when you check your phone, you don't find any missed calls from Chris. You think that what happened last night must have scared him away for good, and, weirdly enough, it gives you a strange sense of relief.

Throughout the rest of the day you keep occasionally checking your phone, mostly because it feels like the right think to do, not because you're actually concerned.

You should be worried. Maybe you should try to reach out. Go to his apartment, even. But you never do.

Instead, you go back to your house and slip in the shower, trying to wash away the smell of fried bacon and burned coffee that always lingers on you after you leave the diner.

Once you're done, you realize you've forgotten your towel, leaving you no option but to walk completely naked to your bedroom, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the floorboards.

The blinds in your bedroom are open — as they usually are — but now, for the first time since you moved in this house, you feel a pair of eyes on you.

A shiver runs down your spine, but you do nothing to cover yourself or close the curtains, because there's something familiar about this feeling.

You brush it off, instead applying lotion over your damp body, before finally putting on your clean pj's and going to bed.

Next time you're at the diner, something strange happens.

Tony walks in at the same time as usual, he sits at his usual booth, and he orders the same banana milkshake.

Nothing is out of the ordinary. Except this time the way his gaze follows you feels warmer than usual, and just as you're about to pour the drink inside the glass, the realization suddenly dawns on you.

Tony's the one who has been looking at you through your window. And he's probably the one who threw that knife at Chris.

You remain frozen on your spot until another waitress squeezes past you, reminding you that you're still in a public place. And he's in the same room as you.

You swallow hard enough to make noise, before pouring some whipped cream over the milkshake, grabbing a straw and walking up to Tony's table.

"Here you go," you said placing the glass down on the table, praying he didn't notice the way your voice wavered.

"Thank you, ma'am," he replies, reaching for his milkshake and accidentally brushing your fingers with his.

You immediately move your hand as if you got burned, and without saying anything else you walk away, busying yourself with other costumers.

His gaze, though, weights heavier than it ever has today, and you can't breath properly until he leaves.

The drive home after your shift is silent — you don't even turn on the radio — but that's fine, because your thoughts make enough noise on their own.

The road that usually seems never ending, today feels uncharacteristically short. Even after turning off the engine, you remain seated inside your car.

Your skin is prickling with a feeling similar to anxiety, but not quite.

Excitement, that's what it it.

Despite the rational part of your brain telling you that you should feel scared, that you might be in danger, and that Chris' radio silence might have been caused by something quiet dark, you can't help but hope Tony will be outside your window, watching you.

So you walk inside your home.

Everything's silent. The only sound that can be heard is the low buzz of your fridge. Despite that, you have a feeling you're not alone.

"Tony? Is that you?" and after a moment. "Is that even your real name?"

Then, from a dark corner, a broad figure emerges. Despite the tactical gear and the mask covering everything beside his eyes, you know immediately that the figure that has been inhabiting the shadows near you for longer than you might expect is none other than your favorite costumer.

"Hi, Tony," you great him, your voice just above a whisper. "Or you wanna tell me your real name?"

For a moment you're met with silence, so long that you begin to wonder whether you got it all wrong and there's an actual stranger in your house. Your heartbeat begins to raise, until he speak.

"Benjamin."

"Hi, Benjamin."

You stand there, staring at each other, until you take a step forward in his direction.

"So it was you, uh? How long have you been watching me?" you ask, but there's no real malice, or anger in your voice. Just plain curiosity.

"Ever since I first met you."

It's weird, you would have expected him to be unwavering, sure of himself. Terrifying, even.

Instead, he sounds almost ashamed, making it difficult for you to believe that he's the same man that threw a knife at your date the other night.

You take another step forward, never moving your gaze from his masked face.

"Are you going to show me you pretty face or not?"

He lets out a sharp exhale, sounding like he just got punched. Experiencing first hand the power your words have over him makes you feel almost high.

When he doesn't make a move to take off his mask, you raise your hands to his neck and do it yourself.

The moonlight shines over his messy locks, and the scar on his cheek catches the light just right, making you want to lick it.

Instead, you let the mask drop on the floor, and begin lightly scratching his chest over his suit, your touch featherlight, almost imperceptible.

"So, you watched me for weeks. What was I doing?"

The way his expression shifts and the tips of his ears redden slightly make your lips curl into a smug smile.

You can see his gloves hands clenching at his sides, almost like he's making an active effort not to reach out. Like he's waiting for your permission.

"You were reading, mostly. Sometimes you would watch a movie, if you were not too tired. Most of the times you were too exhausted to do anything. Other times-" and he stops, his face burning.

You tilt your head, confused by what he might be referring to, until you realize.

"What? What was I doing?"

Silence.

"Touching yourself."

Your grin widens, and your hands shift from his chest to his hair.

"Hm, and how did that make you feel, uh? Did it turn you on? Did you wish you could replace my fingers with yours?"

As you ask him these filthy questions, you tug his hair. Hard.

In response, he lets out a low moan, and his hands fly to your hips, mostly trying to ground himself.

"P-Please..."

The word comes out almost uncertain from his mouth, making your lips curl in amusement.

How the tables have turned. How did he go from being your stalker to begging you to let him touch you?

"Please, what?"

"Let me make you feel good."

His voice is strained, almost as if he were in physical pain.

"You really think you can do that?" you ask mockingly.

He nods, looking so eager to please.

You don't offer him a response. Instead you start walking to your bedroom — the same bedroom he has been spying for weeks — and you don't have to look back to know he's following you.

The mattress sinks under your weight as your sit on it. Benjamin doesn't hesitate before falling on his knees, right in front of you.

He starts soft, gently kissing your knuckles. Then he starts traveling higher, his lips caressing the soft skin of your arms, making your eyes flutter closed.

He then places his hands on either side of your body, steadying himself as he kisses your neck. He keeps getting closer to his final destination, grazing your jaw, your cheeks, and finally your lips.

At first the kiss is soft and tender, until you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him closer. This seems to be enough of an invitation for him.

The kiss turns hungry, almost desperate. You can feel the weight of his body over yours as he lays you down on the bed. But you don't stay in this position for long.

Taking him by surprise, you flip him over — but you have the suspicion he's right where he wants to be, underneath you.

His hands begin exploring your body, and your own move back to his hair, burying your fingers in his graying locks.

Underneath the layers of his tactical gear, you can feel him getting progressively harder. All it takes is you grinding your hips over his bulge to get another moan out of him.

You keep moving, chasing friction with his clothed cock, trying to ease the heath between your legs.

Surprisingly, he's the first one to break the kiss.

"Please, can I taste you?"

He sounds so desperate you can feel your panties getting even more wet than before.

In response, you take off your pants and your underwear in one go, but when you move to lay on the bed, he stops you. Instead, he moves your hips higher up, near his face.

Without a warning, he pushes you down on his face. Your hands immediately travel back to his hair, tugging them as you let out a high pitched moan.

At first, he drags his tongue from you needy hole to your clit, before laying a kiss on the bundle of nerves.

His movements are unsure at first, like he's trying to memorize the shape of you. Then, when you start grinding on his face, he seems to gain more confidence, and begins to eat you out like a man starved.

Even though you're completely lost in your pleasure, you can feel him moaning and whispering praises into your cunt.

Things like "you taste so good," and, "you're so perfect."

But the closer you get to your release, the darker his words get.

"Ain't no man allowed in your bedroom except for me," or, "he couldn't have made you feel this good," or simply, "you're mine."

The possessiveness in his voice is enough to make you reach your orgasm, holding onto him like an anchor.

The sound of your release paired with the way to keep pulling his hair — hard enough to sting — is enough make him cum untouched in his pants.

After catching your breath, you move from Benjamin's face and roll over, laying by his side.

He moves as well, resting his head in your lap and wrapping his arms around your waist, holding you so tight that you think he might be afraid that you're going to disappear at any moment.

A moment of silence passes between the two of you.

"Benjamin?"

"Mhm?"

"What happened to Chris?"

"I killed him."

A/N: This was the fic! Reblogs and comments are always appreciated, even if it's criticism (as long as it's constructive). I love talking with you angels, so my dms and inbox are always open!

All the love, Anna ♡

[annaevermore]

new theme but at what cost? (leaving behind my old pink theme)

[bloomcissa]

he lends a hand!

roy harper x fem!reader, smut? guys idk what this is, i had a vision last night and wrote it all in 10 mins

Sharing a bed with Roy Harper is hell. He’s two hundred pounds of pure muscle laying beside you, making it impossible to escape his warmth.

You shouldn’t be sharing a bed with him, and you definitely shouldn’t be letting your fingers slip beneath your panties while imagining him pressing you against the wall, your back against his bare chest as he whispers filthy things in that husky voice.

A tiny whine slips out of you. It's a traitorous little sound that makes your eyes fly open.

“Dude," Roy's voice is low and hushed, but his amusement is clear when you feel his gaze on you.

You squeeze your eyes shut. Embarrassment floods hot over your skin, tangled up with frustration. Your breaths come out uneven and heavy. You don’t turn to look at him.

“Go to sleep,” you grit out, wanting to cry from the mess of emotions swirling inside you.

He snorts. “Hell no.”

The bed dips under his weight as he scoots closer. The room’s dark enough that you can barely make out his face, but you can still see that infuriating grin tugging at his mouth, like he’s proud of himself.

“This all for me?” he asks, wrapping a hand around your wrist where your fingers still are.

“I—no. Course not,” you mutter weakly.

He hums. Then he pulls your fingers into his mouth and sucks.

He moans, shamelessly. “Taste so fucking good, baby.” His eyes are glued to yours, his tongue drags along your fingers. 

He doesn’t look away from you once.

“Roy,” you breathe out shakily, throat dry and lips parted.

“Lemme help, doll.” He lets your hand go and shifts until he’s hovering over you, one hand brushing along your side, his eyes carrying that dangerous glint that always manages to turn you on.

