The fandom's universal centering of Rhaenyra regarding Criston's motivations and actions like he has no real agenda, personality, or life of his own separate from hers and the invalidation of his grievances with her is so revealing of how real life prejudices translate into media consumption, specifically americentrism and eurocentrism. Many of these people suffer from main character syndrome in real life from being white and/or born in the imperial core. They're used to stripping racialized brown people from the global south of their agency and painting them as hostile caricatures why wouldn't they do it to a brown character who insulted their White Protagonist Princess™?
working class red-keep worker sa'd by a drunk targaryen royal -their boss- who could easily harm them / accuse them of things they didn't do / fire them and kill them so they try to say no but in the end they are still assaulted. afterwards they cling to whatever hope is left for them in their stations and ask alicent for help only to end up being hated by the entire fandom. oh and also they're the only brown character in the cast and ridiculed way more than the ped0phile wife-killer with white hair yes i'm talking about criston cole
summary: Cook wasn’t invited, doesn’t know the birthday boy, and has no intention of behaving. Unfortunately, your suppressants are failing, his jealousy is showing, and neither of you is interested in making a sensible decision.
wc: 6.2k
a/n: wanted to do something special for jack’s 36th trip around the sun, so naturally i’m celebrating by writing some of his most beloved characters. bless his parents for creating the perfect man and giving me this much material to work with. happy birthday, jack 🥳not beta read.
warnings: a/b/o, alpha x omega, pre-heat, rough sex, piv, unprotected sex, knotting, breeding kink, accidental pregnancy risk, oral (f!receiving), multiple orgasms, hair pulling, biting and bruising, manhandling, degradation, praise kink, possessive/jealous behavior, scenting, crude sexual language, alcohol use
36 CANDLES / MAIN MASTERLIST
Cook hadn’t been invited to the party, which had never stopped him from becoming the loudest person at one before.
You noticed him twenty minutes after he arrived, although judging by the half-empty bottle swinging from his fist and the crowd already gathered around him in the kitchen, he’d made himself comfortable long before that. He stood beneath a drooping banner that read HAPPY BIRTHDAY!, one corner peeling loose from the wall behind his head, dressed in a black polo stretched across his shoulders and dark trackies that had no business looking as good on him as they did. His hair had grown shaggy, his bangs heavy and uneven across his forehead, his chain flashing every time he threw his head back to laugh, and there was a fresh scrape across one knuckle that no one seemed interested in asking about.
Cook looked older than the last time you’d seen him, but not any wiser.
That would’ve been asking too much.
There was more weight through his shoulders now, a roughness around his mouth that hadn’t been there when you first knew him, but everything else remained maddeningly familiar. He still occupied space as if he’d won it in a fight. Still had that restless, combustible energy beneath his skin, the kind that made every other alpha in the room unconsciously square himself up when Cook walked past.
His scent reached you before he did.
Cigarette smoke, sweat, something warm and sharp beneath the cologne he’d applied too heavily. Alpha. Cook. Familiar enough that your body recognized him before you’d consciously decided how you felt about seeing him again.
The suppressant patch beneath your dress suddenly seemed much too thin.
A blonde omega in a silver top had her hand curled around his forearm.
Cook wasn’t looking at her.
He was looking at you.
He caught you staring from across the kitchen and grinned around the neck of the bottle.
There it was.
That same filthy, triumphant smile that made it seem as though he’d just caught you doing something far more incriminating than looking at him.
“Fuck me,” he announced, loud enough to turn several heads. “Look who’s finally decided to make this party worth coming to.”
The omega beside him followed his stare and dropped her hand. You almost felt sorry for her until she rolled her eyes, muttered something beneath her breath and walked away with enough dignity to make it clear she’d had practice abandoning alphas exactly like him.
“You weren’t invited,” you said when he came close enough to hear you over the music.
“Neither was half this lot.”
“They know the birthday boy.”
Cook glanced around as if only just remembering there was supposed to be one. “Which one’s he?”
You pointed toward the living room, where Liam was wearing a glittery cardboard crown and trying to arrange a group photograph while three people behind him made obscene gestures over his shoulders.
Cook squinted at him.
“Never seen him in my life.”
“I know.”
“Still let me in, though.”
“You probably lied.”
“I’m charming.”
“You probably threatened someone.”
“Also charming.”
“How did you even hear about this?”
Cook lowered the bottle, considering whether the truth would make him sound better or worse. “Saw a bloke carrying eight bags of ice into the house.”
“You followed a stranger carrying ice?”
“Followed the promise of a good time. Very different.”
“That might be the saddest thing you’ve ever said.”
“Not even top ten.”
His gaze moved over you with no attempt at subtlety, lingering where the dress fit closest before dragging back to your face. His nostrils flared almost imperceptibly. You saw the exact moment he caught your scent beneath the chemical flatness of the suppressants.
Cook’s grin changed.
It didn’t disappear, but it grew slower, hungrier.
“Nice dress.”
“You’re looking at my chest.”
“Dress covers your chest, don’t it?”
“Barely, apparently.”
“Yeah.” His eyes dipped again. “Been meaning to thank whoever designed it.”
You put a hand against his shoulder when he leaned in, partly to stop him and partly because touching him still produced the same immediate, unwelcome awareness it always had. He was compact and solid beneath the polo, warm from the crush of bodies and whatever trouble he’d already found before arriving.
Cook lowered his face toward your neck.
“Behave.”
He stopped before touching you, but barely. “What for?”
“Because this isn’t your party.”
“Exactly. No responsibility.”
“You’ve never taken responsibility at your own parties either.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Those were mine. Had to set an example.”
“You set someone’s garden shed on fire.”
“Accident.”
“You poured lighter fluid through the letterbox.”
“Miscommunication.”
“With the shed?”
“With gravity.”
You stared at him.
Cook took a drink, eyes sparkling above the bottle. “Missed these little chats.”
“I didn’t.”
“Did.”
“Didn’t.”
He leaned closer, dropping his voice. “Did.”
The low note in it rolled over your skin. Not a command, not quite, but close enough that your omega instincts stirred beneath the suppressants.
You hated that he noticed.
His gaze sharpened. “Patch giving up on you?”
“It’s fine.”
“Didn’t say it wasn’t.”
“You were thinking it loudly.”
“Can smell you from the kitchen.”
“Then stand farther away.”
“Nah.”
The kitchen lights dimmed with the rest of the house before you could answer. Someone carried the cake through the doorway, thirty cheap candles throwing trembling light across the faces packed into the living room.
Cook glanced over your shoulder. “How old’s Liam?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Bit tragic, innit?”
“You’re standing in his kitchen drinking his alcohol.”
“Doing him a favor. Makes the place look popular.”
The candles threw gold along the edge of Cook’s face, catching in his blue eyes and softening the scrape across his knuckle. For half a second, with the party singing around him and the light moving over his features, he looked almost sentimental.
Then he stole a cigarette from behind someone’s ear.
Liam finally managed to extinguish the candles to a roar of drunken applause. The lights came back on, music resumed at twice the previous volume, and the crowd surged toward the cake with the sudden aggression of people who’d been drinking on empty stomachs.
Cook reached it first.
Of course he did.
By the time you fought your way into the living room, he’d already stolen a thick corner piece and was eating it with his fingers beside the bookcase. Blue icing covered the pad of his thumb and streaked the side of his index finger. He licked it away slowly while watching you approach.
“Gross.”
“Tastes all right.”
“That wasn’t about the cake.”
“No?” He glanced at the frosting on his fingers, then back to you. “Could’ve fooled me, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“You used to like it.”
“I used to tolerate it.”
“Same thing.”
“It really isn’t.”
Cook took another bite, getting icing on his mouth this time. A bright blue smear clung to the corner of his lower lip, absurd against the rough stubble shadowing his jaw.
You hated how immediately you noticed.
He noticed you noticing.
Cook tilted his head. “Something on my face?”
“You know there is.”
“Get it, then.”
“Use your sleeve.”
“Got a perfectly good tongue available.”
“That’s your solution to most things.”
“Never had complaints.”
“Because you don’t listen when people complain.”
“That’s why I’m so confident.”
You should’ve walked away. Every conversation with Cook eventually became a game he refused to lose, usually because he changed the rules halfway through and acted offended when anyone called him out on it. Instead, you reached up and wiped the icing away with your thumb.
Cook went still beneath your hand for only a second before his lips closed around it. Heat and wet pressure wrapped around your thumb as his tongue dragged across your skin, his stare never leaving yours. It wasn’t subtle, and it wasn’t playful enough to dismiss as a joke. He sucked away the last trace of frosting and released you with a soft, obscene pop, leaving your stomach tight and your scent noticeably sweeter. Cook drew in a slow breath through his nose, looking far too pleased with himself.
“Tastes better off you.”
“You’re such a fucking pig.”
“Yeah, but you missed me.”
“I really didn’t.”
“Liar.”
He stepped closer, forcing you back until your hip bumped the edge of the bookcase. The party moved around you in blurred fragments, bodies dancing in the hall, someone shrieking with laughter in the kitchen, Liam attempting to rescue what remained of his cake from a man using a serving knife like a shovel.
Cook filled the space in front of you, his knee settling between yours as though he’d been standing there all evening.
“You haven’t stopped looking at me since I came in,” he said.
“I was wondering who let the neighborhood disease through the door.”
“Still looking.”
“You’re hard to ignore.”
“That’s better.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
“Sounded like one.”
A beta you vaguely recognized from Liam’s work approached with two plastic cups, offering one to you while giving Cook a wary glance. His name might’ve been Ben or Dan, something harmless and forgettable, and he’d spent part of the evening trying to make conversation whenever you crossed paths near the drinks table.
“Got you another,” he said. “You still want to dance?”
Cook’s knee pressed more firmly between yours.
“I was just about to,” you began.
“She’s busy,” Cook said.
The beta looked at him. “Didn’t ask you.”
Cook smiled, but it wasn’t the same grin he’d been giving you. This one contained teeth.
“No, mate. Don’t suppose you did.”
You caught Cook by the front of his polo before he could straighten away from the bookcase. “I’ll find you later,” you told the beta.
He glanced from your fist in Cook’s shirt to Cook’s hand hovering near your hip and appeared to understand more than you’d intended to reveal.
“Yeah. All right.”
Cook watched him retreat through the crowd.
“Ben?” he asked.
“I think so.”
“You don’t even know his name.”
“He’s nice.”
“Serial killer’s probably nice before he gets you in the van.”
“You followed bags of ice into a stranger’s house.”
“Exactly. I know dangerous behavior when I see it.”
“You’re jealous.”
Cook looked genuinely offended. “Of Ben?”
“Or Dan.”
“That’s worse.”
He took the cup from your hand, sniffed it, then drank half of it in one go.
“Cook.”
“Could’ve been drugged.”
“You’re such a gentleman.”
“Protecting you, aren’t I?”
“You just wanted my drink.”
“That too.”
He finished it and tossed the crushed cup toward a wastebasket. It bounced off the wall and landed on the floor.
Cook looked at it. “Nearly.”
His hand settled beside your waist against the shelf, caging you in without quite touching. Cook had always understood the usefulness of almost. The almost-touch, almost-kiss, almost-confession muttered when he’d had enough to drink that he could deny remembering it the next morning.
Tonight, there was something sharper beneath the teasing.
His scent was stronger this close, the alpha note pushing through the smoke and cologne. You could feel your body reacting in small, humiliating increments, skin growing warmer, pulse jumping beneath your jaw.
Cook’s gaze dropped to your throat.
“You here with someone?” he asked.
“No.”
“Good.”
“That wouldn’t be your problem.”
“Would once I made it mine.”
“I’m not yours.”
“Never said you were.”
The answer came easily, but his fingers flexed against the shelf.
“You were thinking it,” you said.
“Thinking loads of things.”
“You usually say all of them.”
“Reckon Liam’d throw us out if I did.”
“You don’t own every room you walk into.”
“Nah.” His gaze dropped to your mouth. “Just know what I want in ’em.”
The music switched to something bass-heavy enough to rattle the glasses in the cabinet. Someone slammed into Cook’s shoulder while stumbling past, spilling beer down the back of his polo. He twisted around with a snarl ready, his scent spiking hot and aggressive, but you caught his chin and turned his face back toward yours before he could start swinging.
“Not tonight.”
Cook stared at you.
The alpha edge remained in his expression, but he let you hold him there.
“You telling me what to do now?”
“I’m stopping you from getting thrown out.”
“Thought you wanted me gone.”
“I don’t want you bleeding on my shoes.”
He smiled slowly. “Knew you cared.”
“I care about the shoes.”
“Can buy you new ones.”
“With what money?”
“Could nick you some.”
“Romantic.”
“I’ve got range.”
His eyes moved over your face, his grin fading into something quieter without becoming any less indecent. Cook’s hand finally touched you, spreading over your hip with the confidence of someone testing whether an old permission still held. His thumb pressed into the fabric and drew you closer until the front of your body met his.
You didn’t move away, which was enough for him to continue but not enough for him to assume. He stopped beside your ear.
“Can I smell you?”
The question was so direct that it caught you off guard.
“You already have.”
“Properly.”
The party moved around you, loud enough that no one would hear the change in your breathing.
You nodded.
“Use your words, omega.”
His tone was filthy, but the waiting beneath it was real.
“Yes.”
Cook’s hand tightened against your hip as he pressed his nose to the gland beneath your ear and inhaled slowly, taking in the scent your failing suppressants could no longer hide. The contact felt far too intimate for a crowded room, his lips warm and just shy of your skin as a rough sound caught low in his throat.
“Fuck.”
“You asked.”
“Didn’t say I was ready.”
“For what?”
“You.”
He dragged his nose once along your neck before pulling back, pupils wider than before.
“You’re close,” he said.
“To what?”
“Heat.”
You glanced toward the room around you. “Keep your voice down.”
“No one’s listening.”
“Every alpha in here will be if you announce it.”
Cook’s gaze flicked over the party. The lightness disappeared from his expression for a moment.
“When’d you change the patch?”
“This afternoon.”
“Shit brand.”
“It’s never failed before.”
“Never been around me before.”
“Your ego’s unbelievable.”
“Your scent says I’m right.”
“My scent doesn’t speak.”
“Bloody screams.”
You should’ve been embarrassed. Instead, the blunt hunger in his face sent another wave of warmth through you.
Cook noticed that too.
“Been thinking about you,” he said.
“That sounds painful.”
“Been fucking inconvenient.”
His breath was hot against your skin. You felt his smile when your fingers tightened in the material at his shoulder.
“How often?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
“All the bloody time.”
There was no hesitation in it, no attempt to make the admission sound prettier than it was. Cook’s honesty had always arrived in the crudest possible packaging, wrapped in profanity and delivered with a grin so no one could tell how much of it mattered.
“Every time I catch an omega wearing something that tight,” he murmured, “I think, nah. Not got your mouth.”
“That’s almost sweet.”
“Wasn’t finished. Not got your tits either.”
“There he is.”
“Thought you’d lost me?”
“Briefly.”
His hand slid around to the small of your back, pressing you firmly against him. Any doubt about what he wanted disappeared with the hard line of his erection against your stomach. Cook didn’t bother pretending not to notice.
“There,” he said. “Now we’re both thinking about it.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“You say that every time.”
“Because every time I see you, you somehow get worse.”
“And you somehow get fitter. Life’s cruel like that.”
He kissed you before you could answer.