“Yeah, sure,” you mumble casually, trying to stay composed, though the act doesn’t last long.

Neither of you gets much sleep that night.

masterlist

[annaevermore]

#needthat

[dailysnoopy]

[annaevermore]

Heatwave

Paring: Dick Grayson x fem!reader

Summary: A heatwave and a clingy boyfriend are not the best combo. (0.4k)

Tags/warnings: fluff, pre established relationship, clingy!dick

A/N: Just something short 'n sweet to ease back into writing. The heat is killing me, I literally can't leave the house without my cute fan. English is not my first language and this was not proofread. Enjoy!

masterlist

It's that time of the year again.

The heat outside is unbearable, and the busted AC that should have been your saving grace is certainly not helping.

You're sprawled on the bed, desperately trying to fall asleep, switching sides of your pillow like a woman possessed, craving for the short lived coolness.

Just as you found a new spot on the bed that seems to have yet to be warmed up, you feel an heavy arm sneak around your waist.

"Don't touch me," you mumble with your face buried in the soft pillow.

When your boyfriend doesn't seem to get the hint, you take matters into your own hands and move his arm for your overheated body.

"But babe," Dick says, and you can hear the pout in his voice, "how am I supposed to fall asleep without touching you?"

"You'll get over it," you respond, your voice muffled.

He doesn't say anything after that, so you think he got the hint and just went to sleep. But who are you kidding? It's Dick Grayson we're talking about.

Just as you're about to finally drift to sleep, you feel the heat radiating from his body as he gets closer to you.

In response, you shuffle closer to the edge of the bed, trying to run away from his warmth.

"I wasn't even touching you," he whines. Whines.

"Doesn't matter. You're too hot."

What a bad choice of words. In fact, you regret them as soon as they come out of your mouth.

"Oh, so you think I'm hot?" he teases, his tone smug, apparently forgetting about how he was pouting just two seconds ago.

"Richard. We've been dating for two years."

"So you do think I'm hot?"

At this point you let out a heavy sight and turn around to face him.

"If I let you hold my hand, will you let me sleep?"

He simply nods, looking beautiful — more than usual, actually — with the streetlights filtering through the open window shining over him, making him look almost ethereal.

A smile appears on your face, despite your best efforts to hide it, and you just comply, giving him your hand.

After this win, he finally closes his beautiful blue eyes, and with a soft smile still plastered on his face, he falls asleep.

And just for a moment, the way he's holding your hand, as if it were his only lifeline, burns hotter than any heatwave.

A/N: This was the fic! Reblogs and comments are always appreciated, even if it's criticism (as long as it's constructive). I love talking with you angels, so my dms and inbox are always open!

All the love, Anna ♡

[pinkdoeweirdo]

aerion tragaryen returns defeated after the trial of seven

cw: pathetic!aerion x wife!reader, blood, vivid descriptions of wounds, physical violence, hurt/comfort, toxic relationship, threats of mutiliation

──── ♖ ────

the room smelled of sharp medical essences and overlapped with the metallic stink of blood. the curtains were draped, blocking the sun, so the only light in the dim room was a few lit candles scattered around the chambers. the door creaked slightly when you closed it, slowly turning the key in the lock with the effort of not making loud sounds. you sighed heavily and leaned against the heavy oak door. there he was, your husband, lying in bed, skin marked in all sorts of cuts and bruises. he was barely recognisable. it was almost impossible to believe that this hurt, tired man was the very same cruel dragon prince.

“go away, wife.” aerion’s raspy voice broke the heavy silence, he wasn’t even looking at you, head on the pillow with his eyes closed.

“how did you know it was me?” you asked quietly, not daring to step closer yet, gaze trailing over his weak, beaten body.

“your perfume reeks even from the hall,” he finally opened his eyes, but his gaze was fixed somewhere on the ceiling instead of you. “i said, get out.”

his anger made you smile faintly. you stepped closer, stopping on the edge of the bed. aerion’s head turned slowly, and he finally looked up at you. “came to gloat? i hope the sight pleases you,” he spat the words with all the venom he had strength for.

you sat on the bed beside him, ignoring his groans of protest. you frowned slightly when you saw the severity of his injuries, the deepness of the cuts, the red and purple of swollen flesh.

“does it hurt much?” you ask softly, your hand raised to his damp forehead, brushing it with a feather-like touch.

aerion closed his eyes and inhaled sharply, but didn’t shove your hand away. maybe because he didn't have the strength for it. “a little,” he mumbled with a sigh, then turned to look at you again, his violet eyes filled with usual hostility. “i don’t need your pity, woman.”

you pressed your fingers to his lips, shushing him lightly. “i’m not pitying you, aerion. i just wanted to check on you.”

"check??" he let out a bitter chuckle that made him wince and touch his side in pain. "since when are you checking on me, wife?" aerion closed his eyes once again. "haven't attended even one of my tourneys, making me look like a fool."

"you know well i don't like violence—"

"i am this very violence you are trying so hard to avoid, wife," aerion's hand caught and gripped yours painfully, he spat the word wife as if it were the most humiliating curseword. "you are married to the dragon, not the fucking sheep." he let go of your hand with open disdain.

you watched his face with the calmness that he was lacking. "married to the dragon," you repeated after him thoughtfully, slowly turning to face him. "i thought the dragon ought never lose. or if it’s the hedge knight, it doesn’t count?”

aerion’s eyes widened with unfathomable anger, that held in itself mix of shock and shame, with all the strength he had in his body, he sat upwards in a flash, right hand shot up to grip your throat. “you fucking bitch, i will—”

the words died and turned into mewls in his throat, as your hand found the pulsing wound on his stomach and pressed your fingers against it. he didn’t withdraw his hand fully but it released your neck and gripped your shoulder slightly instead, trying to cope with the agonising pain.

“you will what?” you asked gently putting away white hair from his forhead. “it seemed you were saying something, my prince?”

aerion inhaled sharply, coughing and breathing hard, but eyes still bright with fresh fury. “whore, i will personally carve out your filthy tongue for this.” he hissed, gripping your wrist in weak attempt to pull away your hand from his wounded abdomen.

your left hand that was caressing his face a second ago, gripped his hair harshly, forcing him to tilt his head up, as your fingers found the wet sticky opening of his injury, just shy of pressing right in.

“you are forgetting yourself, prince.” you murmured into his ear. aerion’s loud whimper echoed against the stone walls as your fingers applied pressure. he dropped his forehead against your shoulder, sobbing into the crook of your neck. “it is no way of talking with your wife, is it?”

aerion shook his head weakly and you withdrew your hands completely. “i don’t want to fight you, aerion, im not your enemy.” you said, stroking his head, that was still pressed to your neck. “but i will not let you treat me like some common wench you occasionally fuck.”

you stood up, letting him plop back against the pillows. “get well soon, husband.” you crossed the room in calm steps, adjusting the wrinkled dress skirts.

“wait.” he called quietly. you stopped with your hand on the door handle, your gaze dropped down, noticing that your fingers were smudged in his blood. “don’t go yet.” aerion’s low voice was barely recognisable without its usual arrogance and cruelty.

“why?” you asked without looking back, hand gripping the doorknob hard.

“please.”

your breath hitched at the weak plea. never in your life have you heard something similar from your husband. you turned around and came closer to the bed carefully, trying to understand what he wanted.

aerion’s face held so much pain and vulnerability, it made your heart ache. it was hard to feel something more than hatred and contempt for someone like him but it was also hard not to be sorry for this weak abandoned creature.

you sat on the edge of the mattress once again, carefully looking into him, analysing his unusual behaviour. in an instant he hugged your waist with his arms, laying his head in your lap. the motion was so fast and unexpected it made you gasp.

“i am so alone, wife.” aerion mumbled against your stomach. “they all hate me.”

it took you a moment to realise he was sobbing. you carefully hugged him back, petting his head gently.

“they just—”

“they do. everyone knows it.” his hands gripped your waist harder. “i wanted to show them. i wanted to show them all that the dragon should never be challenged, should never be laughed at. and now i disgust even myself.”

his voice held so much pain, that it was impossible not to pity him, even in his own evil mistakes.

“you don’t disgust me.” you replied.

aerion stilled and sat up slowly, his violet eyes meeting yours, so close you could see them being clouded with barely visible tears.

“you are lying.” he whispered, searching in your face some sign of you mocking him.

you just shook your head slightly, slowly taking his hands in yours. “i am not.”

aerion turned away as if ashamed of his own face, though his hand gripped yours in response. “stay some more. with me.”

“alright.”

he laid his head down on your lap again, so you couldn’t see his face. “im sorry” he mumbled.

you leaned in, pressing light lingering kiss to his hair. one tear dropped down from your cheek. “im sorry too.”

──── ♖ ────

taglist: @valarrsgirl @avidreader73 @magicmaekar @alaeratrrn @imsonotweird @pinknerdyunicorn @livepoetsnonsociety @userhotd

[perleore]

ꮼ premature ejaculation with inexperienced!jason todd (18+)

He's hovered over you, his deep green eyes fluttering closed as the head of his cock tentatively brushes along your slick folds. The slow drag is torturous, this drawn-out tension that's got you on edge, but he freezes up, too wrapped in his own doubts. Panic twists in his gut. This already feels too fucking good, way too intense for someone like him who's barely dipped a toe into this.

"Come on... ‘s okay baby. You can put it in," you gently urge, your voice a raw whisper of desperation, but his thoughts are a whirlwind, second-guessing every move. He jerks his head side to side, refusing.

“Can’t yet…” his face buries into the curve of your neck, a soft whimper escaping as he nudges the tip against your opening. It teases right at the edge, slipping in just a fraction and your walls instantly squeeze and gush around it, but he pulls back every time.