Cook had never kissed like he believed he might be interrupted. He kissed as though interruption was something happening to other people, somewhere far away, while his mouth opened over yours and his hand dragged you against him. He tasted like beer and cheap blue frosting, tongue pushing between your lips with a wet, shameless hunger that drew a startled sound from your throat.
He swallowed it greedily.
Your fingers caught in the short hair at the back of his head, and Cook made a rough noise into your mouth, hips pressing forward once in blunt retaliation. The shelf dug into your spine. The room was too warm and too loud, packed with people who could turn their heads at any moment, but Cook kissed harder when you tried to pull back for air, chasing your mouth until you shoved a palm against his chest.
He gave you an inch.
Your combined scents hung thickly between you now, his growing rougher while yours turned warmer and sweeter beneath the weakening suppressant.
Cook’s nose brushed yours. “Still hate me?”
“Deeply.”
“Good.”
He kissed you again, slower for all of three seconds before impatience won. His fingers slid up your back, bunching the fabric as he held you close, and when you bit his lower lip he laughed against your mouth like you’d given him exactly what he wanted.
Someone near the sofa cheered.
You broke away and saw two strangers watching you with their drinks raised.
Cook looked over his shoulder. “Show’s over.”
“Boo!” one shouted.
“Fuck off,” he replied cheerfully, then turned back to you. “Upstairs?”
“You’re impossible.”
“Not a no.”
“This isn’t your house.”
“Not hearing a no.”
“You don’t know which room is Liam’s.”
“Don’t care.”
“Cook.”
His expression sobered. He kept one hand on your waist but stopped pulling you closer.
“Say no, and I back off. Simple as that.”
The heat in his voice didn’t erase the seriousness beneath it. His alpha scent made your instincts ache, but he waited while you took in the hunger he wasn’t bothering to hide.
“I’m not in heat,” you said.
“Know that.”
“It’s close, but I can still decide what I want.”
Cook’s eyes held yours. “Know that too.”
“You won’t bite my gland.”
His jaw tightened.
“No claiming bites,” you continued. “No knotting unless I ask for it. You don’t get to decide anything because you can smell me.”
“Wouldn’t.”
“You’re Cook.”
“Yeah.” He touched his forehead briefly to yours. “I’m still not that sort of cunt.”
The answer loosened something inside you.
“Upstairs,” you breathed.
His smile came back instantly.
“Knew you’d bought me something.”
“This isn’t for you.”
“Course it is. I’m the birthday boy now.”
“It isn’t your birthday.”
Cook caught your hand and pulled you away from the bookcase. “Don’t ruin this for me.”
He led you through the hall, shoving past guests and opening doors without knocking until someone inside the bathroom screamed at him. Cook slammed it shut again, laughing as he hauled you farther up the stairs.
“Try the doors like a normal person,” you hissed.
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“You’re going to walk in on someone.”
“Give ’em pointers.”
“You’re revolting.”
“And you’re holding my hand.”
You looked down and found he was right: your fingers were threaded through his, his grip tight and warm as he dragged you toward the upper landing, where the music became muffled into a heavy pulse through the floorboards, Cook trying the first door. Locked.
He knocked twice. “Room service.”
“Fuck off,” a woman called from inside.
“See?” Cook said. “Occupied.”
“That isn’t how knocking works.”
“Worked, didn’t it?”
The next door opened onto a child’s bedroom decorated with football posters and glow-in-the-dark stars.
Cook peered inside. “Bit weird.”
“It’s probably Liam’s nephew’s.”
“Yeah. Obviously.”
“You were considering it.”
“Was not.”
“You looked at the bed.”
“Checking for structural integrity.”
“It has dinosaurs on it.”
“Strong animals.”
You dragged him away before he could say anything worse. Cook laughed behind you, then caught your waist and swung you around so quickly your back met the wall beside the final door. His face dipped toward your neck again but stopped short of the gland, respecting the boundary even while his breath heated the sensitive skin around it.
“Getting impatient?” he asked.
“You’re the one trying to fuck me in a child’s bedroom.”
“Didn’t touch you in there.”
“Because I stopped you.”
“Love it when you get bossy.”
His mouth found the safer stretch of skin beneath your jaw. The contact sent a sharp shiver through you, and Cook immediately pressed closer, pleased by the reaction.
“There,” he whispered. “Do that again.”
“Do what?”
“That little fucking shake.”
“I didn’t.”
“Did.”
His teeth grazed your skin, well away from your scent gland, and your fingers tightened around the back of his neck.
Cook grinned against you.
“See?”
“Find a room.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He tested the final handle, found it unlocked and opened it onto a cramped spare bedroom filled with laundry baskets, cardboard boxes and an ironing board folded against the wall. A narrow bed stood beneath the window, half-covered by coats someone had dumped there at the start of the party.
Cook surveyed it with approval.
“Luxury.”
“You really know how to treat an omega.”
“Got four walls and a lock. What more d’you need?”
“Clean sheets?”
“Fussy.”
“You weren’t planning on using the bed anyway.”
Cook’s eyebrows lifted. “Now who’s filthy?”
The moment the door closed, he backed you against it, the lock clicking beneath his hand. Without the crowd around him and the music loud enough to fill every pause, the voracity in his expression looked almost startlingly naked. His scent thickened in the enclosed room, alpha heat wrapping around the sugary warmth escaping through your failing patch. Cook lifted his hand and traced his knuckles lightly down the side of your neck.
“You sure?” he asked.
The question came without the grin. It was one of the few things he never turned into a joke. You curled your hand around his chain and drew him close enough that your mouths nearly touched.
“Shut up, Cook.”
His smile broke against your lips.
“Best present I’ve had all year.”
His free hand knotted in your hair, yanking your head back against the cracked plywood, and the growl that rumbled out of his chest vibrated straight through your sternum.
"My party favor," he said, low and filthy, lips dragging along your jaw. "All night I been watchin' you and you knew exactly what you were doin'."
Your dress was a rumpled mess around your hips, his polo half-untucked where your fingers had grabbed fistfuls of it, and you bit his lower lip hard enough to taste copper. He groaned—a rough, broken sound—and his hips ground into yours, his hard, aching cock pressing against your thigh through his jeans, searching for relief.
"You gonna be a brat about it?" His thumb brushed over your scent gland, featherlight, and your knees buckled. "Or you gonna let me take what I want?"
Your pre-heat sensitivity was already making everything too much—the scrape of his stubble, the weight of his hand, the way his alpha scent wrapped around you like a wet blanket of smoke and spice. You held his gaze, defiant, and said, "Depends on how good you ask."
Something dark flickered in his eyes. "I don't ask, omega."
He dropped to his knees, and the sound your dress made as he shoved it higher was obscene. His teeth caught the waistband of your underwear, dragging them down your thighs, and the way he looked up at you—all blown pupils, stubbled jaw, and naked want—made your cunt clench around nothing.
"Smell you from across the room," he muttered against your inner thigh, breath hot and damp. "This sweet little cunt, drippin' for me all night. You think anybody else noticed?"
You didn't care who noticed. You cared about the way his tongue dragged through your slick folds like he was starving, the flat of it pressing firm against your clit before he sealed his mouth over you and sucked. Your fingers buried in his dark hair, holding on, and he groaned against you like it was the best thing he'd tasted all night.
"Fuck," you gasped, hips grinding against his face. "That's it—right there—"
He pulled back just enough to growl, "Say please."
"Please," you said, and meant it. "Please, Cook, I need—"
He gave it to you. Two calloused fingers pushed into you, crooked just right, while his mouth worked your clit in tight circles, and your head knocked against the door as you came undone on his hand. He drank every drop of it, fingers working you through it until you were shaking, and then he stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking at you like he wanted to devour you whole.
"Get my cock out," he said. "Now."
Your hands were clumsy with want, fumbling with his belt, his button, the zipper—and then he was free, thick and flushed and leaking, and you wrapped your fingers around him with a sound that was almost a whimper. He throbbed against your palm, and the muscles in his jaw wound tight.
"You gonna be good for me?" he asked, voice rough. "Or do I gotta make you?"
"I'm always good," you said, stroking him slow. "You just never know how to ask."
He laughed—a short, surprised sound—and then he had you spun around, palms flat against the door, his cock dragging through your slick folds from behind. The position was filthy, your dress bunched around your waist, his teeth sinking into the curve of your shoulder—not your scent gland, never there—and he pushed in with one brutal, perfect stroke.
"Oh, fuck—" you gasped, walls clenching around him, and he groaned, low and wrecked, forehead dropping to the back of your neck.
"Knew it," he ground out, hips pulling back and driving in again, the wet squelch growing obscene in the spare bedroom the meaner his hips got, his balls slapping against your ass, "knew this tight, greedy little cunt would squeeze me like she don't wanna let go. You gonna cum on my cock now, omega? Gonna soak me, just like you did all over my face like a dirty little bitch?"
You were already close, pre-heat making every nerve sing, and the way he was fucking you—hard and deep and exactly where you needed it—had you gasping on every stroke, had you questioning why you waited so long to fuck him. "Don't—ahhh, don't stop," you begged, all needy and high-pitched,"Please, Cook, don't you dare fucking stop—"
His hand fisted in your hair again, yanking your head back, and he bit down on your shoulder, hard enough to bruise this time. "Say my name when you cum," he growled. "Want everybody downstairs to hear exactly who's makin' you scream bloody murder."
You came with his name on your lips, broken and loud, and then you felt it: the thick swell at the base of his cock, hot and urgent where it pressed against your used folds.
"Shit." He let go of your hair to tilt your jaw back instead and you immediately saw the flicker of something almost vulnerable under the gruff. "I'm close," he said, voice gravelly. "And I'm—swelling."
You felt it again, the way he throbbed against you, thicker than before. Pre-heat made everything sharper, hotter, and your cunt clenched around nothing at the thought of it—of him, knotting, locked inside you.
"Then put it in," you said.
His eyes went wide. "You don't—"
"I want it." You held his gaze, voice steady even as your heart hammered. "I want you to knot me, Cook. I want to feel it."
He stared at you for a long, loaded second, and then something in him broke open. His mouth crushed against yours, rough and desperate, and he was lifting you, turning you around so you faced him.
"You sure?" he growled, forehead against yours. "Once I'm in, I ain't pullin' out."
"I'm sure."
He drove in, and it was different this time—slower, deeper, the stretch of him almost too much. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders, and he groaned, low and wrecked, sinking in until he was seated to the hilt.
"Fuck," he breathed. "So tight. So fuckin' perfect."
He moved, and every stroke dragged that thick ridge against your walls, building pressure low in your belly until you were arching off the door, begging wordlessly for more. His knot caught on your rim with every thrust, and the sensation was maddening—too much and not enough, stretching you, filling you.
"Gonna cum," he gritted out, hips stuttering. "Gonna knot you, omega, gonna fill you up so full you're pregnant with my spend—"
"Do it," you gasped. "Do it, alpha, I want it, I want you to—"
He drove in one final time, and his knot swelled past your rim, locking you together with a thick, pulsing pop. You came again with a broken cry, walls clenching around him, and he followed with a guttural groan, hot and deep, pumping into you until you felt it dripping out around the seal of his knot.
He collapsed against you, breathing hard, and the weight of him was grounding, perfect. His hand found yours, fingers lacing together against the cheap plywood. Then he laughed—a short, breathless puff of air. "Shit. We forgot a condom."
"I'll get plan b," you said, already thinking ahead. "Tomorrow. It's fine."
He was quiet for a long moment, and then his hand found your jaw, guiding your chin so you had to look at him. "You sure?"
"I'm sure." You held his gaze. "But next time, you're buying the condoms."
His mouth twitched. "Next time?"
You smiled, slow and wicked, and pulled him back down to meet you. "You heard me."
By the time Cook’s knot finally eased enough for you to separate and pull your clothes back into place, someone was hammering against the bedroom door hard enough to shake it in the frame.
“Oi!” Cook shouted, voice wrecked and utterly unapologetic. “Occupied!”
“This is my room!” Liam yelled from the other side.
You buried your face against Cook’s shoulder, laughter catching in your chest while he stared at the door as though Liam had made a deeply unreasonable request.
Cook looked at you, hair disordered and polo collar dragged crooked. His pupils were still wide, his alpha scent heavy with satisfaction, while the sharp edge of your pre-heat had dulled for the moment.
His grin was pure trouble. “Window?”
“We’re on the second floor.”
“Could make it.”
“You first.”
“Thought you liked me.”
“I tolerate you.”
“Same thing.”
His next kiss was slower, still dirty and unmistakably Cook but without the frantic edge from before. His thumb brushed over the unmarked skin beside your scent gland as though checking that he’d kept his word, only for Liam to hit the door again. Cook sighed and began fixing his clothes with absolutely no urgency. “Could stay. See if he gives up.”
“He won’t.”
“Could tell him we’re doing something important.”
“He knows what we’re doing.”
“Then he knows it’s important.”
You checked the suppressant patch beneath your dress and found one corner peeled away, making it useless. Cook watched you remove it.
“Need another?”
“I’ve got some at home.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“You don’t even know where I live now.”
“Never bothered me before.”
You straightened his collar before you could think better of it. Cook watched your hands, quieter now as the noise of the party swelled and receded beyond the locked door.
“You disappearing again?” you asked.
“Dunno.”
It was an honest answer, which made it worse. You started to let go of his shirt, but Cook caught your wrist and rubbed his thumb once over your pulse.
“Could come with you,” he said. “Stay till your heat’s over.”
“You offering to help?”
“Offering to make myself useful.”
“That would be a first.”
“Can be very useful.”
“You’re still not claiming me.”
“Christ, you’ve mentioned it.”
“Because you’re possessive.”
“Only when people touch my things.”
“I’m not your thing.”
Cook’s mouth tipped into a grin. “Not yet.”
You gave him a warning look.
“Joke,” he said. “Mostly.”
Outside, Liam threatened to find a screwdriver.
“Bring us a drink while you’re at it!” Cook called.
“I’m going to kill you!”
“He’s having a lovely birthday.”
You kissed Cook before he could make another joke, brief and soft enough to surprise him. When you pulled away, he looked almost dazed before recovering.
“Do that again.”
“No.”
“Mean.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Keep trying.”
Cook finally opened the lock, stepped into the hallway and clapped Liam warmly on the shoulder. “Brilliant party, mate.”
Liam looked past him at you, his nose wrinkling as the thick mixture of alpha and omega scent escaped from the bedroom. “You absolute fucking bastard.”
“Birthday drink?”
“You drank all my vodka.”
“Then you’ve had enough.”
Liam lunged, and Cook caught your hand, dragging you down the hallway while laughing. Guests turned to watch the commotion, some cheering when he vaulted over the last three steps and nearly took out a table covered in empty bottles.
He recovered without spilling the drink he’d snatched from someone on the way past.
“Still got it,” he announced.
“You nearly broke your neck.”
“Nearly doesn’t count.”
Liam appeared at the top of the stairs. “Give me my crown back!”
Cook touched the glittering cardboard crown he’d apparently stolen somewhere along the way. “Won it fair and square.”
“You stole it!”
“Semantics.”
He pulled you through the kitchen and toward the back door before Liam could reach the bottom of the stairs. The cold night air hit your overheated skin with immediate relief, carrying the smell of damp pavement, cigarettes and fried food from farther along the street.
You stopped at the garden gate. “My coat’s inside.”
Cook looked back at the house, where Liam had just appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Buy you another.”
“With what money?”
“Could nick you one.”
“You already used that line.”