A frustrated whimper escapes you. "Jay, why are you holding back so hard?" Your fingers slide up the smooth expanse of his bare back, nails slightly scratching the scarred skin. He quakes at the touch, leaning into it like a lifeline.

"I can't... fuck, ohmygod..." he stammers as your hands soothe him, making his throbbing cock twitch against you. Hot tears start splashing onto your skin, right at the collarbone. "Don't wanna screw this up and hurt you. I'm not... I don't even know if I can do it right."

"What'd really hurt is you stopping yourself from feeling good ‘cause you’re scared," you soothe, tugging him down until his weight settles against you, arms looping around his neck in a firm hold. "You know I love you, Jay."

Your soft encouragement shatters his fragile control, sending him tumbling over the brink. His cock twitches wildly, barely notched at your opening, as thick, erratic spurts of cum erupt from him—coating your cunt in sticky warmth, some dribbling inside just a fraction. He gasps, body jerking in clumsy spasms, face burning with shame as the pathetic reality hits: he's spilled everywhere without even getting started, like some fumbling kid who couldn't hold it together. Humiliation floods him, cheeks flaming red, a choked sob bubbling up because he feels so small, so utterly inadequate in this vulnerable strip-down of himself.

"Oh shit—sorry, fuck—"

You silence him with a gentle press of lips to his, palms framing his flushed face, thumbs sweeping away the tear tracks streaking his cheeks. "No, don’t be sorry. ‘Can always try again, hm?”

[glossiercheek]

just a psa: the fact that i write smut, and that my smut is graphic, is absolutely no invitation to randomly dm me and talk dirty to me, to send nudes or to send me porn. it makes me uncomfortable.

that’s sexual harrassment. keep your fuckass hands in your pants. things can go from being cute compliments to being scary, weird comments real fast. i don’t want porn links on my phone, i don’t like porn videos AT ALL because the industry is so toxic, exploitative, and misogynistic.

i only want my cute moots and sweet messages in my dms, no random people with bad intentions. no, i don’t want to “get to know you” like that, don’t spam me with messages. if you want to ask me something, i kindly ask you to send a message to my inbox.

thank you for understanding.

aurora

[annaevermore]

the fact that we live in a world where basic human decency is not a given but something you have to ask for is INSANE

Aurora is one of the sweetest people I know on this app, and the fact that this happened to her (or anyone for that matter) makes me sick

[boyloveisnteasy]

MOTH TO A FLAME 𖤓˚࿔ 3!

synopsis. when the tournament for your hand and heart was announced, you expected to see lords from different houses who tried to win the throne through you, knights who saw it as a matter of honor. but what you didn't expect to see was the first and only person who broke your heart into a thousand pieces.

pairing. aerion x cousin! reader

contains. mdni! miscommunication trope, from childhood friends to lovers to enemies then to lovers again, betrayal, angst, tension, obsessive!possessive! aerion, reader has a typical targ. features, tba.

pt 1. pt2. pt4.

the tourney field buzzed like a disturbed hive.

in the air, thick and heavy, the smells of wooden stands, treated leather, and cold metal mixed — somewhere very close knights quickly adjusted their armor and tightened straps with a clang. at the entrance to every tent life boiled, but near the targaryen tent it was especially loud.

you felt your heart beat too fast, though you would never admit it. today’s stage was completely different from the previous ones: all the weak knights and minor lords were gone, and now it was his turn to ride out onto the field.

technically, the tournament did not involve deaths — usually the losers yielded after a couple of precise lance strikes — but the dread did not let you go. you did not know what scared you more: that something might happen to him, or that he himself might do something terrible.

while noble ladies in silk slowly took their seats, and lords lazily discussed taxes and other men’s brides, the smallfolk already pushed near the barrier.

“look! the first rides out!” a boy cried out wildly as he climbed onto a post, and all eyes turned at once to the entrance.

aerion appeared in shining steel, holding his helm in his hands. his opponent — a stately lord from distant lands — looked no less impressive, clearly inspired by the chance for a great victory. aerion’s eyes instantly found you in the crowd: his gaze slowly, almost tangibly, slid over your scarlet dress and your arranged hair before meeting your eyes again.

noticing that the rival lord smiled brightly at you and respectfully inclined his head, you involuntarily answered him with a soft smile. aerion, who did not miss this fleeting gesture, only gave a short, predatory smirk, after which both riders guided their horses toward your stand.

the smallfolk grew quiet when you rose from your seat, and the two riders stopped right before your box.

the dark-haired knight, whose gaze shone with sincere excitement, inclined his head. “my lady, i know i have no right to ask for such a thing… but if you grant me the high honor and allow me to carry your favor into battle, i swear i will fight ten times fiercer.”

you turned your gaze to aerion. he did not even grant his opponent a passing glance — all his attention was fixed only on you. he did not speak gallant words or give compliments; he only silently raised a brow, as if your ribbon already belonged to him by right.

you looked at each other for some time — the silence between you lasted only a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity — and then you lowered your eyes and look back at the lord, softly smile dat him, removing the white ribbon from your wrist, carefully tied in the morning by nana’s hands, and hand it to him with. “may it bring you luck.” the young man smiled from ear to ear, and there was such sincere delight in his eyes. “all for you, my princess.”

it seemed the whole field freezed for a moment — or maybe it only seemed so to you, because blood rushed to your cheeks, and you shyly lowered your gaze down, but not for long. nearby, a quiet chuckle from aerion sounded — short, but you heard it clearly, like the crack of a whip, and you lifted your eyes. he was already looking at you, and there was such confidence in his gaze that it made you want to strike him, like before.

then he slowly raised his lance — and you saw that a ribbon was already tied to it. red, old — faded, almost pink with time, but still holding firm, and you recognised it the same second you realize what you were looking at.

aerion lifted the corner of his lips. “i already received my best favor when it was the most important.”

and in that moment a sharp, burning memory struck you straight in the heart.

you ran toward the tent with the black dragon, laughed, lifting the hem of your long dress with your hands so you would not trip, and did not look back at the people who called your name — you did not care about them at all right now.

it was after his first victory at a small tournament, where no one expected that a boy in fitted armor would last longer than the first round, and he rode out onto the lists and took down all three opponents one after another, as if it was nothing.

you rushed inside while he still pulled off his armor, threw yourself at him, grabbed his shoulders and kissed his cheek — bright, happy, without thinking about propriety or who might see. “i knew you would win!” you breathed out, shining and looking at him in a way that made your cheeks ache from smiling. “i told everyone, and they did not believe me!”

aerion frowned, but the corner of his lips betrayed him and twitched upward. “i will scratch you with iron if you do not step back,” but instead of pushing you away, his hands settled on your waist, carefully pulling you closer, and you felt how he exhaled, how the tension left his shoulders.

“take it off,” you commanded, nodding at the remains of the armor. “i brought you something.”

the squire hurriedly finished with the clasps and slipped out of the tent, clearly not wanting to be a third wheel, and you waited until aerion remained in only a shirt, sitting on the bench, and then you reached to your hair — today it was braided into one long, thick braid, tied with a red ribbon.

“what are you doing?” he asked, and all the sharpness suddenly left his voice, leaving only quiet curiosity, almost childlike.

you did not answer — you walked to his lance, which stood leaning against the tent pole, and began wrapping the ribbon around it. the ribbon still held the warmth of your hair. “father said that victors should wear their lady’s favor,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady.

“my lady?” he raised a brow and stood from the bench, stepping closer, and you felt his presence behind you, but you did not turn, because otherwise you would surely ruin the knot.

you fumbled with it for what felt like an eternity — your fingers trembled from excitement, the ribbon slipped, and the knot refused to tighten properly, and you already wanted to click your tongue and just hand it to him so he could deal with it himself, when aerion stepped behind you and covered your hands with his.

his fingers were warm, rough from calluses — marks of long training, and you froze, feeling his breath at the top of your head, feeling how his chest touched your back, and everything inside turned over because he was so close. “like this,” he said quietly and finished the knot himself, firm, secure, so it would not come undone, and you watched his fingers as they adjusted the ribbon.

you turned to him and ended up very close — he looked at you, and there was no smirk on his face, only something warm.

you lifted your chin, looked him straight in the eyes. “if you lose it, do not expect anything more from me.”

he was silent, and then instead of answering, with one hand he pulled you closer by the waist, so you pressed your nose into his shoulder and felt his heart beating — just as loud as yours — and with the other hand he slowly ran through your hair, letting the strands slip through his fingers, from the crown to the very ends, gently. you froze from the touch — it was soft, almost intimate, and you felt how his fingers lingered at the back of your head, calming, pressing your head to his shoulder. your heart pounded somewhere in your throat, and you were afraid he would hear how loud it beat.

“i will not lose it.”

you blinked, and the memory scattered like smoke in the wind.

again — the noise of the tournament, the cries of heralds, the neighing of horses. again — sand under your feet, the burning sun, the heavy smell of metal and sweat. and he stood before you.

you looked at the ribbon — and could not look away. it had faded to pink, worn at the edges, but it was here.

you raised your eyes to his face — he slightly tilted his head, watching you, and there was so much in his gaze that you could not bear it and you looked away.

aerion slowly shifted his gaze to the boy beside him. “time to face the dragon, little knight.” you felt his eyes lift to yours one last time, linger for a moment, and then he put on his helm and the metal closed over his face.

your eyes closed on their own, because watching him leave was too painful. a lump stood in your throat, and you could not swallow it, and you did not understand — why? why did he want to hurt you like this? did he hate you so much that he would do anything to make you suffer forever?

suddenly, someone touched your hand, making you open your eyes and see valarr. he stood beside you — having approached unnoticed, silent, as always — and looked at you without words, because his gaze replaced them. he gave you a quiet nod — once, barely noticeable, and his hand squeezed yours, and you felt how it became a little easier from it. not much. but enough to endure.

it turned out to be not enough to endure.

in one moment you saw how aerion’s lance lightly touched the chest of the dark-haired man, and he fell to the ground — he did not yield, just lost his balance, and you managed to exhale, thinking that now it would end, that the opponent would stand up and brush himself off. but in the next second aerion had already dismounted, his sword shone in the sun, and the blade drove into the fallen man’s chest several times — without mercy, without stopping.

blood splashed in all directions — scarlet, thick, it flooded the sand, flooded the armor, flooded the pale face of that boy, making the ladies in the stands scream in fear. the smallfolk, on the contrary, shouted in delight, almost crushing each other just to watch.

“i yield!” the dark-haired knight screamed. “i yield, i yield, i yield!”

but aerion did not stop. he drove the blade in again and again, and his movements looked almost bored, as if his opponent had been a ten-year-old boy, not a fully trained lord.

you looked at it, and everything inside turned over, because it was unacceptable. any honorable man should stop the moment the other yields. that was the point of a tournament — not to kill, but to make the other lose. to show superiority, not to drown it in blood.

but aerion seemed to have forgotten that. or he did not care.

you squeezed your brother’s hand so hard that your knuckles went white, and you could not say a word. you only watched as before your eyes someone’s brother, son, future husband died.

and then — sudden silence. aerion stopped. his sword froze in the air, not reaching the chest of the defeated man, who no longer screamed, did not move, only rasped, covered in blood, choking on it. the field was quiet — so quiet that you heard the sand crunch under aerion’s boots when he stepped back.

he lifted his visor and slowly looked over the field, and you felt how he searched for you — because he always found you, always knew where you were.

“he is dead,” aerion said, and his voice was even, almost casual, as if he spoke of a sunday prayer. “it is over.”

somewhere in the distance a woman sobbed — maybe the boy’s mother, or maybe just someone who could not bear it.

aerion bent down, pulled the lance out of the sand — slowly, his fingers slid along the shaft upward, reaching your red ribbon. he untied the knot carefully, almost gently, without haste, as if he did not want to tear the fabric that was already worn by time. the ribbon remained in his hand, and he clenched it as he threw the lance aside, raising a cloud of dust, and walked away.

the doors to his chambers burst open from your push — you did not even think to knock, did not think about propriety. the guards at the entrance tried to gently explain that it would be better for you to come tomorrow, but you walked past them without listening.

you stepped inside just as the old maester was about to leave — he said something to aerion, listing instructions, dry and clinical. he stood in the middle of the chambers, wearing only a shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, and he tied a bandage around his left wrist, pulling the knot tight with his teeth. he looked tired — shadows under his eyes, hair stuck together with sweat, a fresh bruise on his cheek.

they both turned at the sound of the door. the maester immediately nodded to you — hurriedly and a little guiltily. “my princess, i am very sorry! i am sure you came for an important matter, but the prince needs rest for now an—”

he did not finish, because aerion lifted his bandaged hand, and the gesture stopped the maester mid-sentence. “she may enter whenever she wants,” he said, not looking at the old man, but at you, and his voice sounded even.

the maester looked from you to him, then back at you — your dress was still stained with blood that you had picked up somewhere along the way — and in the end he exhaled and nodded. “then i will leave you.”

when the door closed behind the maester, you could not hold back. you walked up to him — quickly, almost too close, so that you saw every scratch on his face, every drop of sweat that had not yet dried at his temple.

“are you really so pathetic that you enjoy tormenting those who are weaker than you?”

aerion froze, holding a heavy silence. he simply looked at you with that unreadable, burning gaze, and then his lips touched with a fleeting, bitter smirk.

“and is that not the whole point of a tournament?” he threw out carelessly.

“the point of a tournament is to overcome your opponent, to prove your skill, not to kill!” you exclaimed, almost breaking into a shout.

aerion smirked again, but this time a dangerous fire flashed in his eyes. before you could pull away, he sharply caught your hand. you tried to break free, but he only tightened his grip and forcefully pressed your palm to his bare chest — to the place where his heart beat fiercely under the skin.

“he struck me with his lance right here,” aerion said, and his voice grew lower, heavier, and he pressed your hand harder against that spot, so you felt the hard iron of a bruise under your fingers. “if he missed even by an inch, you would be mourning my corpse now. i only found it fair to repay him the same.”

he fell silent, not taking his eyes off you, and then shifted his hold on your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. aerion suddenly pulled you closer, closing the distance between you to something dangerous, his voice became quieter.

“and maybe i was a little more… insistent than usual. simply because he did not deserve your favor.”

you stood so close to him that there was no air, no distance left. his breath touched your cheek — hot, uneven, mixing with yours. your fingers were still intertwined — he did not let go, only held tighter.

aerion looked at you with such intensity that you wanted to close your eyes — but you could not. there was something hungry in his gaze, long restrained.

“i missed you every fucking day,” he said quietly, his voice low, hoarse, almost inaudible. “my little dragon.”

the words hit the breath out of you — because only he used to call you that, because that nickname died many years ago.

his gaze dropped to your lips. lingered there — for a moment, for an eternity, you did not know. you felt the blood rush to your face, how your heart started pounding somewhere in your throat, how your whole body went still in anticipation of what was about to happen. he leaned in — slowly, almost teasingly, and you saw how his lashes lowered, how he came closer, felt the heat coming from his bare chest, and you were already ready to close your eyes, waiting for the inevitable—

“princess?”

the voice behind your back sounded like a crack of a whip. you let out a startled cry and sharply pushed away from aerion, almost stumbling over the hem of your own dress. your heart pounded somewhere in your ribs, loud, painful, and you felt it beat through your whole body — in your temples, in your fingers, in the tips of your ears. you barely caught your breath and took a step back, then another, and only then turned toward the voice.

tristan.

“i did not mean to interrupt you,” tristan said, and his voice sounded too strained. “whatever… whatever that was, my princess.”

you raised your eyes to him — and something in his face made you freeze for a moment. he smiled, but his smile was different from his usual warm one. the corners of his lips were raised, but his gaze stayed cold, studying.

the feast went on — some danced, some laughed at foolish jokes, some were already drunk senseless, just to be seen by the princes, to earn their attention. the air was hot, stifling, the smell of roasted meat and expensive perfumes made you feel sick. you barely touched your food — the meat on your plate had long gone cold, the fat hardened into an unappetizing layer, but you did not care. you felt nothing but nausea and that strange emptiness in your chest.

all your thoughts circled around what happened just moments ago. how could you allow it? just a few sweet words from him — and you almost believed, almost gave in. again.

again you fell for words that probably meant nothing. as if there had not been a time when he fed you the same empty lies. and all it took was for him to appear — and you were ready to fall into his arms, like a foolish, trusting, worthless idiot.

“princess?” tristan leaned closer to you, and you pulled yourself out of your thoughts, blinked, returning to reality. “are you alright?”

you swallowed the lump in your throat and nodded, trying to keep your voice steady. “yes… it is very stifling here. i think i will step outside.”

he immediately offered his hand. “allow me to escort you.”

you shook your head. you smiled — probably crooked and strained, because tristan narrowed his eyes slightly, noticing the falseness. “there is no need. i will go alone.”

for a few moments, silence hung in the air — tense. tristan looked at you with a long, strange gaze, then glanced around, searching for someone — maybe aerion, maybe someone who could see this scene — and you noticed how his jaw tightened, how the muscles moved under his skin, how his fingers clenched into a fist before he forced himself to relax. he gave a short nod and stepped aside, giving you way.

you rose from the table and walked away — from the noise in your head and from his gaze that drilled into your back all the way to the exit. and only when you walked along the path leading into the garden did you take your first proper breath of the evening.

you did not manage to go far into the garden — you only reached the first stone column, hidden from sight by the castle arches, when suddenly a familiar low voice came from the darkness.

“another moment — and he would have climbed under your dress.”

you stopped. you did not see him at the feast — he never appeared in the hall after the maester treated his wounds. where did he…

everything inside you twisted. it was too much. too much for one day. tristan with his strange looks, the feast, the tournament, and now him.

you slowly turned, raised a brow and tried to make your voice sound mocking, not trembling. “i thought the maester told you to lie down. or did you decide his advice meant nothing to you?”

aerion did not answer, just stepped closer — smooth, silent, like a predator that had already chosen its prey and only amused itself before striking. he smelled of smoke, the metallic scent of blood, and herbs used to treat his wounds.

“are you worried about me, little dragon?” his voice was low, almost gentle.

you closed your eyes in irritation, clenched your fists. “do not call me that.”

he did not listen. of course not. he stepped closer — and you stepped back, not breaking eye contact, not lowering your head, until your back hit the cold stone of the column. and then he loomed over you, his hands braced on either side of your head, trapping you.

“i see,” he said slowly, tilting his head. “you want me to call you what that dog does? princess? or maybe some other false shit he made up for you?”

“don't you dare speak about him like that.”

he smirked — short, and there was not a drop of amusement in it. “interesting. what did he do to earn your defense? spin around you for years like a chained dog, wait for you to grow tired, whine and hope for scraps?”