“Still romantic.”
“Cook.”
He sighed with tremendous suffering, removed his polo and handed it to you.
Cook stood in the middle of the garden wearing nothing above the waist but his chain and the glittering cardboard crown, apparently unbothered by the cold or the attention of every smoker nearby.
“That isn’t a coat.”
“Got sleeves.”
“It’s a polo.”
“Put it on.”
“You’ll freeze.”
“Alpha.”
“That doesn’t make you immune to weather.”
“Makes me hard.”
“More like hard-headed.”
“Exactly.”
You gave in and pulled the polo over you when goosebumps broke out across your arms from both the chill and the knowledge he bit your bare shoulder twice, the shirt still warm from his body and saturated with his scent. The alpha smell settled around you immediately, strong enough to mask the sweetness beginning to rise from your skin.
Cook looked you over and gave a low, approving whistle. “Fucking hell.”
“What?”
“My scent all over you.”
“It’s a shirt.”
“Looks better on you.”
Liam shoved through the back door, and Cook grabbed your hand. “Run.”
You made it through the gate just before Liam reached you, Cook laughing so hard he stumbled into the neighboring house’s brick wall. You dragged him onward, both of you half-running down the pavement while Liam shouted threats from behind the fence. By the time you reached the end of the street, you were breathless. Cook leaned against a lamppost, bare chest rising and falling, the cardboard crown still somehow balanced on his head.
“That,” he said, “was a fucking brilliant party.”
“You were there for less than two hours.”
“Quality, not quantity.”
“You stole alcohol, cake and a crown.”
“And an omega.”
“You didn’t steal me.”
“Came away smelling like me, didn’t you?”
You folded your arms, making his polo pull tight across your chest. Cook’s gaze dropped immediately.
“You’re doing that on purpose.”
“I’m standing.”
“Filthily.”
“You really can make anything sound obscene.”
“Gift.”
He pushed away from the lamppost, his expression turning more serious as he caught another change in your scent. “How long till the heat hits properly?”
“Tomorrow, probably.”
“Right.”
“You don’t have to stay.”
“Didn’t ask if I had to.”
Cook threaded his fingers through yours as naturally as if the last several months hadn’t happened. The takeaway at the corner was still open, its fluorescent sign buzzing over the pavement.
“Come home with me,” you said.
His eyebrows rose.
“You need clothes, and I need food, another suppressant and Plan B before I decide whether I want company for the rest of my heat.”
Cook’s grin spread slowly across his face. “Already decided.”
“Keep talking and I’ll leave you outside.”
“Wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
He pulled open the takeaway door and gestured you through with an exaggerated bow, cardboard crown glittering beneath the fluorescent lights.
“My omega wants chips.”
“I’m not your omega.”
“Not with that attitude.”
“You’re paying.”
Cook searched his pockets and produced a lighter, three loose cigarettes and one crumpled note.
“Got enough for chips.”
“You said you could buy me shoes.”
“Priorities changed.”
“Because you have five pounds?”
“Because you’ve invited me home while smelling like that.”
The bored employee behind the counter looked up. You closed your eyes as Cook grinned and slung an arm around your shoulders, pulling you farther beneath the shelter of his scent.
typa shit bobby would come out with, especially in the golden era
this is 6 AM bobby. this is bobby at his most lethal because 6 AM bobby has no filter and no shame, his face is in your neck, his arms locked around your waist and his brain is running at maybe twelve percent capacity. whatever surfaces from said twelve percent comes straight out of his mouth unedited.
you’re half asleep. warm. his chest against your back, his morning wood pressed against your ass (which he has made zero effort to address or apologise for because bobby franklin does not apologise for biological events thank you very much), and his mouth is moving against the nape of your neck in a mumble that you’re not fully processing because it’s 6 AM and words are still just sounds.
“hey. hey, baby. do girls get morning wood?”
“mm. what.”
“like. you know how guys wake up hard? do girls get that? like a morning dew situation?”
you groan. “bobby, it’s 6AM.”
“because you feel kinda warm back here and i’m just wondering if that’s like, your version of, you know.” he shifts his hips against your ass to illustrate his point. “like i’ve got wood and you’ve got dew. morning dew. that’s cute actually. i’m gonna call it that.”
“please stop talking.”
“morning dew,” he says it with the satisfied finality of a man who’s just coined a new term and is unreasonably proud of it. his arms tighten around your waist, and his nose burrows deeper into your hair, and you can feel the crooked grin against the back of your neck. “my girl’s got the morning dew.”
“i’m going to suffocate you with this pillow.”
“kinky.”
you elbow him. bobby grunts, laughs into your hair, pulls you tighter against him, and falls back asleep in forty-five seconds flat with his face in your neck, and his hand on your stomach and “morning dew” added permanently to his vocabulary.
he uses it the next morning too. and the morning after that. it becomes A Thing. bobby franklin waking up, pressing his hips against your ass, sliding his hand between your thighs, and murmuring “checking for dew” with that insufferable half-asleep grin while you contemplate murder and your body betrays you by being, in fact, dewy.
terrence hears him say it once. bobby doesn’t realise terrence is in the kitchen. bobby wanders in with his hand on your hip, still half asleep, and says happily, “heavy dew this morning, baby” and terrence puts down his coffee, picks up his keys, and leaves the apartment without a word.
americans be like dude learning to drive isnt that bad but they dont know youre in ireland sharing a lane with a horse who is a bad person. And the horse and the instructor are friends and he keeps dapping the horse up through the window. And the horse called you a bitch under his breath so quiet the driving instructor is trying to convince you that you must have misheard him but you didnt. and theres a roundabout coming up and the horse didnt indicate
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It’s insane to see how the HotD fandom (and team black) embraces Ormund Hightower despite his hatred for Rhaenyra and repeatedly calling her a cunt, while still viciously hating Criston Cole for doing the exact same thing. Calling him a rabid dog and applauding his death wishing it was more gruesome, wishing to see his head on a spike. Sorry if I don’t want to see a person of color lyncyhed for the crime of hating the show’s perfect aryan princess. Apparently all a character needs to do to get around the fandom’s bloodlust is to be an attractive white man 🙄 but in other news, fork found in kitchen. Fandom continues to be a cesspit
I think it’s worth discussing that daddy Aerion is mega into the spit kink situation
AND
Since having Maegor and the reader’s obvious increased chest size, nipple play all the way, he’s definitely a blatantly kinky bastard
It is definitely, a million percent, worth discussing that shitty baby daddy!aerion just wants to see his fluids on you. Or in you. Or both. Him spitting in your mouth began long before you were ever pregnant, and it was never about degradation for him. It was just another way to be as close to you as he could possibly get. He wants to be in your skin, to mark you, to taste you, to carve himself into you. It's the same reason he comes inside you almost every time. He can't bear the thought of having his cum anywhere but your cunt. Sure, sometimes he wants to see it on your face or your stomach, but it's so much more intimate when he can watch it leak out of you. There's a deep satisfaction in knowing that he was just inside you, that he still is. And that you both can see it. 9 times out of 10, he wants it buried as deep inside you as it can get.
So the spit thing is really no different for him. He just wants to be one with you. It's why he also loves kissing you after he's gone down on you. He likes making you taste yourself in his mouth. And that satisfaction only grows when he can still taste himself in yours. When you're sucking him off, he'll almost always hold your head in place and spit into your open mouth to have you use that as lube. And once you come back up to kiss him, it makes him feral. Knowing he's on your tongue, knowing he was just in your throat, it drives him insane. And you know it too. It makes you feel powerful and desired; you get off on it as much as he does.
Once Maegor came along and you were suddenly too big for your old bras, Aerion was beside himself with lust. He'd always liked to play with them, but now they were spilling out of his hands. Now, he could watch them bounce as he fucked you, could feel the way your nipples would get tight and hard when he sucked on them. He would use his own saliva to ease the drag of his teeth over your flesh. He would press your tits together and spit between them, just to watch it drip down. And he loves to fuck them when you'll let him. Loves to watch your tongue dart out to lick the head of his cock every time it peeks through. But his very favorite thing is to have them in his mouth as you ride him. It's a sensory overload for him. The taste of your skin, the feeling of you stretched around him, the smell of your hair in his face, and the sound of your moans in his ear. It's enough to make him come embarrassingly fast sometimes, but he doesn't care. Because he's content to have you in his mouth and on his cock at the same time. And he did that to you. It's his. He's obsessed with that too. The idea that he did that to your body. He caused it; he took your body from one shape to another. And he loves that it's his fault.
Aerion has always been possessive. It's in his bones, in his very blood. If he sees something he likes, he wants it. And he wants it to know it belongs to him. It's not even a conscious choice. He just doesn't like sharing. So when his cum is leaking out of you, he knows he's been there. When he can see his teeth marks on your skin, he knows you've been his. And when he sees his son, when he looks at his face? He knows without a doubt that he made that. It's his DNA. His fucking blood and bone. He put it there, so he owns it. He is it. It's everything he has to offer, all wrapped up in one perfect little boy. And that makes him feral too. His son is the ultimate proof. His son is proof that you're his and he's yours. Maegor belongs to both of you, and neither of you will ever belong to anyone else.
So he'll spit on his hand and press it to your swollen clit while you're pregnant with his kid. He'll watch his own cum slide down your round stomach. He'll bite down on your neck and then kiss the mark while he whispers about how perfect you are. Because there is no you without him. Not anymore. And there's no him without you because he made sure of it. It's messy and a little fucked up. But it's yours. It's your fucked up. It's why he's never been able to let you go, even when he thought he hated you. Because you still have his spit on your tongue, his cum between your legs, his bruises on your skin, and his baby in your arms. He can't escape it. He's proud of it.
And when he gets drunk and leaves you that voicemail? When he's telling you he wants to bend you over his truck and pull your hair until you cry just how you like? It's because he's not there. He's not making sure you know you're his. Which means he has to tell you, has to remind you. Because without the physical proof, he's just a guy on the phone. And he hates that. He needs to be able to taste you, see you, feel you. He's so tactile that it drives him mad. So he spits out the filthiest things he can think of to make you remember what he can do to you. It's his way of marking you from across town. It's a brand. Just like the handprint on your ass from where he spanked you. Or the bit of drool on your nipple from where he was just sucking on it. It's his. It's all his. So the kink isn't the spit or the cum or the biting, and it's not even the daddy kink he's got. The kink is you. You being his and him being yours. Everything else is just the cherry on top.
[ nothing good grows here ] aerion has already decided you're having a son
wc: 573 || content warnings: pregnancy
(not tagging since this isn't even 1k words <3 and this was not proofread, nor did i edit it whoops)
The waiting room is too bright, the walls a sickly green, and Aerion's leg won't stop bouncing.
He'd been smoking on and off all morning, even though you told him to stop it. You said that he smelled like an ashtray and no one wanted to smell that while they were listening to their baby's heartbeat.
He'd just grunted, snuffed the cigarette out under his shoe, and grabbed your hand as you walked inside. His palm was sweaty and his grip was a little too tight, but you didn't mention it. He'd been acting like he was the pregnant one all week. All nervous and moody and way too overprotective. You'd have to remind him to stop hovering every time you tried to lift anything, and he'd glare at you because he wanted to be the one to do it.
It's sweet, in an obnoxious way.
When the nurse calls your name, Aerion's up before you are, his hand still clutching yours as you follow her back to the ultrasound room. You can feel the tension coming off him. He keeps glancing at you out of the corner of his eye because he's trying to make sure he isn't hallucinating the entire thing.
He kisses your forehead as you settle onto the table. Then he's pacing the room, looking at the ultrasound machine like it's a bomb about to go off. "Why're they making us wait so long?"
"Aerion, sit down," you sigh, gesturing to the chair beside the bed. "It's been like five minutes. You're going to wear a hole in the floor."
"Don't wanna fuckin' sit down," he mutters while dragging the chair over. He sits, but he's still fidgeting, bouncing his knee, picking at the frayed edge of his jeans. "What if it's... y'know, not okay?"
"What are you talking about? What wouldn't be okay?"
"I don't know," he huffs, running a hand through his messy hair. "What if it's... what if my fucked up genes do somethin' to it?"
"Aerion, quit it. You're being ridiculous and you're making me nervous."
"Whatever. I really wanna see him, though. Little bug... want him to be okay."
"It's not a bug, it's a baby. And you don't even know if it's a boy yet."
"It's a boy," he says, like it's a fact. "I know it is. He's gonna be just like me. Get into trouble all the time, make you crazy."
"What if it's a girl? Then what?"
"Then I'll... fuck. I don't know. It's not a girl. We can have one next time, I guess. But this one's a boy, probably. Maegor."
You can only stare at him. It's not the first time he's mentioned the name, but it's the first time he's said it with conviction. "We're not naming him Maegor. I've told you, it's a weird name. It's creepy."
"It's a family name. A strong one. Targaryen name." He leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees, and looks at you with those serious eyes. "C'mon, baby. Just think about it. Maegor. Sounds good, right?"
"I'm not naming our child after your psycho ancestor, Aerion. He was insane, and not in the fun way."
He rolls his eyes. "He wasn't that bad."
"Aerion, he started a civil war!"
"Details, baby."
You open your mouth to argue, but the door opens and the ultrasound tech walks in. "Sorry for the wait! Ready to take a look at this baby?"
i genuinely do not understand how people could watch rhaenyra tell ulf that the crown owns his labor and body entirely and that he is now only an extension of the throne, imprisoned in the red keep with no autonomy or will of his own, denying him access to his friends and freedom of movement, and come out of that scene thinking that ulf is a cringe loser who needs to know his place. you people are under spells.
It is known the prince Aerion and his wife were not particularly fond of each other.
The servants, the cooks, the washermen, your families, any poor soul who had the misfortune of spending even the slightest amount of time in your presence were well aware of the fact that it was a loud marriage. It had become common knowledge that you were always, always arguing.
Some despised it so much, they not only found peace in the farthest possible place away from you both by fleeing at the sight of you together, but they also found solitude in their faith. People who had not spoken to their gods in what felt like years, some who doubted their existence to begin with, all genuinely, hopefully prayed at the mercy of the seven. Bowing and kneeling, pleading and begging for the constant fighting to stop.
It didn’t stop. It never stopped. Especially not now, when he was eating like that.
Crunch.
The sound made you flinch slightly, the anger flashing through your stiff limbs, the involuntary jolt of this red hot boiling rage. You tried to ignore it, tried not to cause a scene while stilling every muscle in your body in a weak attempt to do so. Your breath was slightly shaky, your chest rising and falling in that controlled way that was very clearly a manual action instead of the natural rhythm of someone calm. Someone whose teeth were not tightly clamped together to the point of pain.
He sat to your right. Relaxed.
You turned your gaze to him slightly, tracking his movements from the corner of your eye, almost predatory like as you observed every small movement of his mouth.
Crunch.
You flinched again, this time your composure cracking and the anger shone through. Eyebrows furrowed, lips curled in disgust. Every mean thing you were feeling breaking through onto your face, painting your features in a mean light.
All while he sat there, ever the perfect picture of tranquility. His elbow digging into the wood of the table, dagger in one hand and nut in the other. And his eyes were— you were staring. His eyes were on yours, waiting for them to meet his.
With a raise of his brow, the fingers around his dagger spread to the rest of the room, head nodding slightly to encourage you to speak, looking like he had no idea why you were so angry.
You huffed out a breath. Your muscles loosen along with it, like the exhale of air expelled the stiffness within you.
Your body turned slightly to him, the sight of him now taking up the entirety of your vision. You stared coldly at his face, his mouth, that smug smile decorating it, his dagger, the pile of nuts on the table, and then returned to look at your own meal placed in front of you.
And then it was quiet finally. For a moment, completely silent.
Crunch.
Your hands were on the table before you could even fully register the sound. Just that you had heard it and you were angry. The basic animal instincts of drawing a line in your territory and something crossing over, again and again and again.
Palms pushed flat on the wood, silverware clattering loudly, accompanied by the screech of your chair against the floor.
He tutted.
Now you stood next to him, still slightly hunched over the table, nails digging carvings into the wood.
“Husband,” the title spoken like a slur on your tongue, “I implore you to use the manners that I am sure such a privileged life has encouraged and relent your incessant chewing.”
He popped another nut into his mouth, "I implore you, wife, to mind your tongue. It would sadden me to remove it for your plain appearance already displeases me."
You scoffed, nails gripping tighter, looking over your shoulder to meet his eyes. "I was not aware you valued appearances so dearly, husband, considering your table manners that is."
He huffed out a laugh, judging eyes raking down your form.
"And you do? Doubtful considering the dress you have chosen to wear this morning." A pause. "And the way you have styled your hair." He trailed off with a smug laugh. "Besides I could not imagine someone like you to understand the image someone like me must uphold, as a prince, that is."
Your back straightened, spine now straight as you turned to him fully. Your voice was biting and harsh as you spoke.
"Lest someone should hear or see you in such a state and worry a pig has escaped from its den, instead of their prince eating at breakfast."
You heard the crack of his jaw as it clenched. The relaxed posture of his body now a fleeting thing as he stilled, then stood slowly, narrowed eyes never leaving your own. His head tilted, the entirety of him completely still.
“Pardon me?” He sneered. “Would my wife wish to repeat herself?”
“Yes I would,” you retorted, “or rather, we should hope they don’t send for a butcher to take you away.”
His hand was on your jaw.
The force beneath his fingertips sends a jolt of pain through your face. Your eyes narrow. His tone drops.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
He practically growled.
“Do not think of yourself so untouchable simply because you have taken my name.”
Your hand reached up to his arm, your nails gripping harshly into his wrist, covered in fabric but painful nonetheless. He gripped your face tighter in response. Your chests were heaving, faces flushed red with anger.
“And you, husband, should not think yourself completely exempt from table etiquette simply because you are of royal blood.” Your voice was mean, and he felt the vibrations under his palm as you spoke.
He scowled, his eyes moving between your own before flickering down to your lips which were framed by his pale fingers squeezing your face.
For a moment there was just the heavy breathing of two people who were much more angry than was necessarily required for such a situation.
Then he tore his hand away from you, a look of disgust in his eyes as he readjusted his sleeve. Your hand shot up to your jaw, soothing the muscle there, your eyes narrowed as he took a moment to look you up and down. He rolled his eyes like a child.
You wanted to kill him, you were about to, but he suddenly stormed away, his boots loud against the floor.
He hated you, actually hated you. And not the standard resentment he felt towards anyone and everything he deemed lesser than himself, but this cold, icy feeling only someone as cruel as him was capable of.
You most definitely reciprocated the feeling and despised him back in all of his spoiled, princely self, neither of you any better at hiding it than the other.
And that was the routine. Everyday. Constantly. No matter what it was about (normally something completely trivial), or who started it, who stormed off first, you would argue.
It is known.
So it surprises you and the serving boy he sends every night greatly when he calls on you. That he still calls on you. Every single night, without fail, he calls you to his chambers, and every single night you’re both tense, as you’ve already argued countless times throughout the day.
He calls even when the days are bad.
He calls on you the days when it’s just the screaming, the loud, angry, usual routine. When the arguing is centred more around your annoyance instead of the hatred.
But he also calls on you the days it’s worse, when you're quiet, when your voice has been low and steady and everything your emotions weren’t. Perhaps to the servants you just seemed agitated at more of your husband's antics, but Aerion always knew it was something more. That it was pure malice. He knew because it mirrored his own.
And despite all this, he still calls, despite all this you still come.
The walk to his chambers is almost humiliating. You arrive and you’re tense, he waits and he’s tense. You push the wooden door open, and you’re tense.
The creak is loud against the quiet of the room, alerting your presence to Aerion. He was sitting near the fire, staring at it intensely.
It seemed to be the only light source in his chambers, considering how dark it was, and how there was a slight chill as you entered.
The tension in his dimly lit room is so thick you feel it in your stomach.
“You certainly do not prioritise your station.” He spoke lowly from his chair. “Any longer and I would think something tragic had happened to you.”
You rolled your eyes as you closed the door behind you, resting your back against the frame. “Do not sound so eager at the prospect.” You spat.
He huffed out a laugh, "I'm sure you are aware why I have called on you. Yet you take your time nevertheless.”
You were about to retort something, when he stood from his seat, the action sending a shiver down your spine. Not from fear, you both knew why you were here, and perhaps it was that shared knowledge that made the tension in the room feel different. Not exactly the kind during the day where it made your breathing heavy with blinding rage, but one that made your stomach feel hot, one that made breathing hard.
He walked to you, the sound of his shoes against the floor the only sound in his chambers, and he stood close enough now that the fabric of his shirt and the embroidery of your gown were kissing softly.
You kept your face calm beneath his gaze, a brittle mask you feared would splinter if he kept staring. Being this close in proximity you should really be arguing, your hands should be clenched into fists at this stuck up bastard just being in the same room as you, yet they were slightly damp with sweat, slightly shaky.
You shouldn’t be cowering in front of the door. You shouldn’t have been melting into the wood, retreating into silence.
His hand rose from his side, then faltered and froze in the air. Unlike before at breakfast when he had lunged it forward before you had time to recoil from it, he was hesitant this time, his fingers without the intent to harm, but instead to hold.
You noticed the movement and looked at him, your brow raised in question. His hand was still in the air, hanging in the space between you.
You tilted your head as you watched him.
He hated you.
He moved faster, and he grasped your chin, but not hard really, just a quicker, more confident movement of his hand.
It landed on your jaw. Warm.
Your fingers flickered at the contact, rustling against the fabric of your gown, and there was a small reaction on your face as he touched you, your expression less taunting and more expecting now, both noticed by Aerion. And it should have been funny, he should have mocked you for it, but the only thing that left his mouth was a shaky breath and a small gulp.
You clasped your hands behind your back in an attempt to ground yourself, chin lifting slightly to try and hide your own expression.
Neither of you knew why you were breathing so hard.
Aerion tilted his head slightly, a small flicker, and your lips parted in anticipation. His eyes found them, then he looked back up to your eyes. He lent down. Slowly. His fingers on your jaw quivering while your fingers behind your back were squeezing and shaking.
It was just a kiss.
Both of you were still. The only movement was the careful descent of his head towards yours. His lips stopped just a breath away.
You blamed the chill in his room when you shivered.
He closed the gap.
His eyes fluttered shut at the contact and yours soon followed. You could feel the shaky exhale leave him when you leaned closer, rising yourself on to your tiptoes to press further into him. His hand on your jaw squeezed lightly, then moved with his other hand to your hips, as your own removed themselves from your back and found his shoulders, gripping at the fabric as you pulled each other impossibly close.
Aerion's hands were shaky against you, the small, shy movements soft through your dress. The whole of his hands were trembling, accompanied by the occasional flinch of his fingers from his mind and his body being in a complete panic, yet he was unable to stop. Also the fact he was trying to make sure he wasn’t flinching or shaking, very clearly a futile attempt.
The kiss broke and he moved back to look at your face, blushing and lips swollen. A proud smile reached his lips, he looked smug at your current state, smug like he wasn't also trembling against you.
“It’s not like you to be so quiet, wife.” He taunted, and in this light, taunting you like this, he seemed like a young boy with his childlike teasing.
“I am just astonished with how bad you kiss, husband. It has rendered me speechless is all.”
He scowled. You raised your brows. Both of your lips tingling.
His eyes glanced at one of your hands on his shoulders, and he quickly grasped it. He held it firmly before spinning around and moving to the bed. Being behind him like this, you could see the blush on the back of his neck, the pink tips of his ears. His steps were slightly stiff, only slightly however and rather unnoticeable if you weren’t so close behind him.
You stopped abruptly at the side of his bed, his feet coming to a complete halt in front of you, and before you could even register the movement his hands were on you, they moved to your waist, and shoved you backwards.
Landing on the soft sheets, you gasped in shock. “Gods, do you have to be such a brute?”
Your eyes looked up to where he was supposed to be standing but instead found him closer than you thought. His body caged you into the bed, and he stared down at you, breathing unevenly.
“You should be reminded that I do not like to be insulted.”
You looked up, meeting his gaze. He was glaring at you.
“You say that as if you did not insult my style of hair and dress only this morning.”
"I remember you saying I resembled a pig, wife."
A small smile reached your face as you recalled the earlier insult, quiet as you replayed the moment in your head, feeling victorious at the shock in his face.
He clenched his jaw, looking at your expression. His fingers dug into the sheets beside your head, the sound of scrunching snapping you out of your memory. Your eyes locked.
He huffed.
“I hate you.”
Then he kissed you again. Hungrier. Faster. His tongue finding the inside of your mouth and you letting it, enjoying as the kiss deepened.
It was filthy. Dirty and wet. Spit smearing across your lips and chin and plunging into each other's mouths. Neither of you pulled away for even a second, not for breath or to speak, instead just ceaselessly licking and sucking and biting one another’s lips.
Your mouth was tingling. You could feel the wetness coating it, but mainly you felt this warm, charged sensation that began finding its way throughout the rest of your body.
It felt good to kiss one another, so good it was almost scary.
Your back lifted ever so slightly off the bed, seeking his touch, and your hands hesitated before finding his waist. Then they did, and you dragged his hips down from hovering above you to meet yours, to the space between your own, the action spreading your thighs around his hips. Aerion gasped into you, the kiss breaking as he glanced down between you, at the lack of space, then back up to your eyes. His eyes were wide, blown, yours were flickering between his, looking as one would only describe as unsure.
He was blinking dumbly at you. You’re sure you were blinking dumbly back. And while breathing the same air for a short moment, Aerion heard the smallest whine leave you.
His hands were moving. He searched frantically for the opening of his trousers, leaning back on his ankles to gain a better view of his clothes. The sight of it sent heat through you.
You hated him. You practically ripped at the laces of your dress.
Both of you desperately removed the layers of clothes, and once he was done, once he was fully nude, he spared no time in reaching for your skirts. Your dress was more difficult than his shirt and trousers, tight with laces and embroidery.
Aerion grunted, “I hate this dress.”
“Shut up.” You growled.
After the sound of stitches ripping had filled the room, and both of you had most likely tore a few holes into your clothes in an attempt to remove them, he was above you again. He still sat back, leaving the view of his chest, his stomach, his cock all in your view, and he was hard, unnecessarily hard for considering you had only kissed, yet as you lay there beneath him, you were basically dripping onto the sheets already.
He was breathing heavily, chest rising and falling as he stared at you. Instead of his mocking gaze, or the intense one, the look in his eyes was unsteady, fluttering slightly at the sight of you, like they couldn’t focus properly. They moved from your face, to every feature, to your chest, your stomach, your legs, thighs, everything.
Under his watchful eye, your hands found themselves resting against the center of your ribs, fiddling with your nails, picking at the skin. This was nothing, yet you couldn’t even maintain eye contact.
Instead you looked at how Aerion held his length in his hand, stroking it once, then twice, then watched as he positioned it at your entrance.
The tip of him caught in your hole as he rubbed himself up and down your folds. You gasped.
He pushed in. Slow. Very slow. Your hands instinctively grip the sheets. Because it always started like this. When your minds were still intact, and you weren’t overcome with pleasure yet, there was no softness. He didn’t use his fingers or his mouth first, he didn’t kiss down your neck and kneed the soft flesh of your thighs.
It starts with your hands in the sheets. His joining them. The desperate clawing at fabric. Nails gripping into anything except each other, because you hate each other, you can't stand the thought of holding each other in such a vulnerable state, just the idea of it makes your jaw clench.
That's how it starts.
It is, if the indents and the scratches and the bruises at the end of the night are any indication, very clearly never how it ends.
It starts with his body away from yours, whether you're on your back or your stomach or you’re on top, the only part of you that’s touching is your hips. Because he doesn’t want to touch you, he doesn’t, he tries not to.
It’s a futile effort, which is clear now as he pushes inside you, and as soon as he feels your warmth around him, his whole body gives in. Like this involuntary surrender to your touch.
His hands landed on your thighs, a quiet whimper leaving his lips as he bottomed out inside of you. You were so wet, so slick with arousal.
His body hunched over yours slightly, head facing downwards, eyes locked on where you were connected. He pulled out again, then pushed back in, watching closely at the way you gripped around him. The sight of it pushed a whine out of his throat, the feeling of it causing his hands to drop to each side of your head.
Your thighs were squeezing him, legs locked at his lower back as he thrusted inside you. He wanted to go fast, to be rough, to hurt you. He couldn’t.
The feeling of him inside you clouded your vision, the stretch of him making your eyes go blurry. It felt so full. Even though he was slow, maybe even gentle, for some reason it felt like he was reaching into your ribs and trying to fuck the air out of you.
You didn’t let him. You were gasping hard enough for it to hurt. Sharp intakes of air through your throat every time he pushed into you because you had to swallow it. You couldn’t let the air out, because if you did it would come out as just strings of whines and moans and something sweet.
But then he moved the angle of his hips, just slightly, as he lowered himself on his forearms, and he pushed in again, looking down at you with flushed cheeks from the heat of it all and a furrow in his brow from trying ever so hard to keep his own sounds down.
He moved again, and it was too much, you let out a choked sob as he thrusted, like this new position had made his thrust force it out of you, along with all the other sounds, the cries.
He hated your voice. He tensed his stomach to stop himself from finishing at the mere sound of you.
The lewd sounds you were really trying not to let out, and horribly failing at, seemed to push him over slightly, enough so that he stopped biting the inside of his lip and breathed.
Then he was making the same sounds you were. He was whining and whimpering above you, his hips moving slowly, dragging his wet cock out of you to push back in slower. The sensation of it caused his arms to give out again, dropping his forehead to your shoulder, and you could feel every flutter of his eyelashes against your skin. His eyes were wet, as were yours, and you swear you felt him throb inside you as your hands reached to his back, ripping his skin and leaving a trail of red marks at his shoulders. You were squeezing him so hard it hurt. Your nails and your cunt.
Aerions own hands found his way around you, one wrapping under your waist and the other bracketing under your neck. There were wet gasps in your ear, the dirty, vulnerable sounds leaving his mouth uncontrollable as he rutted into you.
You could barely breathe.
“I hate you.” He choked.
“Fuck you.” You sobbed.
His head lifted. You locked gazes as his forehead dropped to yours. He pushed harder, and tears rolled down your cheeks as you tried to squirm your hips away from the ceaseless movement of his length scraping against your soft insides.
And for the first time that day, it was relatively quiet. Perhaps there were whines and whimpers filling his chambers, but it was much quieter than your usual arguing, and somewhere across the stone walls, the servants were glad their prince had such an appetite for his wife. For it was only at night, when he called on her, they weren’t plagued with the echoes of your screams.
He continued to fuck you like that, shuddering and shaking and embracing each other, a few stray tears leaving your eyes and his.