“at least he is not a coward,” your voice grew firmer, and you lifted your chin higher. “and he actually loves me.”

the smirk vanished from his face so sharply as if it was blown away by the wind, all amusement in his eyes gone. “careful.”

that made you smirk. “or what? your threats are as empty as your promises? i am almost sure you will forget those too, and then pretend nothing happened.”

aerion slowly leaned closer — so close that you felt his breath on your lips, felt the heat coming from his body. at the last moment you raised a finger, pressing it to his chest, not breaking eye contact. “if you come any closer, i will scream.”

he did not pull away, instead his eyes locked into yours, and there was no doubt in them. “you will not.”

you opened your mouth to prove him wrong, to call for valarr or even tristan — but you did not manage to make a sound before his lips crashed onto yours.

there was not a drop of tenderness in that kiss, only open, primal hunger. he pressed you into the stone column, and the cold of it bit into your back even through the thick fabric of your dress — but you felt nothing except his mouth, his tongue, his teeth that bit your lower lip.

he kissed as if he wanted to drink you dry, to burn your taste into his memory so he would never forget again. his breath was uneven, mixed with yours, and you did not understand where you ended and he began. his fingers dug hard into your waist, and his other hand slid higher, to your neck, fingers tangling into the hair at the back of your head, pulling your head back, opening you for his mouth that moved along your jaw, to the corner of your lips, to your cheek, and then back to your lips again, making you let out a quiet breath.

and you, damn you, did not push him away. because you wanted this. because no matter how much you lied to yourself, convinced yourself that you hated him, swore it was the last time — you wanted this. you always did. and now, when his tongue pushed into your mouth, rough and demanding, tasting you — you melted like wax, gave in to this man who never left your thoughts.

your fingers tightened on the collar of his shirt and pulled him closer, as much as it was even possible. he groaned into your lips — a low, dull sound that echoed through you, and you felt it in every nerve.

when there was too little air left, he broke the kiss, but did not pull away. his forehead pressed to yours, his breathing uneven, hot, mixing with yours.

“marry me,” he whispered, his lips almost touching yours. “marry me and i will stop all this. i will do anything you want.”

you froze. his words fell into the silence of the garden like heavy stones, but instead of warming you, they poured over you like ice water and brought you back to your senses.

what were you letting happen? you were in the castle garden, where any lord, any servant, gods, even your father could come out and see you pressed to the stone column, his hands on your hips, your fingers still clutching the collar of his shirt.

you pushed him away — sharp, so that he, losing balance, stepped back, stumbling over the wet grass. and before he could straighten, you raised your hand and struck his face. the sharp crack of the blow tore through the silence, his head snapped to the side, and for a moment he froze, pressing his palm to his burning cheek.

you breathed heavily, fast, your chest rising and falling, your eyes filled with moisture — but you would not let the tears fall.

“don't you dare do this,” your voice trembled, but you held it with all your strength. “i let you fool me once. i will not let you do it again.”

you pressed your lips together and shook your head — loose strands from your disheveled braid fell over your face, making you look more vulnerable, more defenseless. “i've had enough.”

you pushed yourself away from the cold stone, walked past him and headed back toward the castle. tears treacherously gathered, ready to fall, and you barely saw the path, but your feet carried you forward — away, far from this man, from his lying words, from the kiss that still burned on your lips and scorched you from the inside with shame. you did not think about how you looked — disheveled, with red eyes and heavy breathing — you just walked, faster with each step.

but you did not manage even ten steps — a hand caught your wrist, iron grip pulling you back, turning you toward him. you, without thinking, raised your free hand to strike, but he caught it too, pressing your wrists to his chest, trapping you — his fingers closed around your bones, not painfully, but so tight you could not break free.

“i was a fool,” he said, and his voice sounded low, strained. “i did terrible things. but i never lied to you.”

the first tear slipped from your lashes and rolled down your cheek — hot in the cold night air. you smirked, crooked, bitter. “you really have no conscience, do you?”

he leaned closer — so close that his lips almost touched yours, and you felt his breath. “every word i told you was the truth,” he whispered hoarsely. “i fucking always told the truth when it came to you.”

you jerked, trying to free your hands, but he held firm — and you stayed trapped, looking through wet lashes, through tears already streaming down your face.

“oh yes, you were honest,” your voice broke, became quieter, but heavier, as if every word had to be torn from your chest along with a piece of flesh. “and when you left me alone that day, when you were supposed to tell everyone — most of all my father — that you loved me? i noticed how honest you were while i stood there, in front of everyone, and waited for you until the very end. like a stupid, naive fool.”

he frowned — so deeply that a shadow settled between his brows — and his eyes locked onto yours with some kind of wild confusion.

“what the fuck are you talking about?”

you glanced around — at the empty garden, at the tree trunks, at the castle glowing with candles in the distance — and let out a quiet, bitter laugh.

“do not pretend you do not know. it does not suit you, aerion. i sent you a lette—”

“yes, a letter where you said you would rather commit treason and let them flay you alive before the smallfolk than marry me.”

that made you frown and look up at him. you heard his words, but they did not reach your mind — they drifted, distorted, as if through thick, icy water.

“what?”

more of aerion & akotsk! 𖾕𖾝꙼ᩚ𛲕𖾟 part 4 is in process ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

💬｡˚ @cassvictim @anontargslvt3 @mmasworld @kate-beth @tangikatanifa @aerionbrgflm @transparentwizardblaze @thestoriesitell-blog1 @agentcarter1946 @icebearcucumber @outshawty @bighead02 @anedpev @carbonated-beverage @pixel-pixie-xo @immauperfreak @ibhearts @demoniz3d @littlewritergreatgirl-blog @besonderselyy @thoughtfully-burning @rubyannebeaufoy @catmikaelson20 @unramdommas2004 @dragon-moonstar @sahvlren @quixoticrai111 @comzetogether @ladychaos1525 @hanakotateyama @bookishdelights @besonderselyy @jinmjy @naty-sunshine @jaemimpulsive @icebearcucumber @pharmacistfairytale @ae-gax @jjk174 @kravitzwhore @bibibug4444 @justvibbinghere @dear-fifi @aerangi @chesecakecat @kumisbaby @darylandbethfanforever9 @melsunshine @thorscrown @coffeeorcoffin4

[itsays]

no i dont think women starving themselves and reconstructing their entire faces with makeup and plastic surgery is feminism and female empowerment

[boyloveisnteasy]

MOTH TO A FLAME 𖤓˚࿔ 2!

synopsis. when the tournament for your hand and heart was announced, you expected to see lords from different houses who tried to win the throne through you, knights who saw it as a matter of honor. but what you didn't expect to see was the first and only person who broke your heart into a thousand pieces.

pairing. aerion targaryen x cousin! reader

contains. mdni! miscommunication trope, from childhood friends to lovers to enemies then to lovers again, betrayal, angst, tension, obsessive!possessive! aerion, reader has a typical targ. features, tba.

⋆ pt 1. pt3. pt4.

“i cannot believe you agreed to this.”

your father sat at the oak table, covered in old reports and a yellowed map — the glasses in an iron frame slipped down to the tip of his nose, and the parchment rustled under his fingers. baelor did not look up at once, but when he did, his voice sounded even and calm.

“the tourney is open to any knight,” he said, taking off his glasses and setting them on the table. “i will not forbid a man to fight for the right to name you his wife, my dear.”

you held your gaze on his face. “you know that he will stop at nothing,” you said quietly.

a long, heavy silence followed — your father looked at you for a long moment, gently, like he did when you were a small child and ran to him with a scraped knee.

“he is a man of honor. i would rather see such a husband beside you — than one who promises everything but fights only halfway.”

but that only made you shake your head, quiet and stubborn. “i do not want him to take part.”

he raised a brow slightly — that same gesture you knew since early childhood.

“you do not want him there because you fear his victory, or because you fear for his life, if the gods prove unkind and his blade is not swift enough?”

you swallowed and lowered your gaze to the dark sheen of the table — sometimes you hated your father for how unerringly he guessed your most hidden fears, the ones you hid even from yourself.

the truth was inconvenient: you could not answer him honestly that it was both — because deep inside, where you rarely admitted it, there lived a small, sticky fear that the gods might take him, make him pay for his pride.

but another voice, louder and harsher, screamed that if he broke your heart once, nothing would stop him from doing it again.

“i will not marry him. not now, not in ten years.”

your father did not argue — he leaned back in his chair and rubbed the bridge of his nose where the glasses left a faint red mark.

“then why did you not name tristan? you only had to say the word, and there would have been no tourney — not a single broken lance, not a single knight bleeding out on the grass for your hand.”

you stayed silent, because he was right. you should have, and you knew you should — tristan was as close to your equal as a knight’s son could ever be to a lord’s daughter. he did not demand, did not insist, he only watched you patiently and waited for you to name him to your father yourself.

he was always there — that boy who made you laugh when you cried at night, who did not ask why you sobbed into your pillow, but simply sat beside you and stayed quiet until you calmed down. he protected you from others’ cruelty and not once, not a single time, asked for anything in return — and when you did not answer his silent plea, tristan did not allow himself anger, he only nodded patiently and said he would ride in the tourney and prove himself.

maybe it was not about him at all, but about the fact that you simply did not want to take the blame. if you chose tristan yourself, all the weight would fall on your shoulders, but if he won among a hundred contenders — if the gods themselves pointed to him — then it was not your will, then there was nothing to blame yourself for.

it was far easier to leave the burden on anyone else, even on the the seven, who rarely interfered in the affairs of mortals, than to live with the thought that you, with your own hands, led yourself to the altar with a man who became almost a brother to you — almost like valarr.

baelor rose from the table slowly and walked to you, and you heard the floorboards creak under his boots. he touched the top of your head with a heavy, steadying hand.

“i do not know the whole truth of what passed between you,” he said in a low, quiet voice. “i do not know what he did and what you laid on him in your hurt. but i saw that boy grow, and i remember how he treated you in childhood. he is the only one — besides me and your brother — who would step without hesitation into certain death, if it meant your safety, of that i am sure.”

he withdrew his hand, returned to the table, took the edge of the parchment between his fingers, but did not read — only held it.