There was nothing you could say, nothing left to say, except for his name. It was spoken desperately to him, a whisper, a gasp, a moan, but his name nonetheless.
Your thighs were shaking uncontrollably around him. He throbbed inside you at the sound of his name on your tongue, and he kissed you once more. Desperate and wet.
You were both so close. The heat spread down your backs and into your stomachs, and he pushed inside you again, then again, then again and you shuddered and you cried and you came. Both of you together, feeling how he pulsed in you and you clenched around him with the pleasure you were giving each other. Feeling how the warmth of his seed coated your insides, then spilled out around the base of his cock, dripping onto the bed.
His body eventually gave in, dropping fully into you, as his head found your shoulder again.
You were both breathing heavily. Spent. Tired. Insults were nowhere to be found or heard because the pleasure was just too much, too overwhelming.
Your arms were sore, your hands dropping to the bed from his back, and he instinctively grabbed one. His arm uncurled from your waist at the sound of your wrists hitting the sheets and he found your warm hand. His fingers finding your palm, then the crevices between each of your own fingers, then they locked together. Interlacing into one.
You stayed like that, your mind blank, and you let sleep take you. As did he.
Your eyes fluttered open, eyelashes grazing against the soft skin of your cheeks as you adjusted to the morning light. It was warm beneath you. Your soft cheek pressed against something hard and you stirred slightly, the haze of sleep still making your mind fuzzy.
Aerion lay beneath you. Your head was on his shoulder, arms wrapped around his neck, leg thrown up across his waist. He held you firmly, even in sleep, with his hands wrapped around your hips. His breath was even, a slow and steady rhythm of someone in a deep slumber.
It was comfy. You hated that it was comfy. You hated the fact you woke up with bruises on your hips from where he was holding you, sore lips from when he was kissing you, red marks on your neck from when he was biting and sucking you. You hated how the thought of it sent heat straight through you.
The soft feeling you awoke with now fading away into annoyance as you watched him be so serene.
Slowly you got up, removing your limbs from him in a careful manner to not wake him. You walked to a table, to the leftover wine in a gold cup he was probably nursing last night before your arrival. You wrapped your fingers around the cool metal. Your feet soft against the floor as you tiptoed back to the bed, goblet in hand.
You hated him.
You threw the wine onto his peaceful face, the red liquid splashing and immediately staining the sheets. Aerion shot up, his face panicked for a moment as he looked around, then his eyes found you and he stilled, harsh gaze locked onto you. The cup in your hand, the smile on your face.
He was too angry to even speak, and in the morning light, with the red wine coating his white hair, it almost looked pink.
“What.” Was all he managed.
“Aerion,” you gasped, “Your brother, I tried to stop him but..” You trailed off as your hands gestured to him.
He stared.
“I’ll kill you.”
A pause.
He shot out of bed and you ran for the door with a laugh escaping you.
▓▓▓▓▓▓ CLASSIFIED // M.E.G. INTERNAL // CLEARANCE LEVEL 3 REQUIRED ▓▓▓▓▓▓
Colloquial Designation: "the Warden"
Field Designation: UNK-F-██/1 Status: ACTIVE — CLASSIFICATION PENDING
DOCUMENT ID: MEG-ENT-████-DOSSIER
CLASSIFICATION: LEVEL 3 — RESTRICTED
COMPILED BY: Dr. ██████, Entity Research Division
DATE OF COMPILATION: ██/██/199█
LAST REVISION: ██/██/199█
REVISION STATUS: ONGOING — FILE UNDER REVIEW
⚠ DISTRIBUTION WARNING ⚠
This dossier describes an entity that does not conform to existing M.E.G. classification frameworks. It has been filed provisionally under the designation UNK-F-██/1 pending formal review. Personnel are advised to read the full document before making contact decisions. The reviewing analyst would also like to note, for the record, that this is the third time this year she has been asked to classify an entity that breaks every rule in the handbook. She would like a raise. Or a transfer. Whichever comes first.
1. OVERVIEW
UNK-F-██/1 is an anomalous entity first documented approximately ██ months ago following a cluster of unusual incident reports from survey teams on Levels 2 through 5. The reports described a previously uncatalogued entity intervening in predator-wanderer encounters and, in every documented case, intervening on behalf of the wanderers.
This sentence should not require emphasis, but it does.
We have no record of any entity in any classification tier exhibiting sustained protective behaviour toward humans. Isolated incidents and exceptions exist (see Entity 974's passive non-aggression policy, filed separately). But UNK-F-██/1 is not passive. UNK-F-██/1 is actively, aggressively, and consistently defending human wanderers against hostile entities. She has been observed engaging and killing Howlers, Skin-Stealers, and at least one unclassified predator-type in direct combat to protect wanderer groups.
She does this on purpose. She does this repeatedly. She does this with a level of ferocity that would be alarming if it weren't directed at things we also don't mind being dead.
2. PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION
UNK-F-██/1 maintains a humanoid female form. Apparent age, build, and identifying features have been redacted from this document at the request of Senior Research per Directive ██ (see Section 5: Origin Hypothesis). If Dr. ██████'s conversion theory is correct, physical descriptors of the humanoid form may correspond to the appearance of a real, formerly living individual. Publication of those descriptors within M.E.G. internal channels could compromise ongoing identification efforts. Relevant personnel with Level 4 clearance may request the unredacted physical profile from the Entity Research Division directly.
What can be stated: the form is notably well-constructed for an entity. Proportionally accurate. Expressively detailed. Lacking the common indicators of entity mimicry (uncanny stillness, symmetry errors, delayed micro-expression). To an untrained observer, UNK-F-██/1 would pass as human without question. Several field operatives initially logged her as a wanderer before corrections were filed.
NOTE: The quality of the human form is, in the opinion of this analyst, the single most significant data point in this dossier. Entity mimicry improves with age and practice or not at all. UNK-F-██/1 has existed for less than a year. Her form should be rudimentary at best. It is not. The form reads as though it was built from internal reference material rather than external observation. This distinction is significant and is addressed in Section 5.
True form has been partially observed on two occasions (see Incident Reports IR-████ and IR-████). Descriptions from surviving witnesses are inconsistent (standard for high-frequency entity exposure) but common elements include:
Significant spatial displacement (form is large)
High thermal output (witnesses report ambient temperature increase within a ██-meter radius)
Luminous qualities (one operative described "light that hurt but didn't burn")
Multi-limbed structure (count varies between reports: four, six, "too many")
The distinct impression of being "looked at from multiple angles simultaneously"
Witnesses were unanimously unable to hold visual contact for longer than ██ seconds. Both incidents resulted in temporary frequency-exposure symptoms (migraine, disorientation, emotional volatility) but no permanent cognitive damage.
NOTE: Both encounters occurred while UNK-F-██/1 was in active combat protecting wanderer groups. Her true form appears to manifest involuntarily under extreme duress or emotional provocation. She does not appear to deploy it willingly.
3. BEHAVIOUR PROFILE
UNK-F-██/1's behaviour is singular among documented entities and has generated more internal debate within the Entity Research Division than any subject since Entity 0 adopted the Franklin template.
3.1 Wanderer Protection
She patrols. Regularly. Across Levels 2 through 5, on routes that are consistent enough to map (see Appendix C: Patrol Route Overlay). She shadows wanderer groups, maintaining a distance of approximately ██ meters, and intercepts hostile entities before they make contact. Wanderer groups under her protection exhibit a survival rate of approximately 98%. The M.E.G. average for unassisted wanderer groups on these levels is ██%.
I'm going to write that again because I need someone in administration to read it: her protected groups survive at a rate of 98%. Ours survive at ██%. She is, statistically, more effective at keeping humans alive in the Backrooms than we are. She is doing this alone. She has been alive for less than a year.
Several rescued wanderers have provided testimony regarding direct interactions with UNK-F-██/1. Common elements across accounts:
She approaches in humanoid form. Speaks softly. Uses simple, reassuring language.
She checks for injuries. Has been observed providing basic first aid.
She guides groups toward known safe zones with apparent knowledge of exit routes.
She does not request compensation, reciprocation, or cooperation of any kind.
She leaves once the group reaches safety. Does not follow. Does not linger.
Multiple witnesses describe her as "kind." One described her as "the nicest person I met in this place." The witness was gently informed that UNK-F-██/1 is not a person.
3.2 Entity Interactions
She is hostile toward predatory entities. Aggressively so. Combat engagements documented in Appendix D indicate a willingness to engage targets significantly above her apparent power tier. She fights recklessly by entity standards, prioritising the protection of nearby humans over her own structural integrity.
She has been observed in non-hostile interaction with Entity 974 ("Mr. Kitty") on Level 974. The nature of this interaction is unclear. Field observation suggests a social relationship predating UNK-F-██/1's first documented appearance on Levels 2-5. Entity 974 has declined to comment when contacted via standard psychic-relay protocol. Entity 974 did, however, project the following statement into the mind of the operative who asked:
"She is my friend. If you bother her I will be disappointed in you. You don't want me to be disappointed in you."
3.3 Entity 0 Association
This is the section I was hoping I wouldn't have to write.
UNK-F-██/1 has been observed in proximity to Entity 0 on multiple occasions. The nature of these encounters is... contested. Body camera footage from Team ██ (Incident Report IR-████) captured what appears to be UNK-F-██/1 and Entity 0 engaged in pursuit behaviour through Level 0 corridors. Initial analysis classified this as predatory aggression (Entity 0 pursuing UNK-F-██/1 as prey).
Subsequent review has revised this classification. The pursuit behaviour is bilateral. Both entities are pursuing each other. On the footage, UNK-F-██/1 can be seen slowing her pace, glancing behind her, and in one instance laughing before accelerating again. Entity 0, for his part, is walking. With his hands in his pockets. He appears to be whistling.
Dr. ██████ has suggested the term "courtship behaviour."
I have suggested Dr. ██████ take a walk.
However. The evidence has continued to accumulate and it has become increasingly difficult to interpret it as anything else.
Entity 0 has restructured significant portions of Level 0 since UNK-F-██/1's arrival. Exit routes that previously dead-ended or looped have been straightened and connected to safe zones on adjacent levels. Two confirmed Howler dens within Level 0 have been sealed. The internal temperature of Level 0's central corridor section has risen by approximately ██ degrees, consistent with accommodation of an entity that runs warmer than the ambient environment.
He is renovating. For her. The apex predator of the Backrooms is renovating.
UNK-F-██/1 has been detected residing within Entity 0's territory for extended, continuous periods. Frequency monitoring equipment positioned at Level 0 access points has logged her presence for stretches of ██ to ██ days without exit. During these periods, the ambient frequency signature of Level 0 shifts measurably. Senior analyst Dr. ██████ described the new signature as, and I am quoting directly from her official assessment, "the whole level smells like a honeymoon suite." I do not know how a level smells like anything. I do not want to know.
More concerning: Entity 0 has adopted a permanent humanoid form. This is unprecedented. Entity 0 is the original shapeshifter. He has never, in years of documented history, maintained a single shape for longer than a few days by our estimation. He now holds what our files designate the "Franklin template" (a male humanoid form of ██ age, ██ build, with specific identifying features that are cross-referenced in a separate, sealed file) on a continuous basis. He built it. He is maintaining it. The energy expenditure required to hold a permanent human shape for an entity of his age and power is significant, and he is doing it voluntarily.
He is doing it because she likes the human form. This is the only logical interpretation. Entity 0 built a face and is wearing it permanently because the entity he is courting likes the way it looks.
Additionally, field teams have reported observing scent-marking behaviour consistent with territorial pair-bonding. Entity 0's frequency signature has been detected on UNK-F-██/1's humanoid form during two separate encounters with survey teams, and her signature has been detected on him. The cross-contamination of frequency signatures is, per Dr. ████████'s assessment, "a neon sign that says TAKEN in thirty-seven sub-vocal registers."
The Events of IR-████ (see separate file; Level 5 clearance; the footage is sealed and will remain sealed) confirmed that physical mating behaviour has occurred. The details are in the incident report for anyone with the clearance and the constitution to read them. This analyst has read them. This analyst would also like to un-read them.
What matters for the purposes of this dossier: if the courtship progresses to a full mating bond (seven-stage frequency lock, per Dr. ██████'s theoretical model), Entity 0 and UNK-F-██/1 will be permanently, irreversibly bonded at the frequency level. The combined output of two bonded apex-tier entities is beyond our current modelling capability.
4. THREAT ASSESSMENT
THREAT RATING: CONDITIONAL — PROVISIONAL
UNK-F-██/1 has exhibited zero hostile behaviour toward humans. Zero. Across ██ documented encounters and an estimated ███+ unobserved patrol interactions, not a single human casualty or injury has been attributed to this entity.
She is, to the best of our knowledge, on our side.
I am deeply uncomfortable writing this sentence. I am also unable to find evidence to contradict it.
The conditional threat rating exists for two reasons.
First: her association with Entity 0. Entity 0 remains classified as APEX-UNDEFINED with a threat rating of 9.7. If UNK-F-██/1's relationship with Entity 0 progresses to full mating-bond status (see Appendix E: Theoretical Bond Mechanics), the combined frequency output of two bonded apex-tier entities could destabilise multiple levels simultaneously.
Second (and in many ways more concerning): her growth curve. UNK-F-██/1 is not a standard entity. She did not emerge from the walls through the documented accretion process. Her power development does not follow any existing model we have. In the ██ months since her first documented appearance, her frequency output has increased by approximately ██% and shows no indication of plateauing. Standard entity growth follows a logarithmic curve that flattens within the first decade. UNK-F-██/1's curve is linear. Possibly exponential. We have insufficient data to determine which.
What this means in practical terms: we cannot predict how powerful she will become. We do not know if her growth has a ceiling. Dr. ██████ has noted, with visible unease, that if her current trajectory holds, UNK-F-██/1 could reach Entity 0's power tier within ██ years. An entity reaching apex status in under a decade is unprecedented. An entity reaching apex status from a suspected human conversion origin is beyond unprecedented.
It should be theoretically impossible.
Additionally, her power fluctuates in response to emotional stimuli in ways that standard entities do not exhibit. Emotional distress produces measurable frequency spikes that have been detected from adjacent levels. During the Howler engagement documented in IR-████, her distress-spike was powerful enough to partially restructure the corridor geometry of Level 4. She was not attempting to restructure anything. The restructuring was involuntary. A side effect of being upset.
An entity whose power output scales with emotional intensity, whose growth curve is unpredictable, and whose emotional state is directly linked to a courtship with the most powerful entity in the Backrooms... the modelling scenarios keep Dr. ██████ awake at night. They keep me awake too.
RECOMMENDED PROTOCOL: DO NOT ENGAGE. DO NOT APPROACH. DO NOT INTERFERE WITH WANDERER PROTECTION ACTIVITIES. If encountered, allow UNK-F-██/1 to complete her patrol and withdraw. Express gratitude if appropriate. Do not attempt to recruit, capture, contain, or study. Do not, under any circumstances, provoke emotional distress.
If she helps you, say thank you. Move on. Do not make it weird.
This section contains unverified speculation and is included at the request of Dr. ███████, who believes the hypothesis has sufficient evidential basis to warrant formal documentation.
UNK-F-██/1 may not be a naturally occurring entity.
The Backrooms generates entities through a documented process of slow accretion over extended periods (years to centuries). UNK-F-██/1 appeared in months. Her human form is too detailed for her age. Her behaviour toward humans is too empathetic for an entity. She eats (entities do not eat). She sleeps (entities enter stasis; they do not dream).
Dr. ███████'s hypothesis: UNK-F-██/1 is a converted entity. A human consciousness absorbed by the Backrooms and remade into entity form. The human form is built from memory, not observation. The protective instinct toward wanderers is residual human empathy surviving the conversion process. The eating. The sleeping. All residual. All human.
If this hypothesis is correct, UNK-F-██/1 is the first documented case of human-to-entity conversion in M.E.G. records.
If this hypothesis is correct, someone died in the Backrooms and the walls kept her.
A parallel research initiative (Project ██████, classified Level 4) has been opened to investigate UNK-F-██/1's potential pre-conversion identity.
The Entity Research Division is cross-referencing physical descriptors from the unredacted profile against missing persons databases, with particular focus on cases involving ██████████████ and proximity to known Backrooms entry points. The search parameters are, frankly, enormous. People go missing near threshold locations constantly. Narrowing the pool requires assumptions about time of death, geographical origin, and manner of entry that we cannot currently verify.
However, if the humanoid form is built from memory (and the evidence strongly suggests it is), then the form is her face. The face she had when she was alive. And if that face exists in a database somewhere, in a missing persons report, in a police file, in a family photograph pinned to a corkboard in a precinct that stopped looking years ago, we may be able to find out who she was.
Dr. ███████ has noted, for the record, that identifying her raises ethical questions we are not equipped to answer. If we find her name, do we tell her? Does she want to know? Does she already know? And if she was killed (the evidence from Entity 974's psychic assessment, obtained secondhand, suggests the death was violent and not accidental), does identifying her open a criminal investigation in a world that has already forgotten she existed?
These questions are above this analyst's pay grade. They might be above everyone's pay grade.
This analyst has no further comment on Section 5 at this time.
6. OPEN QUESTIONS
What triggered UNK-F-██/1's conversion, if Dr. ██████'s hypothesis is correct?
Does UNK-F-██/1 retain human memories? If so, how many? Does she know what she was?
What is the current status of the Entity 0 courtship? Has bonding progressed? (NOTE: No one wants to be assigned to investigate this. The last team that stumbled into Entity 0's nesting territory came back with footage that has been sealed and a debrief transcript that made the senior analyst leave the room.)
Entity 974 appears to have information regarding UNK-F-██/1's origin. Entity 974 has declined to share it. Entity 974 has also projected an image of a Hello Kitty sticker into the mind of every operative who has asked. The significance of this is unclear.
Can the conversion process be replicated? Should the conversion process be replicated? (Dr. ██████ has formally requested that this question be struck from the dossier. It has not been. It should be discussed.)
7. ANALYST'S NOTE
She saved twelve people last month. Twelve wanderers who would have died on Level 3 if she hadn't been there. She fought two Howlers at once and nearly died doing it and she still guided the survivors to a safe zone.
I don't know what she is. I don't know where she came from. I don't know if she's a converted human or an anomalous entity or something else entirely that doesn't fit any of the boxes we've built.
But I know she's the only entity in this place that has never hurt a human being. And I know she's protecting people we can't reach. And I know that whatever she is, whoever she was, she is doing more good in these walls than most of our field teams combined and she's doing it alone, and she's been alive for less than a year.
If she was human once, she was a good one.
Classify her however you need to. File her however the handbook demands. But if anyone in this organisation suggests containment, capture, or interference with her activities, they can take it up with me personally.
And then with Entity 0. Who will be significantly less polite about it I'd imagine.
END OF DOSSIER
ADDENDUM PENDING: Frequency analysis of potential mating-bond formation. Assigned to Dr. ██████. Dr. ██████ has requested a transfer. Transfer denied.
[Handwritten note pinned to the inside cover of the physical file, in handwriting that does not match any M.E.G. personnel:]
she's mine, but you already knew that.
leave her alone.
— 0
[Note is written on the back of a Hello Kitty sticker.]
▓▓ URGENT ADDENDUM ▓▓
ADDENDUM TO MEG-ENT-████-DOSSIER
FILED: ██/██/199█ — 72 HOURS AFTER PRIMARY DOSSIER SUBMISSION
CLASSIFICATION UPGRADED: LEVEL 5 — EYES ONLY
FILED BY: Dr. ██████, Entity Research Division (Principal Investigator, Project ██████)
This addendum supersedes Section 5 of the primary dossier. Distribution is restricted to Senior Research and Division Heads only. If you are reading this without Level 5 clearance, close the file immediately.
we found her.
i'm breaking protocol. I know i'm breaking protocol. the handbook says addenda should follow the same structural conventions as the primary document but i'm choosing not to do that because I've been sitting at this desk for six hours staring at a missing persons file from 199█ and a police photograph of a ██-year-old woman who has been dead for ██ months. I can't write about this in clinical language. I won't. if someone wants to discipline me for tone they can find me in my office.
Project ██████ returned a match.
the unredacted physical profile of UNK-F-██/1's humanoid form was cross-referenced against missing persons databases in a ████-mile radius of all confirmed and suspected Backrooms threshold locations. the search returned over █████ potential matches. we narrowed by timeframe, physical descriptors, and circumstances of disappearance.
one case fit.
her name is ██████████████████████. she was ██ years old. she was reported missing on ██/██/199█ by ██████████████. she was never found. her case went cold within ██ months.
here is what we know.
she was in a relationship with a man named ███████████████ at the time of her disappearance. the relationship began approximately ██ months after the disappearance, and presumed death, of her previous partner, a man named Robert "Bobby" Franklin, who was last seen at San Jose, California under circumstances that remain unsolved. Franklin was reported missing by family in 199█ and was never found. no body. no evidence of foul play. he simply ceased to exist.
a note on Franklin's status: M.E.G. has not located Bobby Franklin within the Backrooms. this does not mean he is dead. time within the Backrooms is non-linear. a man who entered in 199█ could be wandering a level that runs six months behind the current date, or six years ahead, or in a temporal pocket that hasn't synced with the primary timeline in decades. he could be on a level we haven't mapped. he could be in the deep levels where our survey teams don't reach. the Backrooms are functionally infinite. we have mapped less than ██% of the estimated total structure.
the absence of evidence is not evidence of absence. not here.
what we do know is that the search for both Franklin and ███████████████ has not been abandoned in the real world. Franklin's twin brother, Brendan Bennett Franklin, has maintained an active missing persons campaign for years. he has contacted law enforcement in ███ jurisdictions. he has hired private investigators. he has, per our monitoring of threshold-adjacent civilian activity, come disturbingly close to identifying Backrooms entry points on at least two separate occasions.
the man is relentless, methodical, and operating with a grief that shows no signs of diminishing.
he is also searching for █████████████████. Franklin and █████████████████ shared a childhood friend, Terrence Wilson, who has been coordinating with Brendan Franklin on both cases. Wilson was the one who first connected the two disappearances, noting the geographical and temporal overlap. the civilian investigation is, frankly, closer to the truth than it has any right to be. neither Franklin nor Wilson has any knowledge of the Backrooms. they are operating on instinct and grief and the stubborn refusal to accept that people they loved simply vanished.
if Bobby Franklin is alive in the Backrooms, the implications for the Entity 0 courtship are significant and are addressed below.
she was grieving. she was vulnerable. by all accounts the new relationship was initially positive. friends and family described the new partner as "kind" and "patient" and "exactly what she needed."
the new partner is now the primary suspect in a string of ███ disappearances spanning ██ years across ██ counties.
██ of those victims have been recovered. the recovery sites share common characteristics: isolated locations, minimal forensic evidence, signs of prolonged captivity and extensive physical trauma prior to death. the coroner's reports (which I wish I hadn't read and can never unread) describe injuries consistent with sustained, repeated violence over periods of days to weeks. these were not quick deaths. these were inflicted by a person who took his time.
the remaining victims, including ████████████████, have never been found. no bodies. no forensic trace. no evidence of disposal through any conventional means.
our analysis, cross-referenced with Backrooms threshold mapping data, indicates that at least ██ of the unrecovered disposal sites correspond to confirmed or suspected threshold entry points.
he was using the Backrooms as a dumping ground. bringing them to the threshold and pushing them through and letting the walls do the rest. no body. no evidence. no crime scene. the perfect disposal method for a predator who had learned that the cracks in the world go somewhere and the somewhere doesn't give things back.
except once. once, it did.
she was alive when he left her.
the threshold data, the conversion timeline, Dr. ██████'s biological modelling: all of it points to the same conclusion. she was not dead when she entered the Backrooms. she was dying. based on the pattern established by the recovered victims (the ones whose bodies we found, the ones whose injuries we catalogued, the ones whose final hours can be reconstructed from forensic evidence I will be seeing in my sleep for the rest of my career), she had been held for an extended period. she had been hurt. badly and repeatedly. by a man who was patient about it.
and then he brought her to the threshold and left her in the dark. alone. dying. bleeding on the carpet in a place that has no sun and no exit.
she was still alive when the walls found her.
and the walls did something they have never done before.
in every other documented case, humans who enter the Backrooms injured and alone, die. this is a statistical certainty so robust it might as well be a law of physics here. the backrooms do not heal. they don't nurture.
the backrooms are an environment of attrition that strips living things down to nothing over time. that is what they do. that is all they have ever done.
except for her.
the walls found a dying woman in the dark and instead of letting her die they absorbed her. took the fading signal of a human consciousness and wrapped it in entity-matter and rebuilt it from the inside out. kept her face (the human form built from her own reflection, her own body, the body she died in, reconstructed with a fidelity that shouldn't be possible). kept her empathy. kept her instinct to protect. kept the her of her when they could have let it dissolve into the noise the way every other human signal has dissolved.
why?
this is not a rhetorical question. I am asking because I genuinely dont know and it's keeping me awake. the backrooms have existed for as long as we've been able to measure time, and in all that time they have produced entities that hunt and kill and consume. howlers. skin-stealers. smilers. things built for predation.
these walls make predators. that's what they do.
and then they found a woman dying and they made a protector.
they made something that fights predators instead of being one. something that shields the fragile things instead of eating them. something that carries the unmistakable, stubbornly human conviction that no one should die alone in the dark. because she did, and the walls couldn't strip that from her.
they rewrote her biology. gave her power that entities ten times her age would envy. gave her teeth and claws and a true form that can crack corridor walls. and then they left her humanity intact. her compassion. her grief. her capacity for love (see: Entity 0 association; see also: the written reports detailing how she looks at wanderer children).
the backrooms are not kind. the backrooms have never been kind. but they looked at this woman and they chose to keep her and they couldn't (or wouldn't) strip the kindness out.
I don't know what that means. I don't know if it means the walls have a will. I don't know if it means the backrooms are capable of mercy. I don't know if it was chance or design or some glitch in the substrate of a place that shouldn't exist.
and now the thing I've been circling around for the last two hours.
bobby franklin.
her previous partner. the one who disappeared. the one she was mourning when the killer found her. bobby franklin, santa clara, california. vanished without a trace.
vanished in a way that is, upon review, entirely consistent with a backrooms threshold event.
we don't have confirmation. we may never have confirmation. but the circumstances of franklin's disappearance match the profile of an involuntary threshold crossing: sudden, total, no forensic evidence to speak of, no body, no real explanation.
if bobby franklin fell into the backrooms, the backrooms would have absorbed his signal, his physical data. his face. his voice. his biological template. the walls remember everything that passes through them. every wanderer, every victim, every screaming terrified human that ever stumbled through a crack in the world. the walls keep them. filed away in the frequency substrate like prints in wet concrete.
entity 0 built a human face. a male humanoid form. sandy hair. blue eyes. a specific jaw, a specific nose, a specific grin. he built it from scratch and he has been wearing it permanently.
for UNK-F-██/1. for the entity he was courting. the entity whose human form is built from the memory of a woman who was in love with a man named bobby franklin.
the face entity 0 is wearing is bobby franklin's face.
I need to be very careful about what I am and am not claiming. I am not claiming entity 0 did this consciously. I am not claiming he accessed franklin's file in the frequency substrate and thought "ah yes, this is the face she loved, I will use it."
neither entity 0 nor UNK-F-██/1 appears to be aware of the connection. she has never called him by franklin's name. he has never referenced franklin or indicated knowledge of her pre-conversion history beyond what she's shared voluntarily.
but.
entity 0 is the backrooms, or close enough. the first thing the walls ever produced (by our belief). the oldest signal in the substrate. if any entity has passive access to the walls' stored data, it's him. and when he reached into the frequency archive and pulled out the best face he could find, the face most likely to attract this specific entity, the face she would be drawn to without understanding why, the face that would feel safe and familiar and right to a woman who lost the love of her life and was remade into something that can't quite remember his name...
he pulled out bobby franklin.
maybe he knew. maybe the walls whispered it. maybe the substrate nudged him toward a template that would resonate with her residual human memory. maybe it was pure coincidence, a random selection from a vast archive, and the face just happens to belong to the man she grieved so deeply the grief survived her death.
I don't believe in coincidence. not in the backrooms, and not with entity 0.
the implications of this are staggering and I'm not going to pretend I know what to do with them. if entity 0 is wearing the face of her (possibly, unconfirmed) dead boyfriend (even unknowingly), then everything about their courtship takes on a different valence.
her instinctive attraction to him. her willingness to stay. the way she traces his borrowed features with a tenderness that looks, in field footage, less like a new lover memorising a new face, and more like a grieving woman touching the face of someone she thought she'd lost forever but forgot.
does she know? does some fragment of the human memory recognise the jaw, the eyes, the crook of the grin? is she drawn to entity 0 because of what he is, or because he's wearing the only face she ever loved?
does he know? does the oldest thing in the backrooms understand that the mask he built is a former lover's face? that the reason it works, the reason she softens when she sees it, the reason she presses her face into his copied throat and breathes, is because the throat smells like something older than entity-hood? something human? something named Bobby?
I don't have answers. I have a missing persons report and a police photograph and a man with sandy hair and blue eyes and a grin that matches, feature for feature, the face the oldest entity in the backrooms constructed to court a woman who died loving him.
the backrooms remember, and somewhere in the space of that vast unknown, bobby franklin's face lives on. borrowed. worn. loved again by the woman who lost him, in a place that was never supposed to give anything back.
the moral question is obvious.
do we tell her?
do we find her and hand her a missing persons report with her own face on it and say: this is who you were. this is what happened to you. this is the name of the man who killed you. his name is ████████████████ and he is still free and there are ██ other families who will never find their daughters because he found a crack in the wall and learned to use it for his evil.
she doesn't remember all of it. we know this from the fragmented data Entity 974 provided (indirectly, reluctantly, with a psychic addendum that translates roughly to: if you use this information to hurt her I will make you regret your existence). she has pieces. impressions. the emotional residue of a violent death without the full narrative. enough to make her build a security blanket out of a human shape and refuse to take it off. not enough to give her the name of the man who put her here.
do we give her that name?
dr. ██████████ says no. emphatically no. "she has rebuilt herself. she has found purpose. she has found a mate. she is doing more good in these walls than the thing that was done to her. giving her the name doesn't heal the wound. it reopens it and hands her a target she can never reach because the target is in the real world and she is here."
dr. ██████ says yes. "she has a right to know. she has a right to her own history. and the families of the other victims have a right to closure and if she can provide information about the threshold locations, if she remembers anything about how she entered, we might be able to find the remaining bodies. we might be able to catch him."
I say I don't know. I say this is above my clearance and my competence, and even my emotional capacity.