“and if by the will of the the seven he proves to be the one who walks out of this slaughter the victor,” — baelor turned to you, and a shadow of a smile touched his face, the first in the whole conversation, “then there would be no father happier than me in all the world.”

from the far side of the training yard, where few ever went because of the cramped space and the harsh, unforgiving grass, sharp, ragged sounds carried through the air. it was your hidden corner, where you used to spend hours with a book beneath the shade of a tree, so when you turned at the familiar bend of the castle, you did not expect to find your silver-haired cousin there.

aerion looked truly enraged: his skin bled in several places from fresh scrapes, and his fingers, white at the joints, gripped the hilt of his sword. he tried in vain to fix the blood-soaked cloth on his forearm with one hand, but the blade he still held only got in the way, leaving new scratches along his skin. with a sharp, furious breath, he threw the sword to the ground.

you, who had been watching him in silence from the shadows, finally stepped into the light and walked toward him at an unhurried pace, making him turn sharply and freeze for a moment.

“leave.”

but you did not listen. as you kept walking toward him, he watched your every move. “are you deaf? i said get out before you start crying and run to complain to your father.”

without saying a word, you carefully set your book on the grass and touched the cloth on his forearm, which was about to slip, and you noticed how he flinched at the sudden touch. since his arrival at your castle, he either threw venom at valarr or mocked the knights, and he ignored you entirely.

aerion frowned, but did not pull his arm away. his eyes did not leave your face while you tied the wound tight. when the knot was set, you finally looked up at him.

“you need new cloth.”

he jerked his arm back at once.

“played maester, cousin? now get lost.”

he clearly had no wish to show you the marks of his shameful defeat in today’s training. it did not matter that his opponent was a knight twice his age and experience — dragon’s blood ran in aerion’s veins, and he believed he had to be stronger than them all. you only shrugged in silence and, picking up your book, walked back to your usual place beneath the tree.

aerion reached for his sword and lifted it, though the way he moved made it clear his strength was spent and he barely held the weapon. then he let out a loud, irritated breath.

“i will cut your throat if you do not leave right now.”

“first, this is my castle and my place, and second — we both know you will not do it,” you said, giving him the sweetest false smile you could manage.

he looked at you for another moment, seized by silent fury, and then he threw the sword into the dust again and strode out of sight.

the next time you came to the yard and found him there again, he only glanced at you when you arrived and went on with his training in silence. you were almost at the end of your reading about old valyria, when you suddenly felt someone drop heavily onto the grass right beside you.

aerion lay on his back, his hands folded over his chest as he tried to steady his breathing. his brow shone with sweat, his eyes — already open, already watching you — held nothing but exhaustion and a quiet kind of curiosity. he knew you would be there, and he could have chosen another place for his drills, but for some reason, he did not.

“you have silver hair,” he said suddenly, breaking the silence.

you rolled your eyes and went back to your book.

“how very observant.”

in answer, there was only a short, low chuckle. from that day on, you became the constant witness to his punishing training, and after it, he always lay beside you while you, leaning back against the crooked trunk, told him another tale from your book — stories of old valyria.

you sat at the long oak table in the great hall — your father and your uncle already left, leaving only their children at the table. the hall was quiet, only the coals cracked in the hearth, and the air still held the smell of roasted meat, warm bread, and red wine.

everyone ate in silence, not looking at each other, and you felt the tension spread through the air.

aerion suddenly leaned back in his chair, and the familiar sparks of amusement played on his face. “it has been a long time since our last meeting. i missed you, cousin.”

your brother paused for a moment with the knife in his hand, cutting the meat, then pressed his lips together faintly and nodded. “yes. it truly has been a long time.”

that made aerion smirk. “i was not speaking to you.”

you lifted your eyes sharply and met aerion’s gaze — he looked straight at you, unblinking, unwavering. his head tilted slightly to the side, one brow raised, waiting for your answer.

if he thought he would get under your skin, he was wrong.

“yes, it has been a long time,” you said evenly, without a trace of emotion.

and then you turned to daeron and smiled — warm and real, just like in childhood, when you ran through the castle corridors, hiding from the septa.

“i missed the way you pushed me to run from her,” you said. “do you remember? we hid in the old tower while she searched the garden, and then you told her you saw me run toward the stables, and she went the other way.”

daeron smiled softly, though his eyes were slightly red, and you understood at once that he drank more than he should — but not enough to lose himself. he clearly tried to keep himself in check, remembering he stood in almost a second home, and his voice sounded warm, a little lazy, with that boyish note that stayed with him since the years when you were both children.

“those were good days, little sister,” he said, and raised his cup.

you felt aerion’s gaze — it burned, pressing against your temples. when you looked at him, you saw how tightly his jaw was clenched, and how slowly he dragged his tongue along the inside of his cheek. his fingers gripped the edge of the table, and you saw the knuckles turn white. he did not look away, and there was something in his stare — not only anger, but something else, dark and hot, something you did not want to understand.

you looked away first.

“tomorrow is a hard day. i will go to my chambers,” you said as you rose, smiling at valarr, who sat beside you.

then you shifted your gaze from your brother to daeron. “you should rest as well.”

you walked gracefully toward the exit, but you barely made it a few steps before the silence in the hall was torn apart by the sharp screech of a chair dragging across the stone floor. someone else rose quickly from the table, deciding to follow you.

you did not even need to turn — you already knew it was him.

his steps were always unhurried, heavy, and strangely confident in a way that made your skin tighten.

your absence from the usual place was the first thing that unsettled aerion, though he would never admit he had been worried — he was not that weak. you always came under that tree without fail, even when he cursed you and drove you away, and he, despite all his threats, never bothered to find another place to train.

trying to convince himself that he did not care and had no reason to think about you at all, he stubbornly kept pushing himself through the exercises, but when the sky turned into uneasy shades of red at sunset and your silhouette still did not appear, he exhaled in irritation and threw down his sword. walking toward the castle walls, he told himself he had simply decided to finish early, and it was definitely not because of the intrusive thoughts about your disappearance.

he walked through nearly the entire castle, checking every covered gallery, and cursed again in frustration, deciding he had enough. he was angry at himself for wandering around like a fool while you were probably just sitting in your rooms doing some pointless princess things he did not understand.

he was already almost at the threshold when he stopped, defeated, shaking his head and closing his eyes, then turned toward the last place that came to mind.

just in case, he told himself, because it would not be funny if something happened to the only princess of their family.

when he came out to the riverbank, he finally saw you. you were sitting with your back against the massive trunk of a huge tree, and your appearance was far from courtly perfection. your silver hair, which he was used to seeing loose over your shoulders or styled into neat braids with thin golden threads, was now tied into a messy bun at the back of your head, stained with dirt even from a distance, and instead of your usual dress with shimmering details, you wore a simple dark riding dress.

making sure you were unharmed and that your uncle would not throw a fit over his daughter’s disappearance, aerion should have turned around and left to rest before the next training, but for some reason his feet kept carrying him forward.

“well, finally,” he said as he came up to you with that lazy mockery. “enough sense has awakened in you to leave me in peace.”

you did not even lift your head — you just sat there, staring at the grass by your knees, silent for so long that his steps slowed, then stopped two paces away from you. he frowned and stepped closer again, and that was when he noticed your arm. your left wrist was sliced open with a deep uneven cut, the blood already dried and cracked, mixed with dirt.

“do you ever look where you’re going? or have you decided your precious brother and father will always drag you out of trouble?” he said, nodding at your hand. his frown deepened — a hard line settling between his brows.

you did not answer, because you were afraid the tears stuck in your throat would spill before the words did. you only shook your head, still staring down.

“no one warned me that knives are not as simple as they look.”

he looked down at you for a long, heavy moment, then turned his gaze to the river, to the water lazily licking the shore.

“if you wanted to hurt yourself, you could have come to me right away. i would have given you that pleasure without any trouble.”

a short sob broke from your throat — you bit your lip at once to silence it, but it was too late. he heard it. you saw his shoulders tense, how he froze for a moment.

then he slowly lowered himself into a crouch in front of you, carefully taking your injured hand into his and studying the cut in silence — long, intent, tracing the edge of the wound with his thumb so lightly, trying not to touch the raw center where blood still seeped.

he tore the hem of his shirt in one sharp motion without looking, and began to wrap your hand — skilled, but careful, so his fingertips barely touched your inflamed skin. you only closed your eyes when he tightened the knot and let out a small hiss, biting your lip against the pain.

he looked up at your face and went still — staring without blinking until you finally opened your eyes and met his gaze through wet lashes.

you stayed frozen opposite each other — his hand still holding your wrist over the makeshift bandage.

then he looked away first. he released your hand slowly, almost reluctantly, and cleared his throat.

“i’ll teach you. you don’t have to look like a beggar to learn how to use them.”

you looked at him for another moment, swallowing the lump in your throat, and then slowly nodded.

you walked slowly along the garden paths, enjoying the silence, until your gaze stopped on the soft petals of the winter rose. this rare flower, which you had planted in your mother’s memory when you were still a child, had finally grown strong and bloomed, becoming a living reminder of the past, while nana beside you adjusted your sleeve that always slipped off your shoulder.

“no, nana, you have no idea!” it burst out of you. “i cannot listen to that old hag anymore. she tells me every day how a pious wife is supposed to behave!”

nana laughed, and her hands, folded behind her back, briefly came forward to smooth your stray hair. “you will soon be a wife, my lady,” she said calmly. “or you will be running an entire household yourself, so you should get used to it. septas do not change. you do.”

you rolled your eyes, because she was right as always, but you did not want to admit it.

“i already know by heart what she says,” you continued, counting on your fingers. “that a woman must stay silent when her husband speaks, that she must bear heirs and not complain about pain, and that she shoul —”

“my princess!” a loud, genuinely joyful voice cut through your tirade without any ceremony.

both of you turned at the same time and saw tristan. he stood there in shining armor, holding his helmet at his side, his dark curly hair was slightly damp with sweat, and his brown, almost puppy-like eyes sparkled brightly. at the sight of him, you could not help but smile.