I say that I have been staring at her photograph for six hours and she's smiling in it. she's smiling and she's young and she has her whole life in front of her and the man standing next to her in the photograph (Bobby, the one who disappeared, the one she was mourning when the killer found her) has his arm around her shoulder and they look so happy and neither of them knows what's coming.
I say that she is out there right now, saving people, and the last time someone tried to save her, nobody came.
the decision on disclosure is being escalated to the Director. pending that decision, UNK-F-██/1's identity remains classified Level 5. no field personnel are to be informed. no contact is to be made regarding her pre-conversion history. no changes to the non-engagement protocol.
she is not a case file. she is not a research subject anymore.
she is a woman who died horribly and came back with teeth, and she's using them to protect the people nobody else can reach.
whatever we decide, we owe her better than what she got.
[final note, found inserted into the physical addendum approximately ██ hours after filing. the paper is unmarked M.E.G. stock taken from the supply room. the handwriting matches the previous note pinned to the dossier cover. the pen strokes are deep enough to tear through the paper in places. the note was found inside a sealed filing cabinet in a locked room near a threshold point. there is no record of entry.]
give me his name.
give me the threshold he used to enter my domain.
I cannot cross into your world, but he crossed into mine.
give me the entry point and let me do what the backrooms do best.
you have 72 hours. after that, I stop asking politely, and you will learn very quickly that my patience with her is not my patience with you.
— 0
[NOTE FROM FILING CLERK: the ambient temperature of the records room dropped by fourteen degrees upon discovery of this note and did not return to normal since. the filing cabinet in which the note was found has not opened correctly since. the lock mechanism appears to have been fused shut from the inside. request for replacement furniture has been submitted.]
Includes: Duncan the tall, Daeron Targaryen, Aerion Targaryen, and Valarr Targaryen x f!reader
Summary: How they would be on their wedding night with their new lady wife
Warnings: NSFW 18+ work. There is obviously smut. Read at your own discretion.
A/N: I might have gotten a little bit carried away with this one, don't slut shame me I'm sorry
Dunk is a big man. Like, look at him. He's, and I quote, "...bang in the middle between 6'5 and 6'6," and we haven't even started on his muscles. He's got a big dick, he has to. It does not matter how experienced you might be in the penetration department, you need hours of prepping. He'll be content to spend your wedding night eating you out and then going to bed, but you want it to be good for him, too, so you insist. He'd stretch you on his mouth first, making sure everything is wet and slick, then switch to his thick fingers, scissoring inside you and just barely fitting three of them while you arch your hips to meet the tiny jerks underneath him. Dunk is a big praise guy. He wants you to know how well you're doing for him, and he't not saying it just to turn you on, either. He didn't think you'd be able to take even his fingers, and he will be expecting you to tap out real soon. When you don't, he finally strips off his trousers. He'd kept them on the whole time because he reckoned you wouldn't make it this far, and now he was getting nervous. I don't think sex is anything totally new to him, but sex this intimate with someone he loves more than himself definitely is. He'd only push in the tip at first, little thrusts of the pinkened head in and out of your clenching hole, too afraid he'd cause a tear if he went any further. At this point, you'd have to talk him through it to get him to go further. If he manages to breach more than just the tip, you'll be grunting and whining from the sheer fullness of him. Duncan is going to want to pull out constantly. He'll be so focused on you, the expressions you make, the sounds that come out, the way you twist and turn under him., the bulge in your stomach from where he is inside you. Everything will go a lot smoother if you ride him. That way, you're in control and he won't feel as though he's hurting you. He cums so much it's not funny. He'll mutter apologies into your hair as thick, sticky cum leaks from between your thighs, and you soothe him with a hand in his hair, if you're not completely immobile from the earth-shattering orgasms he gives you. If you've made it clear beforehand you don't want children, or don't want children yet, he's not above eating his own cum out of you. He'll go out and get you moon tea in the morning, but, "Just to be safe, my love, spread your legs for me. I'll get it all out, don't you worry," he promises. Dunk is the boss of aftercare. Bath, food, water, a fire to keep you extra warm, whatever makes you more comfortable. All in all, he's going to be the most vanilla when it comes to this.
Daeron fucks nasty. If it's your first time, and it probably is, he'll go what he considers slower, but the night will still end with his hips snapping against yours. He can't help himself. If you say stop, it's over, he'll pull out, no hard feelings. But if you don't, he's going to take it as permission. Maker won't let him drink during the wedding, he'll want him to be presentable, so Daeron is frustrated by the time you make it to your new chambers. The sooner he beds you, the sooner he can sneak down to the kitchens for a nightcap. You better not be wanting to save your wedding dress, because if it won't come off in under ten seconds, he's ripping the fabric. "Calm yourself, I'll show you what to do." Daeron doesn't need you freaking out when he pops your cherry, so he'll coo to you as he takes off his own clothes, kissing at your neck and up your jaw. "Lift those arms for me, going to get this wretched thing off of you." Naturally, Daeron wishes he had a drink close enough to grab, but with sobriety comes clarity. He's more concise with his words, more present than you've ever seen him. He has a task set in front of him, and for once in his life, he's going to do it right. Well, partially right. He's fucking you against the door. Sorry. He's hasty in the way he does it, but that doesn't mean he won't make you cum. It's not clitori, it's clitorus, and if there's anything he can find aside from a good wine, it's your clit. You're already soaked from when he grinned softly against you as soon as you got in the room, but he wants more. Daeron doesn't let you see his cock, moving too fast for you to snatch a glimpse, but you don't need to see it because you can feel it. The ridges and veins brush against your bundle of nerves as he thrusts deeply into you, creating a friction that has you gasping for air, and only when he's bottomed does he slow, dropping his head on your shoulder. "Begging your pardon, I need...gods be good...I need just a moment." Your first instinct is to assume you did something wrong, but he's falling apart because you did something right. You're so warm and soft and so fucking tight he feels like he could die right then and there and be content with it. He'd thought this would be a quick affair, but he spends hours there, thrusting in and out, a heady mixture of both yours and his cum leaking onto the floor. You're eventually tangled in the bed, fatigued and spent with his face buried between your breasts. He ends up not needing that drink.
Aerion needs to repopulate Old Valyria. He's married now, so he can't just impregnate every whore he meets like he planned to, or anyone at all other than you, so it falls on you to grow his little army in your womb. You know the Beyonce song "All Night?" This is going to describe the situation you'll find yourself in perfectly. Ladies and other ladies, he's going to do missionary, he's going to do cowgirl, he's going to do mating press, he's going to do doggy style. Not only are you cumming your brains out, he's yapping the whole time, too. "We'll build a new world, you and I. You shall be my queen. Gods, look how deep you can take me. Is this sweet cunt not made for me? Are you not made for me? You were sent to me by the heavens themself. You shall be the salvation of Valyria. There is no woman such as you in all the Seven Kingdoms, I curse the gods for not bringing you to me sooner, fuck." It's nonsense to you, but it's everything to him. You were the embodiment of everything he needed. Aerion would never deign to even gaze upon another brothel so long as he had you waiting for him, he swore it to himself. He's going to do every position that seems optimal to get you pregnant, but he also really likes seeing your face during it. He wants you to look in his eyes when you're close, wants to see you lose yourself because of him, but only if he let you. He's edging you. It's not from a place of contempt, he's already decided he loves you, but more an experimentation. He's been betrothed to you for a month, and he's seen every side of you but this one. What will happen when he does this? When he nudges his cock up further like that? What do you sound like? Will you clench harder around him or release? Will you whine his name or try to maintain some propriety? Every woman he's had has put on a show for him. He's a prince, they want to impress him with their noises and their faces and their movements. They're acting. You're vulnerable. He likes vulnerable. He's fascinated when you pass out from overexertion, amused when you awaken with a whimper to him still pumping inside of you, and the most turned on he's ever been from start to finish. You lasted so long for him without complaint, so of course you deserve rewards. He's so sweet afterwards, and you're too tired to tell if he's being genuine or not. You'll take whatever he gives you regardless. "My perfect wife, you did so wonderfully for me, didn't you? Had I known the consummation would be like this, I would have moved up the ceremony. You'll have many a babe and all my heirs will be near as flawless as you." You fall asleep to his murmurs, his arms securely around you and he'll watch you until he himself succumbs to exhaustion. His dreams of being a dragon have changed. Now he has a rider.
Valarr is a learner. He'll read up on how to effectively engage in coitus and conceive an heir. He'll ask the maester, his brothers, his uncle, all will give varying answers. The core principle remained the same: finish inside, get her pregnant. He thinks he's prepared, but as soon as the doors shut in the marital chambers, his breathing is shallow. What was he thinking? He's no clue how to do this! How would he even approach you on the matter? Luckily for him, you've done a little studying of your own. It's you who keeps him calm, who blows out the candle as he wishes and helps his trembling hands undo his doublet. It's you who shows him where you like to be touched, where it feels the most pleasurable, where he needs to put himself. The tip catches on your entrance so many times he wants to die of shame, but you only assist him, telling him he must push. He'll cum once from just the tip being inside. At this, your job is technically finished, and however unsatisfied you may be, that was it. In most cases, that would be true. Not for Valarr. He'll pull you back, hands on your hips, a glimpse of the crown prince and the heir to the Iron Throne slips through. "It's not over. You're not...you didn't...it's not over." He grumbles, irritated you even thought you could get away so easily. His confidence grows by the second, and thrusts a little harder, pushing his own seed deeper in your womb. His calloused thumb will find your clit where you'd showed him minutes earlier, and he's an adept student. The man you figured to be a bumbling virgin was now bringing you to your third orgasm of the night and hadn't broken his pace inside you. A steady in and out, enough to take your breath away. Despite Aerion being so into breeding, Valarr is the one who gives you a small bulge in your lower stomach from how much of his cum has amassed inside you. When he does pull out, it's trailing down your thighs and coating your folds and making a slick, wet sound with each drop that falls.. His one job is to end this night with an heir, so he fingers it back into you as best he can, overstimulating your poor pussy until you have to push him away. For all his dirtiness in sex, he'll sleep with his head on your stomach and your hand in his hair while he dreams about your future children.
summary: after your husband is grievously injured in the trial of the seven, you tend to his wounds and, since he's never been particularly fond of you, you decide to use this opportunity to endear him to you. hopefully you didn't bite off more than you can chew...
warnings and tags: 18+, smut, mild angst, aerion's mentioned to be unfaithful, mentions of wounds, inexperienced but not innocent reader, kinda manipulative!reader, female masturbation, handjob, oral sex (male receiving), power exchange, domination/submission, degradation (reader is called a whore), corruption kink if you squint, technically dom!aerion but also some sub!aerion vibes, aerion is his own warning, no use of y/n, no physical description of the reader
Your husband’s body is unnaturally still. Lying on the bed, eyes swollen shut, lip cut open, his chest pure marble marred by purple bruises, he looks more corpse than man. Each time he exhales, he stops moving long enough for the doubt to settle in, before he draws in the next, painful breath. Your fingers itch with the urge to reach for his torso, press your palm against his heart, see for yourself that it is still beating.
You do not indulge them. Instead, stepping closer to the bed, you reach for his forehead.
His lips part when you brush against it, and you’re surprised to find him burning. Everything about him tells you that he should be cold as ice, but you suppose the blood of the dragon does run through his veins. Aerion was scorching hot on your wedding night, too, as he was during his other visits to your chambers since then — though you can count those on one hand.
You reach for a cloth, dip it into a basin of water placed on a nearby dresser, wring it, then press it to his face. A keening, pained sound rises from his throat. It is the most vulnerable you’ve ever heard him, and you think he would kill you for forcing it out of him.
“No one would ask that of you, my lady,” your maid says from the door, where she has stood this whole time. Her tone is flat, but you do not miss the disapproving inflexions in it. “This is for a maester to do, or a servant. Not for a highborn lady.”
It is true, of course, as is true that Aerion was alone when you walked in, a mere guard placed in front of the door. No one tasked to stay by his side or look after him, the prince abandoned like a dying dog.
You could not have ignored the reason why if you tried. The whispers are everywhere. It is his fault if the heir to the throne lies in a casket, his fault if his father is forever branded a kinslayer, his fault that the Targaryen house has fallen a little further still.
You do not think they are wrong.
You are also aware with bone-deep clarity that none of them will have to share his bed following this event. Aerion has never been kind to you — or, to be precise, he has never been taken with you. You know he was displeased to have to marry someone who was not a Targaryen, even more so that you were not someone he could toy with at his leisure, not when his father and his uncle were watching him like a hawk.
You had made sure to take full advantage of that, spending your time strolling through the gardens, weaving or sewing where everyone could see you, where you could not be tormented, retiring to your chambers after him, if you could.
Except now, if the whispers could be trusted, Aerion would be sent to Lys with you in tow, and there would be no one to protect you.
“You can leave,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. “I will stay with my lord husband.”
She is well-trained, your maid, but so are you. You know from the slightest twitch at the corner of her lips how much she resents the idea.
“He will fare well enough on his own, my lady. The maesters have seen to that.”
There is harshness on her tongue. You do not cave.
“It would not do for the prince to awake alone, should he be in want of anything. I will stay by his side, as is my duty. Do leave me.”
Her lips thin into a tight line, but she cannot disobey such a direct order. The door closes with a gentle click, and you are left alone with your husband. The man whose life you will share until his passing or yours, whether you like it or not. The man you might still attach to you, to ensure he does not slit your throat in a mad rage in a faraway land where no one will care to look into it.
The man who, though you loathe to admit it, looks so wounded, lost and lonely in the large bed that there is no reluctance in your hand when you dab the wet cloth over his chest, where pearls of sweat have formed.
He does not move much as you keep watch over him, and when he does, it always elicits a pained groan, a ragged breath, a wince. There is not much for you to do, apart from replacing the cloth every now and again, so you turn to embroidering, sitting close by the bed and focusing on your work.
Every time you glance up, you find him as painfully still as he was before. He is a beautiful man, of course, even in this state. In another life, one where whispers of the prince’s madness had not reached your ears ahead of your marriage, you might have been elated to marry him. You’re thankful you did not have to endure such disappointment, at least, though you still had to withstand the bite of humiliation that was your husband’s visible disinterest in you, and the whispers of the whores he preferred taking to bed over you.
Hours go by before Aerion finally stirs. You are on your feet instantly, rushing to his side, but he does not open his eyes — likely could not even if he wanted to. He groans, and the sound comes out pitiful and raspy. You reach for a goblet, pour water into it. With a gentle hand, you tip his head forward, and he drinks from it greedily, teeth scraping against it. When his head falls back on the pillow, you step back — only to freeze when he calls out.
“Father?”
The two syllables, pronounced slurred and hoarse, seem to exhaust him fully, whole body going slack again on the bed.
“I will call for him at once, my prince,” you reply.
The guard obeys your order begrudgingly and without enthusiasm when you relay the prince’s demand, but you may as well not have given it. By the time you sit back down at Aerion’s side, his breathing has evened, and you know he’s fallen back into his slumber.
“He’s awake?” Maekar asks urgently when he walks in.
He startles at the sight of you, bowing his head politely.
“My lady.”
“My prince,” you reply, curtsying. “He woke up briefly and asked for you.”
He nods. His eyes, riveted to his son, are wet, though you do not know if it is out of worry or grief over the loss of his brother.
“You do not have to stay here, my lady,” he says gently.