“tristan!”

he approached and bowed — a little deeper than etiquette required, but that was just like him. “my princess.” then he turned his gaze to the woman beside you and gave a dry nod. “jenna.”

nana returned him a short nod — so brief it could almost be taken as an insult if anyone else had noticed — and pressed her lips together.

you knew that gesture of hers. she never spoke badly about tristan —not openly, not with accusations — but you had learned to read her body, her silence. she almost never spoke well of him either, usually warning you that he was not at all what he tried to appear to be, asking you to be careful, but you always brushed her words away without worry.

“i will leave you, my princess,” she said evenly, without a trace of emotion, and only the corner of her mouth lifted in a faint smile — one that never reached her eyes. she gave tristan one last long, studying look, and then turned and walked away.

tristan looked back at you again, and in his eyes there was that soft, almost adoring glow that always made your cheeks turn pink.

“i do not know if there is any point in repeating how beautiful you look,” he said quietly, “when it is obvious to everyone.”

you only rolled your eyes gently, unable to hide your answering smile. “i did not know you were here, tristan.”

he awkwardly ran a hand through the back of his hair and smiled shyly, looking almost boyish.

“yes. my father decided to finish some matters early, and i just could not walk past without seeing the reason why any of this even matters.”

your cheeks warmed — you felt the heat rise to your face — but you brushed it off, pretending you did not understand the hint. he looked at you for a long time, closely, as if trying to etch every feature into his memory, and then his hand instinctively reached toward your face to fix a loose strand of hair.

but he did not get to touch you. another hand seized his wrist with iron force and roughly yanked him back.

“keep your fucking hands to yourself, little knight.”

aerion’s voice came from right beside your shoulder, making you flinch.

how did you not hear him come up?

you looked up at him, but aerion did not even look at you — his eyes were fixed on tristan. the dark-haired man clenched his jaw, and you saw the muscles shift under his skin, but he held the stare and nodded. “my prince.”

aerion finally deigned to look at you, and dangerous sparks danced in his eyes.

“am i interrupting you?”

“actually,” you answered, trying to make your voice sound firmer than you felt, “you are slightly interrupting, if you did not notice.”

“oh, really?” he raised a brow mockingly.

“yes, really.”

“and what exactly were you doing so interesting here?”

you opened your mouth to answer, but tristan spoke before you.

“talking to my future wife.”

your eyes widened in shock — you had no idea why he thought provoking aerion right now was a good thing, but it was already too late.

aerion ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek and slowly, very slowly, stepped closer to tristan, then looked around with feigned confusion so theatrical it bordered on insult.

“i do not see her,” he said. “perhaps you should look among those common whores — that is more your level.”

“aerion!”

but he had already grabbed tristan by the back of the neck, pulling his face closer to his own.

“if i hear you call her your wife one more time, i will rip your throat out in front of your mother, little knight.”

tristan did not back down — he looked back, narrowing his eyes, and you could see pride struggling inside him — but in the end he was still just a knight, powerless against a prince. he pressed his lips so tightly they almost turned white. “understood, my prince.”

unable to endure the scene any longer, you grabbed aerion’s arm and pulled him forcefully toward the other side of the castle. he did not even resist — instead, he followed, clearly enjoying the feeling of your skin in his hand.

when you reached the farthest part of the garden, you turned to him sharply.

“what do you think you’re doing?”

but he did not look at you — his gaze dropped to where your hands were still entwined, because he had laced his fingers with yours while you walked, and you had not even noticed. you looked down, and the realization came too late — you pulled your hand away as if burned, and his warmth still stung your skin.

he only let out a low huff, lifting his darkened eyes to you.

“he tried to touch what is mine again, and this time i will not allow it.”

your brows drew together for a moment in confusion: you never chose tristan, your choice had always been… him. but the anger at what he just claimed — that you belonged to him — drowned those thoughts. your lips parted, your brows lifted with anger, and you looked up at him.

“i am not yours.”

but he did not step back — instead, he stepped closer, closing the distance, and tucked that same loose strand behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your cheek a moment longer than needed.

“you are,” he said, and there was no doubt in his voice, only calm, unshaken certainty. “you were mine. you are mine. and you will be mine. that will never change.”

“not anymore,” you shook your head desperately. “tristan is in the tourney too.”

“and i am supposed to feel threatened by that?” aerion arched a brow mockingly.

you knew he was not. aerion stood above them all in strength, and on the tourney field there was no real threat to him — not from tristan, not from anyone else, and somehow that knowledge did not bring relief, only pressed heavier on your chest.

“you do not know who will win.”

he leaned closer — so close you felt his breath against your cheek, and his tone grew more serious, while his eyes, strangely, softened.

“i know everything when it comes to you.”

you turned away sharply, because if you looked at him for one more second, you would break, or say something foolish, or worse, start to cry.

“the gods may punish you for such arrogance and vanity. nothing lasts forever.”

he only gave a bitter smirk.

“they are already punishing me with this shit. what is one more punishment?”

you let out a tired breath, gripping the hem of your dress tightly — the only thing holding you steady in this conversation.

“i would rather feed my body to dogs than marry you, aerion.”

“now i understand why valarr hates this so much,” you let out, brushing the stubborn silver strands from your face once again as they fell loose over your shoulders.

you did not plan to take up a bow today, especially when you wore your finest dress of soft pink silk, but your cousin, it seemed, had other plans.

“your brother hates it only because he is hopelessly bad,” aerion said, tossing his bow aside carelessly, right onto the lush grass.

you lifted your chin stubbornly, looking him straight in the eye.

“maybe it runs in the blood, and the gods know — i truly tried.”

“tell your gods to make you try harder.” he rolled his eyes mockingly as he stepped closer.

“aerion, i am really tire—”

he did not let you finish.

he moved behind you without a sound, pressing his body against yours, and covered your hands holding the bow with his own. you froze for a brief moment, then relaxed at once, feeling that familiar warmth. lowering his face to your shoulder, aerion helped you set the arrow properly on the string.

“you aim too straight. you should always take it a little higher.” his voice sounded unusually soft and calm.

he adjusted the angle and released the string — the arrow cut through the air with a sharp whistle and struck the very center, making you smile brightly, shining with delight.

“not bad. though it could have been much better.”

he only let out a low huff, but did not step away — instead, he let the bow slip to the ground, and his hands moved down to your waist, pulling you closer to him.

“aerion, there are servants everywhere in the castle, someone will see,” you whispered softly, though there was no real protest in your voice.

but he did not listen. he only turned his head and pressed his face into your hair, breathing in your scent.

“you will be my wife someday anyway. let them get used to it.”

you smiled softly and, covering his hands with yours, laced your fingers together.

“only if you behave properly,” you said with a sly note.

“you know very well that will not happen.”

you tilted your head back onto his shoulder, almost teasing, and drew out in feigned thoughtfulness, “well, then i suppose i will have to look at another hu—”

his grip on your waist turned to iron at once, and his jaw tightened hard.

“just try.”

“perhaps tristan would not be so—”

aerion squeezed your fingers, almost pressing you into himself, and leaned close to your face, that familiar dangerous flame flashing in his eyes.

“i will kill anyone who even dares think of that, and that cur — first.”

you let out a quiet laugh and, lifting yourself slightly, pressed a soft kiss to his jaw, feeling him finally relax under your touch.

“do not worry, you silly dragon, i will be your wife.”

how sad that, to keep one promise, you had to break another.

masterlists!

💬｡˚ @cassvictim @anontargslvt3 @mmasworld @kate-beth @tangikatanifa @aerionbrgflm @transparentwizardblaze @thestoriesitell-blog1 @agentcarter1946 @icebearcucumber @outshawty @bighead02 @anedpev @carbonated-beverage @pixel-pixie-xo @immauperfreak @ibhearts @demoniz3d @littlewritergreatgirl-blog @besonderselyy @thoughtfully-burning @rubyannebeaufoy @catmikaelson20 @unramdommas2004 @dragon-moonstar @sahvlren @quixoticrai111 @comzetogether @ladychaos1525 @hanakotateyama @bookishdelights @besonderselyy @jinmjy @naty-sunshine @jaemimpulsive @icebearcucumber @pharmacistfairytale @ae-gax @jjk174 @kravitzwhore @bibibug4444 @justvibbinghere @dear-fifi @aerangi @chesecakecat @kumisbaby @darylandbethfanforever9 @melsunshine @thorscrown @coffeeorcoffin4

[ems-typewriter]

Snapping Into Place

pairing: jason todd x college student!reader

summary: with the stress of exams, reader snaps under the pressure at their boyfriend and now has to find him and apologize

word count: 2.4k

warnings/tags: sfw, established relationship, mention of weapon (once), hurt/comfort, use of pet names, no y/n, mention of reader failing to take care of themself, cursing

With exams being this week and how you do on them could be the difference between passing or failing, the library has become not even a second home, but a first. You’ve ate, slept, and cried in this place more this past week than you have your apartment. After awkwardly waiting for the students who overstayed their time for the study room you booked to leave, you’ve been in the flow going back and forth between paper notes, the whiteboard, your laptop, and taking a five minute break to stare at the wall every hour. No matter how much you go over your material, you cant help but feel like you’re gonna fail the exam. 

Staring at your laptop till the words blur together trying to figure out how to do what your professor claimed “a simple question,” a quiet buzzing pulls you out of your haze. You blink a few times, before glancing at your phone and see Jasons familiar contact crossing your screen, pulling a small smile to your face. Grabbing your phone and clicking accept, you bring it to your ear. 

“Hi, baby,” you say, not realizing how strained your voice sounds from not using it. “What’s up?”

“Thought you were gonna be home at 9:00?” 

Your brows furrow, “…I am?” You bring your hand to cover your forehead, which you’re now realizing how bad the pain behind your skull is getting.

“Do you realize it’s 9:45?” He asks, his voice laced with the faint concern that he reserves for few people.

You immediately turn your head to your clock and sure enough, you watch the 45 change to a 46. Shit. Somehow that alone makes your headache start to pulse. “No, I didn’t realize that actually.” I sigh quietly. “I still gotta finish this up though, I don’t feel confident on the material.”

“If you don’t know it now you won’t know it in the next hour. You’ve been there since noon. You need sleep and real food, which I know you haven’t had either.” 

“I gotta try Jay, if I don’t and I fail, then I’ll know there was something else I could’ve done—“

He cuts you off, “I know you wanna keep going, but you’ve been working for the past week and barely taking care of yourself. Just—just come home,” He pauses, “Please.”

“I can’t. I don’t know this stuff and my test is at eight in the morning, so I cant study before and I need to keep going.”

“Baby—“

This time you cut him off not even realizing your voice has pulled a harsher tone you almost never use, “No Jason. Don’t act like you understand what this is like. You don’t understand this feeling and you never will, so just stop.” You’re in such a haze, you don’t realize how harsh your words are until the beeping of the ended call breaks the silence. 

“Fuck,” You cover your face with your hands and take a breath, “Fuck, why did you say that?” You don’t even think as you start packing everything back into your bag, guilt pushing you through the actions. Jason and you never fight. Even through your frustrations, it’s easy to bridge the gap because he’s scared to snap at you and lose you and you’re scared to say something that hurts him—but you just did. 

You try to call him again, but it goes to voicemail, so you try your hopes with that. “I'm sorry, Jay. I—I’m stressed and didn’t realize what I was saying I just—please just call me back.” Deep down you know he won’t listen to it, but you still gave it a shot. 

With a newfound motivation you didn’t have while studying, and two peach Alani’s running in your body, you get into the car and drive home as fast as you can. It doesn’t take long before you’re hauling your backpack with you to your shared apartment with Jason. You know he doesn’t have patrol right now because he intentionally switched shifts with Dick so he could stay with you tonight. You didn’t even ask him, he just did it because he knew you’d be anxious and you always slept better when he was in bed with you. As you walk through the apartment though, you quickly realize he’s not there. 

You swing open the closet, expecting to see the familiar gear, but it’s gone. The realization is like a punch to the gut. I upset him so much, he’d rather fight crime instead of be with me. 

What if I ruined everything?

Am I supposed to just wait till he comes back? 

What if he doesn’t come back?

No. Don’t go down that rabbit hole. You can fix this, you just have to find him first. You walk back to the kitchen where you threw your phone on the counter and go through your contacts till you find who you were looking for, putting your phone on speaker as you put on your coat. 

“Hello?” Barbara’s familiar voice cuts through the static. 

“Hey, Babs. I have a favor I need to ask,” you say feeling very thankful for the fact Wayne family dinners include non-family members and you got to connect with everyone—including the one and only Barbara Gordon. 

“Like civilian help, or ‘I just killed someone and need to hide the body help’?

Silence crosses the phone for a second until you speak again, “Just wanted to know if you could track Jay’s suit, but thats mildly concerning thats your first assumption about me calling.”

“You’re dating into the Wayne family. It’s not a concerning assumption.” She says bluntly before quickly changing the subject, “Anyways, Jason isn’t on patrol, he switched with Dick.”

“No, I know, but I think he went back onto patrol. Could you check just incase? Please?” 

You hear faint typing on the other end as you step outside, locking the door. “Uh, yeah okay he is on patrol. He’s currently in Crime Alley.”

Just my fucking luck. You have to try though, because you won’t let this anger fester between you and him. “Okay thanks Babs, I owe you one.” You say as you start the direction to crime alley with just your phone on you. You think maybe you should’ve grabbed your pepper spray, but you’re on a mission and can’t get distracted. You’ll deal with Jasons lecture about that later. 

Babs calls your name through the phone just as you’re about to hang up, making you pause. “Please don’t tell me you’re gonna go to crime alley.”

“…Im not gonna go to Crime Alley.” You mutter into the phone, but you roll your eyes at how obvious the lie sounds.

“Im serious. Its not saf—“

“Gotta go Babs, bad connection,” You make a fake static noise, “Bye!” Pressing the end call button quickly because you cant be talked out of this. You have a relationship to fix.

The walk there is cold and quiet considering it’s now 10:30 at night and prime time for crime in Gotham. You shove your hands in your pockets to protect them from the harsh winds before remembering all the times Jason would reprimand you on not doing that when you’re walking alone because it can make you a more susceptible target. You keep scanning the rooftops waiting to see the familiar red, but still nothing.

Maybe he moved and went to another area to patrol? Or maybe Barbara told him you were coming and he left so he wouldn’t have to see you? No. Jason wouldn’t do that to you. He loves you even if you snapped at him. You keep walking around the area for 10 minutes and with every breath you watch rise into the night air, you lose more and more hope you’re gonna find him. 

Just as you’re about to make the loop to leave and go back home dejected and filled with guilt, a hand wraps around your bicep pulling you into a darkened alleyway, hidden from possible onlookers. Your brain stalls for a second as you try to process the reality of what’s happening: you’re gonna get robbed, except the only thing you have on you is your phone and the two nickels in your jacket pocket you’ve been fidgeting with on the walk here. Your back is pressed into the alley wall, and before you get the chance to try the minimal self defense Jason taught you, his mask comes into view. 

“What on earth are you doing here? Do you even have any weapon on you? You’re lucky Babs warned me you were coming or you would’ve gotten yourself killed.” You can’t see his face, but his tone eludes to his anger—whether from the phone call or you coming here, you’re not sure yet. 

“You weren’t home.” His grip on your arm isn’t harsh, never with you, but it’s firm enough to keep you from moving from the wall. 

“So what? You walk into the most dangerous part of Gotham to check on me?” He gives you a once over looking from you face to your shoes of choice for this walk. “And did so completely defenseless.”

“Im not defenseless—“ you start, but quickly stop when he tilts his head and cuts you off.

“You barely have the proper coat on, so don’t even start.” 

You huff quietly and drop your head to stare at your shoes, but decide not to push. You’re here to apologize not make things worse between y’all. Neither of you say anything because now that you’re here, everything you practiced to say leaves your head and now you drowning in shame. “You weren’t answering my calls.” You whisper before finally looking back up at him. You wish you could see his face—the familiar furrow of his brow or the scar on his cheek. Anything to know what he’s feeling right now. But he’s keeping his mask on. 

“I was busy.” His voice is low, almost like it’s painful to talk. 

“You weren’t supposed to be though. You were supposed to be home and you weren’t and I wanted to talk to you—apologize to you but I couldn’t because you left.”

“Thought you’d be studying all night. Didn’t want interrupt what I don’t understand.” He throws your words right back in your face, but he might as well taken his knife and shoved it into your side. 

You lift your hand slowly, like you’re reaching for a skittish animal, for where you’ve learned the mechanic is to take off his helmet. When he doesn’t pull away, you carefully click the button so you can see his face. He’s staring down at you with a small frown on his lips that you wish to kiss away. His eyes shine with agony and you want to worship him till he forgets the concept of pain. “I’m sorry,” You whisper as you cover the jagged J scar on his cheek with your palm. “I’m so unbelievably sorry Jay.”

He doesn’t say anything, but instead grabs your wrist gently. You worry he’s gonna push it away, but he holds on and presses your hand closer, so you continue. “I—I was just so stressed and scared. I’m so scared of failing, but it was wrong to say you wouldn’t understand when you’re the person who understands best. You choose to protect the city—the people—and I know you’re scared to fail—To fail the city, the people, …your family.” You bring your other hand to run through his curls and watch as his eyes fall shut in this moment of whispered apologies. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you or taken my anger out on you Jay. I’m sorry.”

He drops his forehead against yours and pulls you flush against him. “You, too.” He whispers against your lips, so closely you feel his breath fan across your face.

“What?”

“I’m scared of failing you, too.”

“Jay…” 

“I don’t want to just sit there and watch while you run yourself dry for a stupid exam you’re gonna pass if I can do something about it. I just can’t let it happen, I cant.” He pulls back to look at you, but it feels as if he staring into your soul. 

You nod carefully, “I’m sorry.” You mutter again and bite your lip with the unconscious intent of picking at the chapped skin, but he quickly runs his thumb across your bottom lip and the pulls it back from your teeth to stop your habit. 

“Stop apologizing. Just don’t snap at me like that again when I’m only looking out for you.”

“But I am sor—“ 

He mutters your name, stopping your repeated apology. “I know you are. Just promise me you won’t.”

Your eyes fill with tears but you blink rapidly trying to get them to disappear, because you shouldn’t be the one upset right now, he should. However, you can’t stop the singular hot tear that slips down your cheek because how did you have get so lucky to have someone who truly cares about you and understands that you truly didn’t mean what you said in the heat of the moment. “Pinky promise,” you whisper not fully trusting your voice to stay steady. You lift your pinky for him to take, something you’ve slowly acclimated him to over the course of the relationship. His gloved finger links with yours and you kiss your thumb, him following suit, and then press them together to lock it. 

He leans down and kisses away the tear that lingers on your cheek before gently kissing your lips. You immediately turn into putty in his hold not even realizing how tense you were from the idea he wasn’t going to want to hear you out. You wrap both your arms around his neck, and shove every lingering apology into the kiss, hoping he understands how deeply sorry you are. He almost reluctantly pulls away, and murmurs quietly against your lips, “And don’t walk around at night defenseless again, baby.” 

You laugh before pulling him impossibly closer, now trying to steal some of his warmth. “I’m never defenseless because I know you’ll always be there to save me,” you whisper before kissing the corner of his mouth gently, “Now let’s go get some Bat Burger and go home.” 

A/N: my first fic ever so im sorry it's bad. i really only wrote it to get it off my mind, and figure id put it out there because why not? :) and yes the inspiration did come from the fact i have exams and im insanely nervous

[annaevermore]

I need this man so baaaadddd