His meaning is the same as your maid’s was. You do not want to be associated with him. You should be spurning him, making a spectacle of your disapproval. You should save yourself while you still can.
How myopic of him not to realize that that choice was ripped from you in a room you were not in, the moment your hand was given away in marriage.
“I will fulfill my duty and stay at my husband’s side,” you tell him, inclining your head.
The warrior’s eyes are soft on you.
“Thank you,” he says, quiet, broken. “If that is your wish, I will leave him in your hands.”
So you stay. You are here whenever Aerion briefly surfaces, you are here to quench his thirst and clean the sweat that drips from his forehead, you are here to change his bandages and verify that the wounds do not get infected. You do refrain from touching him more often than most, merely letting your fingers trail over his skin as you clean him.
There is a brief, unpleasant conversation with the maester who visits him. He disapproves of your presence, too, but in the jealous way of a man intent on keeping his secrets. He dislikes you, you know immediately, for stepping into his territory. It does not matter that you have read all the treaties you could get your hands on; it does not matter if your work was as close to perfection as it could get. You do not know your place, and he would have you kicked out of the room if not for Prince Maekar’s strict orders.
Your hands deftly finish the bandage around Aerion’s upper thigh. It is the deepest wound on his body, the one that came closest to claiming his life. Perhaps that would have been a better ending for you, but the thought makes you nauseous nonetheless, and you have to focus to keep your fingers from trembling.
You are already on your feet when he groans. He has been waking more frequently during the last day, though never long enough to warrant disturbing his father again. You’re reaching for the water pitcher when you feel a tug on your dress. You turn to discover Aerion’s eyes, glazed and unfocused, on you.
“Why are you here?”
He manages to make the slurred words sound accusatory. You do not step back. Despite his state, you’re worried he might tear your dress. Had he been faster, he would have caught your wrist and he would be holding it tightly enough to hurt right now. Instead, you step closer, close enough for him to reach. He does not let go, still clutching to your skirts with a strength that looks a lot like desperation.
Whether it is because he does not want you to escape or to claw back control, you cannot say.
“Attending to my duties as your wife, my prince,” you answer.
You could reach for the wet cloth again, but you resist the impulse. You worry that your touch would be less than welcome at the moment.
“Since when,” he drawls, “do you care for your duties as my wife?”
There is a sharpness in his eyes, despite the haze of pain that floats inside them. He knows that you did not pursue him, knows that you did not make any efforts to make yourself more available to him.
He would have found it pitiful and laughable, had you done that, and used it to torment you, of course.
Now, instead, you’re the one witnessing his wounded pride, his pathetic attempts at saving face. It would be easy to plunge your fingers into the wound and dig.
You do not do that.
“I will carry your heir. Is this not the least I can do?”
Something dark flashes in his expression, something you do not think you have ever seen him direct at you, and it makes your tongue heavy in your mouth and your throat constrict. You are playing a dangerous game, getting his attention. It is all fine and good now, but the risk is high that you will come to regret it when he is no longer confined to his bed.
Then again, perhaps that would be a better end than getting your throat slit because he wishes to take another Targaryen for a wife.
“Do you wish for me to call your father?”
“Yes, do that. And fetch me some food.”
He orders you around like a servant. You bow your head gracefully.
“Of course, my prince.”
You know he does not miss your choice of words. He is not husband, he is not even my lord, as you would have every right to call him. He is my prince, as any lowborn peasant, any servant would say.
And you see that he it delights him.
The door clicks behind you as you leave. You have no desire to be here for the following conversation with Prince Maekar.
But you do intend to come back to pick up the pieces.
You give Aerion enough time to compose himself and eat before you walk back inside the room. You do not think he would forgive you for seeing an explicit display of weakness, and if grief and shame make him even more erratic than usual, you could see him ending your life tonight, just because he can. You’re walking a tightrope, playing these games, and keeping your balance is of the utmost importance.
He glares at you with bloodshot eyes the second you enter the room, and you bow your head.
“My prince,” you say, “I hope the meal was satisfactory.”
“It suits you,” he shoots back, “playing the servant. No Targaryen would stoop this low.”
His voice drips with disgust. You know how displeased he is that you carry his last name, but you do not flinch. The cruelty in his tone is nothing but the lashing out of a wounded animal. It cannot reach you.
“Is there anything you require of me tonight, my prince?”
Despite his state, despite the pain, his eyes are sharp, sizing you up, trying to understand the game you’re playing — what you wish to gain from it, how far you will go, what he can take from you on your way to your objective, whatever it is.
“Undress,” he orders, his voice dropping lower.
You swallow. Hard. You had expected sex to come into play eventually, of course, just not— not quite this fast. For all you’ve gleaned about playing this game, less through your family’s direct guidance and more through observing how the Targaryens do it, your husband is the only man you’ve ever laid with. Other opportunities had presented themselves,but you simply had not had the stomach to risk your life over it.
“Are you certain, with your injuries?” you ask.
Even you cannot tell if you’re being sincere or trying to stall.
“Is this not a wife’s very first duty to her husband?” Aerion counters mockingly. “Are you going to shirk your responsibilities now?”
You could easily leave. You could even say that you are concerned for him, in his state, and walk out the door.
Instead, standing at the bottom of his bed, you slide your dress off your shoulders and down your body.
Aerion follows your movement with intent focus.
“Keep going,” he says, pointing to your smallclothes with his chin.
You do. Your cheeks are on fire, but there is something more troubling than the embarrassment you feel despite yourself, and that is how much his gaze anchors you. Because even as he is playing cat and mouse, there is nothing he can do at the moment. Everything he will get tonight, you will choose to give him. He can act like that makes you lower than him, but in truth, you wield the power tonight. And he seems transfixed by you.
His tongue comes out to wet his lips as you reveal your shoulders, and his hands tighten in the sheet when the smallclothes fall beneath your breasts. He has never looked at you that way, only sparing you brief, bored glances. Now, you have him captive, even as you are obeying his commands. He is devouring you, eyes trailing over your body, setting your skin aflame everywhere he looks.
You let your fingers graze against your nipples as you trail them down your skin, watch him inhale sharply. Then you move the clothes down your hips, your thighs, and finally step out of them, leaving them on the floor. You can feel heat pooling in your lower belly, but, thankfully, your arousal is not yet obvious. You’re certain he would not have missed a chance to mock you for this as well.
“Does this please you, my prince?”
“You will do,” he replies, betrayed by the hoarseness of his voice. “Though you make for one lousy whore.”
“One only one man can afford,” you answer, and you watch how it delights him, how he bites the inside of his cheek so he doesn’t smile, how his focus narrows in on you. Closer, tighter, coiling around your body like a snake, so intense he might as well be touching you.
He raises a hand to move it towards his crotch, but stops mid-movement, hissing in pain. You climb onto the bed before he can snap at you, turn his own shame and embarrassment against you.
“Is that not for me to do?” you ask, like you didn’t notice, playing your part as well as you can. Aerion scoffs.
“You want to learn how to be a better whore, don’t you?” he taunts you.
“I want to learn how to best serve my husband.”
You reach for the covers, watching him for any indication that you should stop. But he just stares, head lazily cocked to the side, eyes still drinking in your naked body. His cock is half-hard underneath his breeches, and your heart rate quickens as you pull it free, hand closing gently around the base. You hear him inhale at your touch.
“Get the oil first,” he orders when you begin to move your hand experimentally over dry skin.
There is mockery in his tone, like you should have known better, but also, for the first time, a hint of urgency. You know, the moment you get up from the bed, that he wanted to watch you serve him naked some more. Again, even as you are obeying him, something about the fact that you are in control, giving him what he wants as opposed to him taking it sends a rush of heat through your body.
You find the oil in a drawer. It is expensive, the same kind you use on yourself when you know he will be visiting your chambers — and which, you suppose, he uses himself on those very nights, since he keeps these encounters as brief as possible. You lather it on your hands, then kneel back down by his side to resume your work.
He has grown harder, you find, though you do not comment on it. Your touch is more assured this time, firmer, and though he does not say a word, jaw clenched, jealously keeping any sounds to himself, you feel him react to it. Feel him grow firmer, twitching in your hand when you tighten your grasp, feel as the reddened tip of his cock starts leaking, dripping down your fingers, intermingling with the oil. A quiet hiss escapes him, even if he’s quick to swallow it. You’re a quick learner, figuring out his tells. How he shifts on the bed when your hand gets faster, how a shudder runs through his thigh when you use your thumb to press against the head. Once he is fully hard in your hand, you chance a look at him, and find him beautifully flushed, lips parted in a silent moan,red spreading down from his cheeks to his neck and his torso. Undeniable arousal sparks through you, and you press your legs tightly to provide some friction for yourself.
“Enough,” he rasps, not quite able to disguise the way he is panting, and you obey.
There is a light curve to his fully hard cock, you notice when you remove your hand — you’d only caught glimpses of it before, as he preferred mounting you.
“I will not fuck you tonight. How do you intend on satisfying me, then?”
You don’t dwell on the fact that he could not do it if he tried, nor could you ride him, not with his injuries. You know what answer he wants from you, though, again, that is mostly from whispers you’ve heard around the Keep. The very thought is quite scandalous for a lady.
“My mouth, my prince.”
His lips stretch into a satisfied grin, and despite his black eyes, he almost looks like himself again.
“You truly are a whore. A bad one, judging by your performance so far, but I suppose you can be taught yet.”
His taunts are not nearly as striking when he is still out of breath, but they do not help making you any less nervous. Touching him was one thing, but tasting him?
And Aerion is no help when he sees you hesitate.
“You have your orders, wife. You’re so desperate to serve your husband, you should have obeyed already.”
You don’t look at him, afraid you’ll give yourself away, show him your nervousness so he can cruelly poke at it some more. When you lean forward again, it’s slow and intentional. Your hand wraps around him again, and you start with a press of your mouth against the shaft, a kiss, discovering the feeling of his skin when you dart your tongue out against it. You find it salty, the undeniable taste of him mingling with that of perfumed oil.
You lick alongside his length, cautious, maybe a hint of teasing when he twitches underneath your touch and a low, keening sound rises from his chest. At last, you wrap your lips, cautiously, around the red and leaking tip of his dick, and he draws in a sharp gasp. You’re careful to open your mouth wide, not allow your teeth graze to against it, and let the weight of it settle on your tongue for a moment before you brazenly swirl it around him. It tears a brief, strangled sound from him, and you repeat the experience, more intense, more pressing this time.
You bob your head forward, trying to take more of him in, but you have to come up once the head of his cock presses against your palate. Aerion snorts derisively.
“As much as I would enjoy choking you to death on my cock, your job is not finished here. Consider breathing.”
You take the advice for your second attempt, breathing in through your nose. You manage to take him a little deeper this time, and you hollow your cheeks around him. You’re immediately rewarded by a loud, free moan, one Aerion doesn’t manage to catch in time.
You’re not surprised when his good hand, the left one, comes to bury punishingly in your hair. For a second, the touch is light, fingertips against the nape of your neck that send shivers down your spine. Then it turns hard, nails scraping against your scalp, hand pushing you down before pulling you up, and it’s your turn to be unable to stop yourself from whimpering.
His cock unmistakably jerks when you do. You keep the thought in mind.
“You’re quite the useless whore. I suppose you must have everything taught to you.”
Aerion does his best to keep his tone lazy, nonchalant, but it is easy to know better when he is rock hard and leaking inside your mouth. Still, you must brace yourself when he forces you down on his cock and up against, throat constricting around him with choking sounds, his own groans of pleasure half hidden underneath your high-pitched whimpers. You raise your eyes towards him, wide and pleading, and his face flashes with dark pleasure. You’re absolutely and entirely at his mercy, in a situation you willingly put yourself in, and nothing could thrill him more. He uses you as he pleases, fisting your hair, hips jerking up into your mouth as much as he can in his state.
“Touch yourself,” he pants, breathless, not bothering to disguise it this time. “Make yourself peak with nothing but my cock in your mouth and your own fingers.”
You would never admit it out loud, but you are thankful for the order. Your core has been aching for a while now, your juices dripping down your thighs, and you have no need for the oil that still coats your fingers when you push them inside yourself.
You are, at least, no stranger to solitary pleasures. You have prepared yourself for your husband more than once and, since he had no interest in your pleasure, have ensured your own enjoyment on numerous occasions.
And still, you were not expecting the intensity of the pleasure you feel when you hastily insert two fingers and press them against a familiar, delicious spot. Your arousal — and maybe, dare you admit it, Aerion’s touch, for once focused and intent, if not gentle — heightens everything you’re feeling, tearing a loud, genuine moan from you. From the corner of your eye, you catch your husband throwing his head back as you do, mouth open, jaw slack with pleasure.
You rub your thumb against your clitoris, pleasure rapidly climbing after you denied yourself for so long. Aerion’s hand turns lighter in your hair, even as his hips start moving faster. You keep up your pace, and finally, he spills inside your mouth with a final cry. You keep yourself still, swallowing around the length the best you can as he softens, your hand desperately seeking your own peak. You reach it as he’s pulling you off him, moaning loudly, fulfilled but with a distinct sense of something unfinished. Your body, it seems, is craving him much more than your mind.
For a second, Aerion strokes your hair, hand tracing your jawline as he removes it, the touch almost gentle. His thumb presses to your lips, then against your tongue once you allow it inside. He breathes in slowly when he realizes your mouth is empty.
“I might make something out of you yet,” he drawls. “Now clean me.”
And you do. Naked. A cloth in your hand, dabbing it over his body, washing off the sweat and other fluids. Aerion is quiet during the process, watching you intently, looking at you like he’s seeing you for the first time.
Looking at you like no one ever has before.
“Go wash yourself,” he orders once you’re done, dismissing you like he would a servant. “I don’t want you stinking up the room.”
But his eyes follow you intently as you collect your clothes and dress yourself clumsily, all the way until you’ve walked out the door. And you can’t help but wonder if you’ve managed to sink your teeth into him, as you’d intended, or if you willingly stepped into the dragon’s maw, ready to be swallowed whole.
Alright, I hope you enjoyed this! I’ve been playing with the idea for this specific reader in my mind for a while now so I’m glad I’ve managed to get it out. This is my first piece for Aerion, so I’d love to hear if you enjoyed my characterization (you can also send an ask if you'd like to stay anonymous!). It is very anchored in Finn Bennett’s portrayal and what he said about Aerion’s state of mind by the end of the series. This is the most vulnerable Aerion can get, which, obviously, is why the reader chooses this opportunity to endear herself to him. And Aerion, while knowing that she probably wants something out of this (though he doesn’t realize what she wants is to… survive him), is so desperate for touch/affection/affirmation that he’ll take whatever she has to give, even if really, she’s the one in control here.
My headcanon for the reader in this is that she’s from an important noble house, though not one of the great houses. Based on characterization, she’s probably not from the North, Dorne or the Iron Islands, but anything else is open to interpretation. I’m leaning Vale or Reach, but it’s unlikely that this will come up if I write more for this reader, which I'd love to do if you guys liked this!
Thank you for reading and I would love to know your thoughts! Reblogs and comments are highly appreciated <3
rhaenyra is actually so vile for separating helaena from her little girl and then her mom, knowing she's fragile because THEY killed her fucking son. she's now isolated and alone, with her son's murders all around her. and then the audacity to walk into her room demanding she tells her what she knows.
rhaenyra doesn't see helaena as a person at all, let alone a sister. "sweet sister" my ass. get away from her. i hope she tells rhaenyra aegon will be king again.
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